“Oh, my requirements are very specific,” I assure him. “I’m pretty sure there’s only one man who can fill them, actually. I —“
I manage to stop myself from speaking right before I go on to tell him even more clearly that he’s the only man for me, even though we’re only supposed to be having a fling.
“Speaking of mystery women,” I say, abruptly changing the subject. “I really wish we’d been able to find out at leastsomethingabout her today.”
“Patience, my angel,” Elliot replies, giving me one of those melt-your-heart smiles of his. “Give Maisie a little bit of time. I have a feeling she’s a woman who won’t give up until she’s found out every last little thing.”
“That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?” I reply, the words bursting out of me without my permission. “We don’thavetime. Not even a little bit. Because you’re going home.”
At first I think Elliot hasn’t heard me. He keeps on walking, my hand still tucked into his, and my heart growing heavy as I realize I’ve done the thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do; I’ve broken the unspoken code by referencing the fact that he’s leaving. I’ve opened Pandora’s box, and now I’m going to have a hell of a time trying to get it closed again.
“Come with me, then,” Elliot says, stopping so suddenly I almost walk into him. “Not forever,” he adds quickly, seeing the look on my face. “Not if you don’t want to. But come for … for a vacation. Come for Christmas. Florida’s still warm in December; you’d love it. And my mom makes a mean roast turkey.”
I stand there gaping at him in the street as the snow starts to fall, thick and fast, as if to underline his point about the Florida sunshine.
“Okay, you don’t have to have the turkey,” Elliot says when I still haven’t said anything. “I know you don’t like Christmas. ForgetChristmas. We’ll go to the beach. We’ll go to Disney. We’ll go anywhere you like. Just… say you’ll come with me.”
His eyes find mine through the falling snow, and I have to look away to protect myself from the hope I can see in them.
“It’s not the turkey,” I say at last, feeling like I’m in a movie. “It’s… it’s everything, Elliot. Dad. The store. I can’t just leave. It’s not that easy.”
I say it, but in my mind I see sunlight glittering on water, and white sandy beaches stretching down to the sea. I see the possibility of something other than a small town and a life lived through other people’s words. I see the start of a story of my own.
“I know it’s not,” Elliot says, crestfallen. “But, like I say, it doesn’t have to be forever. You could just come for the holidays. Hell, your dad could come too, if he wants.”
“He won’t.” I smile at the thought of Dad standing on a tropical beach in his sensible cardi, looking like someone’s filed him on the wrong shelf. “He wouldn’t leave the store.”
ButIcould.
The thought starts as a whisper, but it quickly worms its way right to the back of my mind and makes itself at home there.
I have some money saved up from my wages at the store. I could use it to buy a plane ticket. I could visit Elliot in the States, and I could spend Christmas somewhere that wouldn’t remind me of Mum every single moment.
“Maybe you could think about it?” Elliot says, somehow sensing me wavering in my decision not to go. “You don’t have to decide right away. We have plenty of time.”
We don’t, obviously. We have hardly any time at all, really.
But now he’s suggested we might have more.
“Sure,” I say lightly, as if he’s asked me to think about what I want for lunch. “I’ll think about it.”
And that’s a promise.
13
I’mstill sitting at my desk, staring at the blank screen I’m using to write down my story ideas for Vivienne — or not write them down, as the case may be — thirty minutes later, when the office door opens, and Elliot appears, walking right in without even asking.
Great.
“I brought you a coffee,” he says, placing a steaming takeaway mug in front of me. “I figured you could probably use one. Your friend Levi made it for me. No cinnamon, though; I remember how much you hate it.”
At least he rememberssomething, then.
I bite back the words on the tip of my tongue, and pick up the coffee cup, noticing he’s holding one of his own, too. “Your dad said I’d probably find you in here,” he says, looking around the tiny room, which he knew only as a storage cupboard. “He said it’s your office? Are you writing, then? Is that why you need an office now?”
His eyes land on the laptop, and I snap it quickly closed, even though there’s nothing to see.
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s just bookstore stuff. Invoices, you know. Staff rotas. That kind of thing. The store’s been doing much better since … well, you know. There’s a lot more admin to take care of.”
