“Hey,” says Elliot, shuffling his chair closer until our knees are touching. “Hey, you’re crying again. What’s wrong? It’s not still Ella, is it?”
I want to tell him thateverythingis wrong. Me. Him. The weather. Our relationship. This ridiculous song we’re being forced to listen to. There are two things, however, that are much more ‘wrong’ than anything else; the main one being the small — but important — fact of me having just realized that I’m still in love with the man in front of me.
And the second being that the man in question has just confirmed that his book was an attempt to draw a line under our relationship; to say goodbye to us.
I want to tell him this, but now he’s reaching out a hand and gently tucking a strand of hair out of my eyes. As he does it, his hand brushes my cheek, and it’s all I can do not to lean into his touch; or, better still, to slide onto his lap, wrap my arms around him, and let him hold me, the way he used to before he decided we needed an 85,000 word ‘goodbye’ to our relationship.
“Holly,” Elliot whispers, his lips dangerously close to mine as he leans towards me. “Tell me what’s wrong. Is it the book, still? Is it what I said about it? Because I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear.”
“I know,” I reply, somehow managing to get the words past the lump that’s formed in my throat. “I know you weren’t. But I just … I just wish you’d found some other way to say ‘goodbye’, if that’s what you had to do. A normal way. Like to my face, say. I think … I think that would’ve been better.”
“I could never have done that,” Elliot replies, his eyes dark with some unspoken emotion. “I couldn’t have said goodbye to you, Holly.”
He’s even closer now. So close that when he reaches up and cups my face in my hand, it feels almost like the logical thing to happen next. My body reflexively responds to his touch, as if it’s triggered some kind of muscle memory that’s just waking up, like Cinderella after Prince Charming’s kiss.
He’s going to kiss me.
I want him to kiss me.
I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. Even more than that rare first edition ofPride and Prejudicethat Dad keeps saying he’ll buy for the shop one day, but never has. So much, in fact, that I find myself almost subconsciously leaning towards him, willing his lips towards mine.
Maybe just one last time? For old time’s sake? Maybe it wouldn’t even hurt.
But, of course, it would hurt. It would hurt a lot. And I know that beyond doubt, because I’ve been here before. I’ve taken the risk. I’ve kissed the guy. And I’ve ended up broken-hearted, and promising myself I’d never let it happen again.
Which means I need to urgently hit the stop button on this scene that seems to be writing itself, taking its cues from some long-forgotten script, and do the one thing I know he hates more than anything: I have to be sensible. Because it’s the only way to keep myself safe from him.
“Well, it’s getting late,” I announce, standing up so abruptly I narrowly miss bashing heads with him and knocking us both out; which I guess would be one way to bring this … whatever this is … to an end. “I think I’ll turn in.”
I have no idea where the spare bedroom Elliot mentioned is, and there’s approximately zero chance of me getting any sleep tonight. But as I walk on shaky legs towards the door I hope will lead to somewhere I can be alone with the tears I know are coming, I can’t help but want to pat myself on the back.
Because I did it.
I walked away from Elliot Sinclair, and the danger he represents to me. I did the right thing, even though it hurts.
Maybe I’m more like Evie than I thought I was.
26
My intention when I walked away from Elliot was to stage a dignified, classy kind of exit that, once all of this was over, would allow him to remember me as the strong, capable woman I am. Or that I will be, anyway, once I’ve completely changed everything about myself — which is the very next thing on my agenda, I promise.
Instead, I first of all walk into a bathroom, and then into a cupboard filled with cleaning products and other random household items.
On the plus side, at least I found the spade I’ll be needing to dig myself out of the snow first thing tomorrow morning.
On the minus side, however, I still have to dig myself out of the mess I’ve made of the last few hours; the memory of which makes me cringe all the way to my toes as I think about everything from the broken snow globe box to the way I almost started crying over a Christmas song. And, as if that wasn’t enough, once I find my way to the spare bedroom I then realize I’m going to have to go right back out again to use the bathroom before bed.
As exits go, then, it’s not agreatone. Then, when I return to the room after my bathroom trip, I find one of Elliot’s sweaters lying neatly folded on the bed; I guess he must have left it there for me to sleep in. It has a Miami Dolphins logo on the front and is so over-sizedon me it reaches my thighs, but it smells like Elliot and makes me sob uncontrollably for a few minutes, before falling into a surprisingly deep sleep, from which I wake the next morning with a pounding headache, and a furry feeling on my teeth.
So much for classy and dignified.
In a rare moment of good luck, however, it seems the snow has thawed slightly overnight, and by the time I emerge from the bathroom, having attempted to brush my teeth with my finger, I find that Elliot’s already cleared the driveway, and is waiting for me, looking like he’s had a solid 12 hours’ sleep, and is about to star in one of those aftershave commercials, where a square-jawed man does rugged, manly things, ideally while accompanied by a wolf.
“Ready to go?”
He’s standing by the door, and is in the process of pulling his sweater on over the long-sleeve t-shirt he’s wearing underneath, having presumably removed the top layer while he shoveled the snow. As he raises his arms above his head, the t-shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that makes me wish I’d gotten up earlier to watch him at work. He might look kind of bookish and intense when you first see him, but it looks like Elliot Sinclair is no stranger to the gym these days, either: a realization that does absolutely nothing to ease the confusion I’ve been feeling since all of last night’s mixed signals.
“Sure. I’ve, uh, got your sweater in my bag,” I tell him, patting the bag in question to prove it. “I’ll wash it and give it back to you.”
