He makes an attempt at a smile, his eyes filled with hope. And this time, when his hand makes a move towards mine, I reach out and meet it halfway.
“It wasn’t embarrassing,” I assure him. “Well, not for you, anyway. Or it shouldn’t have been. You weren’t embarrassing. You were actually kind of adorable.”
The blue eyes crinkle around the edges.
“Adorable, huh? I can definitely work with that,” he says. “I meant everything I said, though. I never got over you, Holly. No one ever came close to making me feel the way you did. And I want that again. All of it. The whole reverse-fairytale, or whatever it was you called it.I don’t care. I just wantyou. And I know I just said you have to take the risk to have the rest, but I’m not a risk to you. I’m not going to break your heart. I’m not going to leave you. And I definitely won’t ever make you get chickens, because I’m not sure I’m particularly keen on them either, to be honest.”
I think about how perfect this moment is, with the only light in the room coming from the Christmas tree lights, and the man of my dreams sitting next to me telling me I really can have it all. I think about how much I want to believe him when he says that, and then I don’t think of much at all, really, because suddenly his lips are on mine, and he’s kissing me; soft and hesitant at first, as if he’s not quite sure if this is real either, then his hands come up to cup my face, pulling me closer as the hesitation melts away, along with all the reasons we shouldn’t be doing this.
His hands are in my hair now, his lips urgent but soft. He still tastes vaguely like peppermint. He still feels like home. He still kisses me as if there’s never, in the history of the world, been anything more important than this moment, and I still respond to him as if I fully agree.
We could have spent the last ten years kissing like this. I would feel resentful that we haven’t, but I’m too busy making up for it, my arms reaching up to loop themselves around his neck as if they have a mind of their own, and pulling him closer still. His tongue dances against mine, and I moan softly as I remember all the things that come next: the late nights, the early mornings, the way everything feels different when we’re together. I remember it all; and now it’s right there — once again within my grasp.
“Come back to the States with me,” Elliot says, his eyes shining as we finally pull apart. “It might be too late to get you a visa by tomorrow — it probably will be, in fact — but that’s okay … I’ll change my flight. I’ll take a later one. It doesn’t matter. As long as I know you’re going to be with me this time.”
He kisses me again, and I kiss him back, both of us falling easily back into the familiar rhythm of shared breaths and soft touches; neither one of us wanting to stop. But as Elliot’s arms find their way to my waist, and I fall back against the soft cushions of the sofa, I start to remember other things, too. The airport on Christmas Eve. The empty hotel room, with the sheets piled high on the stained mattress, and the dust motes swirling in the air. The mascara on my cheeks in the rear-view mirror when I finally got back into Martin’s car, and the sympathetic look he gave me, which convinced me he was the good guy, and Elliot the enemy.
This is all so very familiar; all of it — from the taste of his lips, right down to the flight that leaves on Christmas Eve, and the mad rush to fill in the appropriate paperwork. And we both know what comes after that.
“Elliot, stop,” I say hoarsely, struggling reluctantly out of his arms. “Stop. This is crazy. It’s completely crazy.”
The light goes abruptly out of his eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asks calmly. “Look, if it’s too soon, that’s fine. I get it. There’s no rush. You can come later. You can come whenever you like, really. Just … you will come, won’t you? At some point? We can do all the things we said we’d do last time. Disney. The beach. And we can start writing together again. Because I meant it when I told you I wanted you to write the sequel toThe Snow Globewith me. Full credit, obviously. Your name on the cover, next to mine. Assuming the publisher still wants it, of course. What do you say? Will you help me? Will you come to America with me?”
I look at him sadly.
“I can’t,” I say in a whisper. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t come with you, and I can’t help you write your sequel. I love you too, Elliot — I really, really do. But we’ve been here before, haven’t we? Making the same plans, saying the same things. And it didn’t work.”
“It didn’t work because Martin made sure it didn’t,” Elliot bursts out, getting to his feet angrily. “If he hadn’t lied to us both, you’d have got on that plane with me. We’d have gone home together. It would’ve worked.Wewould’ve worked.”
“We don’t know that, though, do we?” I reply. “We don’t know what would’ve happened if Martin hadn’t gotten in the way. Because we didn’t think that would happen either, did we? I didn’t think I’d have to spend the rest of my life without you. You knew how scared I was of that. You knew I’d already lost Mum. You knew I couldn’t go through that again. And I know it’s not your fault that I did — I know that was down to Martin. But it still terrifies me. And I’m not sure I can get past that fear.”
“You can. Of course you can.” Elliot strides over and crouches down until he’s almost kneeling in front of me. “I’ll help you,” he says, taking my hands in his. “We’ll figure it out together.”
For a moment, two possible futures swim in front of me: one of them bright and dangerous, the other duller, but safe. I look around the store, at the piles of books, the gleaming wood surfaces, the shiny new coffee bar we could only afford because of Elliot and his book. The shelf closest to me is has all the books arranged by color: I knowParis or Dad will probably roll their eyes and change them all back as soon as they come into work tomorrow, but for now it looks perfect to me; organized and calm, in a way that soothes my soul.
“I can’t do it, Elliot,” I tell him, my eyes filled with tears as I look back up at him. “I can’t go with you.”
“Is this how it’s going to be, then?” he says, getting to his feet. “Both of us loving each other, but not ever allowing ourselves to be together, in case we get hurt? And we’re going to do that forever? Am I getting that right? That’s really what you want, Holly? You want to one day be lying there on your deathbed, thinking, ‘Thank God I didn’t try to make a go of it with Elliot, because I could’ve got hurt? Remind me how this works again?” he goes on, his tone somewhere between anger and hurt. “When does the ‘not getting hurt’ bit start? Because I sure feel hurt right now.”
I mean, when he puts it like that…
“I don’t … I can’t … I ….”
I have no idea what I’m trying to say. I try my best, but the words don’t come out. It’s like one of those nightmares, where you’re trying to scream, but no one can hear you. Not that I know what I’d say even if they could.
“Look,” Elliot says, his shoulders sagging as the anger drains out of him. “My flight leaves at 3 o’clock tomorrow. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
It’s quite possibly the worst thing he could have said to me, instantly triggering an avalanche of memories; the infuriatingly slow drive to the airport; the argument with the security officer; the crushing realization that it was all too late.
“I won’t,” I reply, somehow finding my voice at last. “I won’t risk the same thing happening again, Elliot. I’m sorry. I love you, but I can’t.”
Elliot just stands there, his expression shifting from the anger of a moment ago to something that could be either hurt or acceptance.
Then he gives a single, terse nod, before turning and walking away; across the room, and right out of my life.
Again.
