“...and I just feel like I have no one. So yeah, it’s been kind of a bad week.”
I can tell she’s trying to downplay it, but I don’t miss the tears that well in her eyes, or the way her voice broke on the last word. I close the gap between us, extending my arm in an invitation to scoot next to me. For a second I think she’s going to get up and maintain that distance, buta choked sob bursts out of her throat, and she lets me fold her into my arms as she finally lets go of the weight she’s been carrying by herself.
She buries her head in my chest, and I murmur words of comfort into her hair, stroking her back soothingly as her body is wracked with sobs. Once the tears run dry, she pulls back, and I reach up to wipe the them off her cheeks.
I would kiss every tear away if she’d let me.
“I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “Your shirt is soaked now.”
She reaches up to smooth my shirt out, and her touch sends lightning bolts all the way down to my toes.
And one other place in particular.
“Well, it’s a good thing I live here,” I say, trying to lighten the mood (and to give her an out if she’s done talking about her feelings). “I can go change, it’s not a worry. You can ruin my shirt anytime, darlin’.”
She reaches up, grasping the hand that’s still holding her cheek. I figure she’s going to move it, but when I try to pull back she squeezes it, leaning into my touch. The lightning turns to fireworks, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she can hear my heartbeat thundering in my chest.
“I’ve never seen your room,” she says, tilting her head like she can’t believe she’s never considered that. “Can I come with you while you grab a shirt?”
Having Eleanor in my basement has always set me buzzing, but the times I’ve pictured her in my room? Those daydreams definitely aren’t comforting or gentlemanly.
“Yeah, come on,” I say with an attempt at a casual tone, but the strain in my voice is undeniable.
She doesn’t drop my hand as we stand up, or as I lead her up the stairs, or when I open the door to my room. Once we get inside she finally lets go, and the absence of her warmth feels equivalent to taking an ice bath.
She does a slow turn, taking in all of my knick knacks–framed photos, Lego sets I built with my dad, all sorts of posters plastering every inch of my walls. Every second of her assessment makes me feel more self conscious. I open my mouth to break the silence, but she beats me to it.
“This is exactly how I pictured your room,” she says, giving me the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her in far too long.
“So you’ve pictured my room before?” I tease, matching her grin with one of my own.
Rolling her eyes, she says “Cool your jets, Griffin Hart. I just meant it feels very…you.”
The knowledge that Eleanor didn’t shove every thought about me completely out of her mind could have me running straight through a brick wall in triumph.
She steps up to my bookshelf, delicately tracing the spines of the few books I have before picking up a picture of me with my parents. It’s one of the last pictures we took together when everything was still happy, and we still felt like an actual family.
With a slight frown, she looks up and asks, “Where are your parents? Are they out tonight?”
Not ready to face that conversation just yet, I give a bullshit answer about having a night away after hosting a big holiday.
Technically not a lie–my mom did host a big Thanksgiving dinner. I just wasn’t invited.
Her eyes narrow suspiciously, and I cave instantly, giving her the cliff notes version of the series of events that ended with me alone in this house. To my relief, she doesn’t apologize or offer platitudes. She simply grabs my hand again, squeezing it gently before setting the frame back on the shelf and sitting on the edge of my bed.
Do not imagine having Eleanor in your bed under different circumstances.
I lean against the door frame, trying to memorize every detail of having her in my space. After finishing anotherlong sweep of my room, she looks up at me expectantly–except I have no idea what she’s waiting for.
“Well are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna come sit down?” she asks with an exasperated huff.
That’s the last thing I thought she was going to say.
“Oh,” I say, blinking rapidly in surprise. “Did you want to stay up here instead of going back downstairs?”
Her eyes widen, looking mortified. “Right, duh, of course we would go back downstairs. That makes sense.”
She moves to stand up, but I cross the room quickly and grab her by the shoulders, planting her firmly back on my bed.
