Page 73 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

Seth

Even after a catnap, I’m still ninety percent sure I’m dying, but Ellie’s still here, making soup in the kitchen, taking care of me in ways nobody ever does. Not that I’d let anyone else. I probably rival her father’s attitude when I’m sick, and I’d rather be left alone in my misery.

Except when it comes to Ellie.

If I had it my way, we’d be together all the time.

My phone pings with a text. I reach for it, having silenced all notifications except family, and read the email from Flynn about my mother’s gallery opening. As I thumb out a response, I say, “Hey, El, what are you doing the third weekend in February?”

“The third weekend? Nothing special, but you have your mom’s gallery opening that Friday night.”

“I know. I was hoping you’d come with me to meet my family.”

She turns with a sweet smile. “I would love to, but are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“Ready to let the world know you’re off the market? Hell yes, I’m ready.”

Her smile widens. “In that case, consider me your plus-one.”

“Good. Think your dad and Becca would like to come?”

“Really? You want them to meet your family?”

“Yeah, why not? I think your dad will get a kick out of my grandfather, and Becca said she loves the city. I’ll put them up in a hotel for the weekend.”

“I think they’d love it. I’ll call them in a little bit. Now, will you please rest?”

I lie back down and take a minute to order a frame for the picture of me and Missick that Ellie sent this morning. Then I scroll to her text so I can see it again. The drawing hits me right in the center of my chest, just like it did earlier. She drew us exactly as we were that day, right down to the seriousness in Missick’s eyes, his mischievous grin, the sunburn on my nose, and the way I would have held the whole damn ocean back for him. She got all of that from a story and a few hours spent with my oldest friend. I don’t know how she did it, but she captured the very heart of us.

I send the image to my printer and look at Ellie moving around my kitchen like she’s been here a hundred times, turning the faint sound of a spoon against a pot into the warmest sound of comfort.

The printer whirs to life, and she turns around with a stern expression. “You’re not supposed to be working.”

“I’m not.”

She rolls her eyes and turns back to the stove as the kettle whistles. A minute later she heads out of the kitchen carrying a bowl on a plate and detours into my office. I watch her over the half wall as she picks up the picture from the printer. Her shoulders drop a fraction. I imagine her eyes warming and her heart climbing onto her sleeve.

“I ordered a frame for it. It should be here in a few days,” I say as she heads my way, but her heart isn’t just on her sleeve. It radiates from every inch of her.

“Do you really like it that much?” she asks as she sets down the soup and hands me the picture.

“I really do.” I look at it again, seeing all the definition I’d missed the first two times. The birds in the sky, the people in the distance, the specks of sand on my feet. “I love it, El. You could make a big name for yourself as an artist.”

“And take all the fun out of drawing? No thanks. I’ll be right back. I need to get my tea.”

I admire her drawing for another minute or two. Then I set it on my laptop and reach for the soup, but the elevator doors open, and Victory and Wells barge in, wearing parkas, surgical masks, and rubber gloves.

“We brought reinforcements for the world’s biggest man-baby,” Wells says, and tosses me a stuffed teddy bear and a box of Theraflu.

Victory peels off her parka and says, “You look like hell. What is it this time? Sniffles? A cough?”

“Jesus.” I groan. “As if that would keep me from anything? I didn’t send for a rescue mission.”

As they take off their gloves and masks, Victory says, “No, you sent your standard, I’m dying. If you don’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, send hel—” Victory’s eyes widen, and I follow her gaze to Ellie as she approaches holding a cup of tea and wearing an amused grin. “Well, hello,” Victory says in a singsong voice.

“Hi,” Ellie says sweetly.

“Victory, Wells, this is Taylor,” I say, thankful I remembered not to say Ellie.