Page 33 of A Love Like Candle Light

Slowly stirring the milk with a whisk, I stare at the white liquid and will it to hurry up. I can’t stop myself from glancing their way every few seconds. They’re on the ground, play-fighting over one of her toys. Contrary to when I do the same, Erik is winning.

Absentmindedly, my fingertips touch my temple, the same place he did a few minutes ago. A soft ‘clank’ alerts me—just in time, because the milk is about to boil over the edge of the pot.

So my ghost is helping me out now? What a real one.

Gabriella would have a field day with this domestic scene. Her voice pops up in my head.

Look at that hot guy playing with your dog. Must be a sign from the universe.

I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe I had to go through a marriage with fizzled-out sparks to be more certain of what I deserve.

And what I do deserve is a guy who comes over in the middle of the night when I’m scared. Not one who uses work as an excuse to stay away from home.

“Here you go.” I set both mugs down on my dining table and sit down. I’d give it to him directly, but with how they’re roughhousing, it would spill within a second and Abby would lick it off the ground quicker than a vacuum.

Chocolate and dogs? Not a good combination. She’s been acting as usual, so no zombie disease from the bone and I’d rather she stay healthy.

“Thank you.” He gets up and takes a seat opposite me, while Abby settles down by my feet.

This is nice. A delicious hot beverage, a hot guy in my living room and my dog by my feet. I’m about to take a sip when all of a sudden, a picture frame falls off my shelf.

We both freeze.

“Was that Abby?” he asks in a tight whisper. I shake my head and set my mug down with trembling hands. His presence and the fact he heard it too are reassuring, at least I’m not imagining it, but it doesn’t make the jump scare any better. My shoulders are tight, heart racing.

“She’s right by my feet,” I whisper and point at the table.

Ever so slowly he turns around. He probably thinks I left one of my windows open, but when he sees they’re all closed he jumps up, face pale. “How—?”

“I told you. Ghost.”

He strides over to my shelf and picks the picture frame off the ground. But instead of putting it back, he stares at it.

“Your ex?” He turns the frame to me. Of course it had to be this picture. I groan.

“Yes.” I take a sip of my hot chocolate, then hide my burning face behind the mug. “I put this picture up because sometimes I need a reminder of the good times we had,” I feel the need to explain.

It was taken on our honeymoon in Paris. He surprised me by renting a vintage car for half a day and driving me around the city in it. I felt on top of the world. He was showing me off as his wife any chance he got, telling waiters and tourists who did not care in the least. It was a week full of laughter and dancing and walking hand in hand along the Seine.

The picture is a selfie, with him behind the wheel. I’m clinging onto his arm and leaning my head on his shoulder, both of us smiling the way you do when you still believe in ‘forever.’

“Looks like a nice guy,” Erik mumbles and puts it back on the shelf, making sure it’s on there properly and has no way of falling down again.

“He was. Is.” I turn the mug around in my hands, watching the hot chocolate swirl.

“What went wrong, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I arch my eyebrow at him. ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ is he serious? “Erik. The first time we met, you offered me your guest room. I snooped around you home and pried into your kidnapped sister. I think no topic is off the table anymore.”

“Let me pretend to be a gentleman and ask.” He chuckles and sits back down. Abby gets up from between my legs and trudges over to her bed next to the couch.

“Ultimately, we both wanted different things from life, and were too young to realize how horrible of an idea marriage was at our age.” Nervously, I rake my fingers through my hair. “His priorities shifted. He wanted to climb the career ladder, retire at forty-five, and I want to… live my life, I guess.” Erik leans closer, paying attention to every word. I can’t imagine this is what it meant when he said he liked talking to me

“We didn’t find any common ground and I could only take so long of being the second priority in his life. By the time we divorced, it might as well have been over for three years already. He was always at work, I was always at home. We barely saw each other. And one day I finally stopped ignoring how shitty being a second choice made me feel.”

“I’m sorry,” Erik mumbles, a glint of something reminding me of pride crossing his features. His hand lifts off the table as if he wants to comfort me but isn’t sure how to.

CLANK!