Page 167 of Where Roads Lead

“From where I sat, it looked like you both already knew the answer.”

“Ava…” I sighed. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

That he didn’t love you the way you wanted him to.

That you loved him the way you wished you loved his brother.

That I somehow got caught up in it and indirectly caused you more pain than I was even aware of.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “You’re just the type of girl guys can’t help but loving.”

I laughed. “If only you knew how wrong you were about that.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “You’re perfect. You’re go-with-the-flow and interesting and don’t blow a gasket when someone gets in the way of your stupid routines.”

“At least you have routines.” I laughed. “I get through life on a wing and a prayer.”

“Well, I can help you with that.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Create some structure, or routines, or whatever.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I’ve actually sort of been dying to ever since I met you. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s a project.”

“Well, lucky you, I’m probably the biggest work-in-progress you’ll ever meet.”

“Will doesn’t seem to mind, though. Does he?”

“No. I guess not,” I said. “But there are a lot of people in my life who do.”

She arched a brow, waiting for more, and since she’d been so honest with me, I thought it only fair I returned the favor.

“My fiance left me the night before our wedding,” I told her. “Which was exactly,” I stared at my watch for comic relief, “seven days before I showed up in Colbridge?”

She reeled back as if I’d just told her a black hole had run through Massachusetts, ready to swallow us whole.

“Fiance? Before you got here? But that was just a few months ago, Elsie…”

“September fourteenth would’ve been the big day.” I shrugged.

“So you were dealing with all that when you showed up and I—” she groaned miserably. “God, I was such a bitch to you.”

“No, you weren’t,” I said weakly.

“Yeah, I was,” she deadpanned.

“Yeah, you kind of were.” I laughed. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.” I leaned forward to rest a hand on her knee. “Really, I mean that.”

“I guess that phrase, you never really know what people are going through is truer than I thought. Huh?” She laughed.

“Tell me about it.” I huffed a breath. “Here I thought you were just this perfect woman with the perfect life and the perfect hair—”

“You think my hair is perfect?” she said, pleased at the thought.

“Uh, duh,” I told her. “You look like you just walked out of a L’Oreal commercial.”

“Well, I do follow a seven step routine every night.” She laughed, touching her hair. “But thank you.”

We talked a little bit longer, the ice having been broken thoroughly between us. At least, broken enough to make her comfortable to ask: