Page 174 of Where Roads Lead

Nope. No. No way in hell.

“Or,” she continued, “I could do something else.”

“Or,” I said adamantly. “Whatever the ‘or’ is.”

“Well, that’s pretty much the same conclusion I came to tonight.”

“Which is?” I sounded desperate.

“Will,” she said, handing the heavy weight of papers over to my hands. “Just read. You’ll understand everything after you do. Apparently, I was way less subtle than I’d thought.”

I stared down at the papers, as if they were a bomb that might detonate my life.

“What is this?”

“It’s what I spent the last few months writing.” She stared at it as if it were something precious. “Every thought, hope, or dream I had since moving to town somehow made it in there.”

I traced my finger across the first page, amazed that this thick stack of papers filled with words came entirely from her brain.

“I had myself on a timeline, thinking that if I could somehow finish in three months, it meant I was dedicated, that I had what it took, that I deserved to follow my dreams.”

“And what happened? What conclusion did you come to? Because if it’s the wrong one—”

“Just read it,” she said. “We can talk when you finish.”

I thought it might be actual torture to sit down and read through who knew how many pages before I got to know what decision she made regarding both of our lives, but the other part of me was just as curious to know what type of product Elsie’s imagination could spat out.

“You have to stay while I read,” I warned.

“Of course.” She nodded.

“Okay.” I sighed and led us to the kitchen table. “I guess I better get started, then.”

With her sitting across from me, I brought my eyes down to the page and started to read.

“Wow,” I said, blinking, finally looking up after two hours and about sixty pages later of mine and Elsie’s relationship, chronicled from the very first day. “You really hated me at first.”

“I think it was repressed sexual attraction.” She rolled her eyes, but she looked nervous. As if my opinion meant something to her.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m picking up on that, too.”

“Shut up.” She laughed. “You are not!”

“You described my arms at least four times in the first twenty pages.”

“I took creative liberties.” Her face blushed crimson and tried to snatch the papers out of my hand, but I pulled them out of her reach.

“You also started crushing on me a lot earlier than I thought,” I said, feeling her manuscript and its ending hit me like a serotonin boost. “You could’ve helped a guy out and let me know. That would’ve been useful information.”

“I didn’t know myself!” she protested.

“You knew enough to write about it!” I countered.

“Writing helps me process, William!” She leaped up, still desperate for the pages. “That’s why therapists recommend journaling!”

“This is brilliant, Els. Really. I knew you spent all your time in the café writing, but I never really thought about what it might be like to have the proof of that in my hands. To read it? It’s like looking inside you, a little bit.”

“That sounds awful.” She scrunched her nose. “But…you liked it?”