Page 19 of Where Roads Lead

I rewrote my own story through the eyes of my fictional character. I’d give Ellie more of a backbone than I’d ever had. I’d make her interesting and smart and successful, and the type of woman a man would go back for.

And then?

I’d have him do it. Go back for her, I mean.

Because that was the thing about fiction, I could write whatever the hell I wanted.

I nearly laughed at the realization.

Ellie’s ending didn’t have to be my ending.

I could write Ellie’s true love coming back for her, realizing what a mistake he’d made. He would come, profess his love, and beg for her forgiveness. She, of course, would have become wildly successful in their separation and after going through several obstacles that forced her emotional growth, the happily ever after would feel earned. Because isn’t that what men in fiction always did—come back for the girl in the end?

Maybe writing the ending I wanted for myself, even in the form of fiction, would be healing. Maybe it would help me lay the past to rest.

And if nothing else, at least my fictional counterpart would get the love she deserved in life. Even if I never did.

The sound of a car door slamming broke me from my musings, and I crossed the kitchen to peer out the window.

In the dirt driveway, Will was getting out of an old, beat up Chevy, looking grim.

Did he ever smile?

He had on a plaid shirt today, thrown over a T-shirt. I watched as he rolled up the sleeves to his forearms before grabbing a toolbox out of the bed of the truck.

Then, before he could notice me lurking in the window, I hurried to sit back down, waiting for his inevitable knock where I could put my master plan into action: he’d announce he was here to change the lock and I would offer him a muffin and we would patch up any hostility still lingering between us.

But the knock never came.

I sat, staring at the door for a solid three minutes, wondering if he was working up the courage to announce himself before I was walking to the back door and threw it open.

Will’s ‘surprised’ face was barely perceptible, save for the slight quirk of his brow when he saw me standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” he said dispassionately, his hand gripping a screwdriver.

“Were you going to knock?” I asked a bit accusingly.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Can you let me work?”

“Can you answer my question?”

He sucked in a breath, as if I were truly trying his last nerve. I grinned at the accomplishment.

“Because I’m here to change the lock, not get into another,” he flicked a hand as if searching for a word, “sparring match with you.”

“Well, looks like it’s too late for that, huh?” I shot him a cheeky smile.

“Is now a bad time?” he asked, not bothering to hide how annoyed he was.

There was something refreshing about that. I didn’t have to guess where I stood with him.