Page 65 of Where Roads Lead

She winced, and for half a second I felt sorry for saying it.

“Look, Ava.” I blew out a breath. “Everything is as fine as it’ll ever be, okay? We might not ever get to where we used to be, but that’s just how life goes sometimes. Okay?”

She stared out the window, up to the house where a lamp lit up the window.

“Okay,” she said finally, opening the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

I heaved a sigh, watching her walk to the door with the board games and toys in her arms. It hurt because sometimes I still saw her as that seven-year-old girl I once knew.

I hated the way things were, just as much as she did, but I didn’t know how we could rewrite the past. We could only go forward from where we were at.

I cursed under my breath, shaking my head at myself for getting involved in this night at all.

I should’ve let her walk.

Because sometimes helping didn’t help at all.

Sometimes, it only made things worse.

Chapter Eighteen

Elsie

I’d been in Colbridge for three weeks before my parents called and check on me.

Now, it wasn’t like I ran away from home or anything. I hadn’t got up and fled Boston without telling anyone where I was going.

They knew my plans, tentative as they were, and they knew I was somewhat emotionally stable when I left—but still, you would think after a life-altering event that changed the course of my entire future, they would’ve deemed it important to check in on their only child a bit sooner.

They hadn’t.

My mother had always been the type of person to live by the phrase ‘the phone works both ways,’ which was totally bogus, in my opinion, coming from a parent.

But in all honesty, I hadn’t really wanted to hear from them either. Because I knew exactly what they thought of my recent life changes without them having to say it: I was running away.

And so what if I was? We all coped with things differently. Why was my dad buying boats he’d never learn to sail deemed a more acceptable outlet for stress than my three-month writer’s retreat?

I guess I just wasn’t in the mood to hear any rebuttals about my life or my choices, especially when I was already deep into second-guessing them myself.

I only felt a little guilty when I let it go to voicemail, promising myself I’d return the call at some point.

Maybe when I made more progress on my manuscript and felt like I actually had something to be proud of. Some tangible evidence that, hey, I know this isn’t what you wanted for me, but I’m not a total failure!

As it stood now, I couldn’t really say that.

I wrapped a scarf around my neck, pulled on a light jacket and bounded down the steps of my house to take a walk in the October moonlight.

Writers were always inspired by things like that, weren’t they? At the very least, I figured the cold air might clear my head of all the annoying thoughts racing around in it.

“Stupid,” I muttered, kicking a rock off the sidewalk. “Broken engagement. No job. Stupid manuscript that doesn’t even make any sense—”

I talked to myself sometimes. More often when I was trying to work through things. Sometimes when I felt totally alone.

I think it came from being an only child. Or maybe it was just a personal quirk. I seemed to have an abundance of those.

I stopped when I noticed some passersby watching me in alarm.

I let out a nervous laugh and waved in their direction, trying to show that I wasn’t a certifiably insane person roaming their streets.