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“I know,” he says, looking me straight in the eyes. “But I want to change that.”
“Okay,” I whisper, my chest constricting from the way he’s looking at me.
“Tell me more about your dad.”
“Oh, um, okay. Well, he was the absolute best person I knew,” I tell him, not being able to hold back my smile. “We did stuff together all the time. We’d go to baseball games, football games, movies, out to eat. Anything, really. My favorite, though, was when we’d just drive around on Sunday mornings. We’d listen to Sinatra, or classic southern rock, and just run errands.” I shrug. “I don’t know. We’d talk and drive. It was nice.”
“You really miss him, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I admit, looking down, tears gathering in my eyes. But I blink them away. I really don’t want to cry right now.
“I’m sorry, Ashley. I can’t even imagine how you feel. But you can talk to me about it. I’m here.” Looking back up at him, I meet his soft blue eyes, and the tears I was trying to hold back, fall on their own. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart.”
“No, I’m not sad. Thank you, Ryan. That means more to me than you can possibly know.”
“It’s the truth,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine.
Glancing down at my plate, I try and gather myself again, but I can’t. He’s doing something to me that I can’t help, or stop.
We finish eating in a comfortable silence, but I can feel his eyes on me the entire time.
I take our empty plates to the sink and cover the casserole when he asks behind me, “Do you want wine?” I jump. I didn’t even hear him approach.
My hand flies to my heart, feeling it beat rapidly beneath my fingers. “Yes, please.”
“If you grab two glasses from the cabinet above you, I’ll get a bottle from my office, and meet you in the living room.”
“Alright.” Reaching up, I take down two glasses, and then sit in the chair where I was reading this afternoon.
“Keats?” Ryan asks, taking a seat on the couch, his eyes darting to the book on the table as he uncorks a bottle of merlot. I hadn’t realized I left the book out.
“Oh, yeah. He’s one of my favorites. I took a class on him in college.”
“Which is your favorite by him?”
“The butterfly one.” I smile, watching him pour the wine.
“‘I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days – three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.’”
“You know it?”
“It’s my favorite too,” he tells me, his eyes soft, yet serious.
“Huh. What a coincidence.”
“A coincidence. Sure.” He smirks, handing me a glass.
“Thanks.” Taking a sip, I let the wine slip down my throat and settle in my stomach–warming my insides. “Is it still snowing out?”
“Yeah. I hope it stops soon, though, or I’ll have a lot more rescuing to do.” Rubbing his forehead, Ryan takes a sip of wine and leans back against the couch.
“Does it snow for days often?”
“No. Maybe a couple of times in the season. But this is more than usual.”
“Well, as long as we have power–” And I’m cut off by the lights going off. Great.
Chapter 11
