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“You’re right.” I grin at him, squeezing his solid arm between my fingers. “But a girl can dream, right?”
He scoffs, meeting my gaze. At eighty-something years old, Norman Peters is an inch shorter than me but stocky as all get out. He could bowl me over in an instant, if he had the energy and mind to do so. But the sweet expression on his face whenever I see him tells a different story.
The man’s a teddy bear, through and through.
Except for right now.
“You’ll be dreamin’ for a long time,” he quips, narrowing his heavily hooded eyes at me. “My Helena would have your ass if she caught you checkin’ me out. Territorial, that one.”
Bringing my hand to my chest, I gasp, rearing back in mock offense. “Mr. Peters,” I say, aghast. “Not in front of the Lord.” I eye the interior of the church dramatically, as though God Himself is standing before us with a judgemental stare.
He rolls his eyes and brushes me off as we near his preferred pew in the second row. “After all I’ve given up and done for this world, the Lord owes me a few free ones.”
I sober, his words hitting me like a punch to the gut.
I know it’s not tit for tat. I know we don’t do or give to receive. But sometimes it feels unfair. Sometimes it feels unbelievably one sided.
With every new tragedy, every new loss, the scales keep tipping and tipping. Never in my favor. Never my direction.
How much more weight can they take before the scale finally snaps? And where will I be left when it happens?
Mr. Peters clears his throat, cocking a bushy grey brow at me and awareness pricks at my skin. I zoned out. Again.
Get it together, Eve. You’ve got shit to do.
I smile, backing away so he can get settled and ready for the meeting. I toss a thumb over my shoulder stupidly. “I’ll be over here if you need anything.”
Ignoring me, he pulls his tiny notebook and pen from the front pocket of his worn blue button down and settles it on the back of a pew Bible, using it as a makeshift desk. As a representative of the church, I know I should correct him, tell him it’s bad form to do such a thing, but I can’t seem to make my mouth move.
Especially not when I see his clouded eyes gloss over as he reads the recent letter he’s begun working on. With the distance between us, I can’t make out much beyond the header.
My dear sweet Helena,
Oh, how I miss you.
My eyes burn and I rapidly blink away the tears as I turn and rush away.
Poor Mr. Peters.
And Mrs. Peters.
A tragic love story, ended way too soon.
Don’t they always, a little voice whispers in my ear. Does true, life-long love even exist?
As I round the corner, headed for the office in the back of the church, I barely stifle a scoff.
No.
No, I’m not sure it exists at all. Life has shown me time and time again that love—real, honest to God, everlasting love, is a boldfaced lie. A pipedream—just like my dreams to travel.
It’s nothing more than a wish.
Something to hold on to when the darkness creeps up on you, encroaching on your soul. It’s a comfort, meant to keep you sane so you don’t realize how utterly depressing life really is.
I swallow thickly as I grip the handle to Isaac’s office. My eyes flutter shut as I try to will the nasty thoughts pressing in on my mind to back off.
I shove the door open, finding his office empty and exactly as I left it for him before we took off for the holiday. My heart sinks. There’s an immediate pang in my chest knowing that not only did he come home late and leave early, he also never showed up for his Saturday office hours.
