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“About to be divorced,” I correct him, walking into the kitchen. We cleaned up as we were cooking, putting extras in the Tupperware containers, meaning there isn’t much to keep my hands busy as this conversation gears up to who knows what.
“Either way.” Elliot appears, carrying his own set of dishes. “It would have been nice to know.”
“Why?”
Elliot doesn’t respond and after a few seconds of me cleaning up what little’s left in the kitchen, I finally take the bait and turn around, propping my hands behind me on the counter, ready for whatever nonchalant comment he hits me with. But instead, I find him staring out of the kitchen window, toward the treehouse.
His profile is strong, his gaze thoughtful. Even under the gray overcast sky, which makes him look much more ominous and glum, he’s still beautiful.
“Do you think it’s still there?”
“Is what there?” I ask, confusion and curiosity prompting me to turn and peer out the window with him.
“The diagram you drew me that day.”
Me, nor the goosebumps that instantly sprout along my arm, need him to elaborate on which day he’s referring to. Pulse fluttering, I shake my head with a shrug. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out there but I wouldn’t assume either way. The insulation is great, and it’s away from direct sun, so perhaps.”
To be honest, I haven’t been back in the treehouse since Todd proposed. I told myself it was because senior year kept me busier with college prep and graduation, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be where Elliot was. I was curious about him before he moved in, it was only natural that curiosity peaked when we lived under the same roof.
Elliot takes a step back and extends a hand toward the back door. “Want to find out?”
My brows pull together. “You want me to go outside, in freezing weather with a storm moving this way, to see if a drawing is still on the wall?”
He grabs his jacket from the back of a barstool. “Yes, I want you to come outside with me, in freezing weather to see if it’s still there.”
I choke out a sarcastic laugh. “A storm is coming, Elliot. I’m not going out—”
“It went East.”
“What?”
“The storm, sweetheart.” Elliot grabs my jacket from the other stool and walks to me. My core tightens as he nears, his gaze reminding me of a predator’s stare right before they dominate their prey. “It missed us.”
“But I live to the East,” I whisper as he wraps my bulky coat around my shoulders.
He smirks, something both mischievous and knowing in his eyes. “Guess you’ll have to stay here tonight.”
I don't find the words to respond to both that look or the fact I’ll be staying the night in my childhood home, because Elliot grabs my hand and leads me out into the backyard.
The wind is softer than this morning, only whooshing by and not feeling like an all-out assault, but it’s still too cold to willingly be out here. “Do you really need me to come?”
I give a longing glance back to the glowing house, before a sound I’ve never heard before echoes in the air around me.
My head whips toward Elliot whose expression has already changed back to a solemn frown, forcing me to wonder if I made up the faint laughter in my head. But when he glances at me from his periphery, a corner of his lip lifts. But whatever he considers saying, dies when we reach the stairs.
Even though they’re narrow, he continues to hold my hand and tug me up after him, only releasing me when he reaches the small patio.
“Code still the same?” Elliot taps the small keypad we’d added after a raccoon learned how to turn the handle. A mess I still shudder to think about.
I nod, and watch him press the buttons in quick succession. I’m not sure if I can blame it on the cold when a shiver racks through me as he inputs the code he only ever saw me enter once, eight years ago.
The box turns green, beeping twice before the lock clicks into place. He opens the door, gesturing for me to enter first, before following close behind. Inside, it isn’t much different from when I’d move some things out before graduation, which surprises me as by now, the whole thing should be coated in layers of dust. But no, the spines of the books that were left behind, are clear and legible. My art supplies are in the cups, organized and color-coded. Even the beanbag, couch, and small rug look as though they’ve been regularly fluffed and vacuumed.
It’s not far-fetched to assume my mother is responsible. She’s an empty nester and soon to be a second time divorcee. Perhaps this fills her time when she’s off of work, keeps her mind busy.
A heaviness moves in my chest as I truly consider it. Here I am, a considerable mess, worrying about the whole will-he-won’t-he with Elliot while my mom is dealing with much more. Not only that but she had to spend Thanksgiving with her ex in some hotel, ordering room service.
“What if they hook up tonight?” I say as suddenly as the idea blooms. “I mean, they’re snowed in, at the end of their marriage. Isn’t that when people start remembering the beginning of it all?”
