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I head straight over to meet the restoration company before work. When I arrive, I see Owen’s truck parked outside and the inside door to my house is open.
My heart flip flops.
My feelings for him are tug-of-warring inside of me.
Tug-of-warring? More like tug-of-warning.
Having him back in town pretty much ensures that I’m going to be single for the rest of my life. Because unfortunately, these feelings, I’m realizing, aren’t the kind that ever fully go away.
And his, it seems, will never start.
I don’t know what to do with that. I want to be Cosette, and I’m Eponine.
I just hope I don’t end up dead on some French barricade.
I get out of the car and walk up to the door, and when I walk inside I see. . .and smell. . .progress. It’s starting to look and feel like my house again. If they can wipe away every trace of fire in my place, maybe I can live here without the threat of anxiety over what I went through.
Maybe.
I’ve scheduled out two months of regular therapy sessions with my therapist. The first ones have gone well—and I’m hoping the rest will help me avoid freezing up and breaking down with panic again.
I hear two male voices, one of them Owen’s, downstairs. I head to the basement and find them standing in my office. They’re over by the sitting area, next to the breaker box that I hid behind a large canvas painting of tiny, abstract people on the beach.
They’re talking about the wiring in the whole house, and when I step inside the room, I hear Owen say, “Can we just rewire the whole thing? I want to make absolutely sure nothing like this ever happens again.”
I freeze. Thoughtful.
He looks over and I’m reminded once again that I am a goner. He’s wearing his trademark serious expression, but the second his eyes meet mine, it softens into something else. Something I can’t read. Something I don’t want to misinterpret.
Dickenson told us the heart wants what the heart wants, or else it does not care.
But why does my heart only ever seem to want this man?
“Hey, Emmy.” My name sounds so good on his lips.
Play it cool, Emaline Rose. I’m using my best internal stern voice and my full name, but even that’s wavering.
I don’t think I can speak logic to myself right now. Not when he’s standing here in my basement, a welcome trespasser in my home and in my heart.
“I hope you don’t mind. I used the key your mom gave me to let Ed in.”
Ed gives me a nod. “Morning, Miss Smart.”
When I don’t say anything because my tongue is tied into a thousand knots, Owen frowns. “Emmy? You okay?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m fine. What did I miss?”
“We were looking at the progress so far. Another week or so, barring any rewiring, and I think you’ll be able to move back in.”
Ed is holding a clipboard. “I was just telling Owen, I can have my electrician come through and double check all the electrical. Old house, old wiring. We might need to replace a few things. Just to be safe. Do you want me to show you what we’ve done so far?”
No, I want you to leave so I can stare at Owen without an audience.
“Sure.”
Ed walks me through the house, updating me on the progress, telling me what they’ve found, but I’m only half-listening. Mostly, I’m trying not to keep my imagination from running away with a romantic scenario.
Like in Hannah Grim’s Love on Commission, when the main character falls for a real estate developer, and there’s a scene where she angles herself so her hand brushes up against his while walking through a condo with his business partner.
