Thing was, I didn't really want one. I should take that back — I wanted to eventually settle down, get married, have kids of my own. But for the time being, I was too busy and unsure of what I wanted out of life to commit to anyone, not that anyone had caught my eye.
I slipped Jane Eyre back in with her sisters and checked the next book, heading to its shelf, thinking about Wade.
It would be a lie to deny that he had something to do with my loneliness. With me. With everything.
But it wasn't that I hadn't been asked out by other guys— I had, even recently, perils of working in a bar, even if it was a bookstore too. But secretly I compared everyone to him, and no one could measure up. The way they made me feel, the things they'd say, it was just never right, never even close to what I'd had. Every date I'd been on ended up being all wrong. Or maybe I was all wrong.
I'd thought so much about why I couldn't move on, what it was about him that I couldn't forget. I didn't know that I believed in soulmates, but I believed in compatibility and chemistry. I believed in the feeling of being so tied to another person that you didn't want to be without them. I believed in love that doesn't die, mostly because I'd lived in that hell for seven years, regretting all the reasons we were apart, wishing for forgiveness, wishing I'd made different choices, used different words, just … wishing I'd done it all differently.
But wishing and hoping had given me nothing, only prolonged my loss.
And now, he was back. He was home. And he didn't want to see me, didn't want me there. It was clear in every muscle in his body, every molecule in the air between us — it only telegraphed anger and betrayal, even after all this time.
I placed JoJo Moyes where she belonged and walked around the corner for the Diana Gabaldon book in my hand. Outwardly, I was sure I looked perfectly fine, but inside, I was on fire, consumed by my losses. It was my version of a magic trick: it was easier to keep the truth to myself, because what could anyone else do? I carried the weight of my choices around with me always, and no one knew. No one needed to suffer along with me.
As I put away the rest of the books, I thought ahead to the afternoon when I'd see Wade again.
Sophie had asked me to come over to prepare the house for Rick's homecoming, and I would be there despite my fears, despite the warning that rang in my heart. I was torn between the want to be there for her and the knowledge that I wasn't wanted by him, opting in the end for Sophie, for Rick, for myself. I only hoped we would find a way to look past ourselves. But it was all up to him. It had always been up to him.
Wade
It was too quiet.
My sisters and I sat in Dad's library, rearranging the room for the hospital bed and equipment hospice had dropped off a few hours before. The only sounds in the room were the shuffling of books, the smoothing of sheets, the crackle and pop of the fire, and the occasional sniffle to betray what we were all thinking but couldn't say aloud.
This was the room where my father would die.
We'd spent the morning at the hospital with Dad and had sorted out the final details with hospice, then had come home to get everything ready for him. I'd moved out his heavy, mahogany desk — a relic passed down through generations along with the house, which had been in my family since it had been built — and we'd managed to create a space for the bed next to the window, leaving two armchairs and a couch, in case one of us needed or wanted to sleep in there. That was phase one.
Phase two was to fill the room with his most precious worldly possessions.
First and foremost were his books, which lined three of the walls. Thousands of books, some of which had lived in that room for nearly a hundred years, some Dad had acquired through his years of teaching literature, some that we'd given him as gifts. But those books fed his mind and soul through his entire life, and he'd be with them in the very end, even if he couldn't read them anymore. We'd read them for him.
Everything else was secondary, and my sisters were already planning what they'd bring down for him. We moved through our actions like ghosts, our thoughts turned inward, and we guarded them like we would a wound. None of us knew how to share our grief.
The doorbell rang, and the girls looked to me. They'd be looking to me for everything now.
"I'll get it." I turned to leave, my footsteps echoing in the too-quiet entry.
I pulled open the door to find Elliot, and my world shrank even more, consisting only of the two of us for seconds or minutes, I couldn't be sure. Her hands were deep in the pockets of her navy peacoat, a yellow knit hat on her head, and eyes so big, so full of sadness that I pushed away the urge to reach for her, wrap my arms around her small frame, hold her until we both felt right again.
I cleared my throat and stepped out of the way to let her in, saying nothing with words, only with my straight back, dropped brow, narrowed eyes, using my body as a weapon against her.
I had to keep her away.
I had to keep my heart away from her, because when she was near, when it came to life, the sensation was too much, too painful.
But how I wished it wasn't so.
If only.
She lowered her gaze and stepped in, walked past me without addressing me either, but she seemed smaller than before, as if she wanted to disappear, fade away. I wished for the same; she spun me around too quickly, and I couldn't find my footing.
Elliot set her bag down just inside the door and Sophie hurried over to her. They embraced, my sister's face tight as she hooked it over Elliot's shoulder.
"I'm so glad you're here," Sophie said, voice trembling.
"Of course I'm here. I'll always be here for you."
Sophie pulled away and swiped at her cheek. Sadie was waiting just behind her, twisting her hands, lip between her teeth, and Elliot moved to her, pulling her into a hug, rocking her almost imperceptibly. But I saw it. I saw everything Elliot did for what it was — kindness. She never acted under pretense or expectation.