Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
“You lean into it. You embrace it.”
“I don’t know how.”
“None of us do. We all just figure it out as we go along,” she says. “Speaking of figuring it out as we go along, I think there’s nothing you can do about Ben. Trying to force a relationship with him is likely only going to drive him further away. He will come back around. Sons will naturally seek out their fathers, even after a falling out. It happened that way with my husband—he and his father fought and didn’t speak for years. They’re the best of friends now. Give it time. He’ll mature as he grows and will come around.”
“Thanks, Melinda.”
“Also, I can see why you feel the way you do about Elodie. She’s beautiful. She’s intelligent and creative. She’s passionate and I think she's a real catch.”
“And she’s also half my age.”
“So? She’s a grown woman. As we get older, age matters less and less,” she says.
“You don’t think it’s weird or wrong?”
“Why would I? There’s fifteen years between my husband and me,” she says. “I met Harold when I was nineteen. And it’s just worked all these years. Besides, you have never struck me as the kind of man who gives a darn what people think.”
I laugh softly. “I suppose not.”
“Do you love her?”
It’s a question I haven’t asked myself. I haven’t taken the time to really sift through all my feelings and identify them for what they are. But sitting here with Melinda, thinking about Elodie, I know I miss her. I miss her voice. Her laugh. I miss her dimples and the way her face lights up when she smiles. Thinking about my life without her hurts in ways I never expected. Thinking about my life without her leaves a ragged hole in my heart too dark to even contemplate. Thinking about all that draws me toward one conclusion.
“Yeah. I think I do,” I say.
“Then why are you sitting here?” she asks. “Go and tell her that. Make her understand how you feel. Maybe it works out and maybe it doesn’t. But the last thing you want to do is have regrets, years from now, that you let somebody so wonderful and a relationship so potentially amazing go by the boards without standing and fighting for her. Show her this human side. Show her that you’re willing to go out on a limb and fight for her.”
I let Melinda’s words rattle around in my head for a moment. Going out on a limb the way she’s describing is something I’ve never done before. But I’ve never felt for somebody the way I feel for Elodie before either. Maybe she’s right, and it’s time for me to not just get in touch with my more human side, but to share it with Elodie. Regret isn’t something I want to live with. And Melinda is right, if I don’t do everything in my power to fix things with Elodie and show her just how much I care for her, I will surely regret it.
“Thank you, Melinda,” I say. “For everything.”
Elodie opens the door, and her eyes widen when she sees me standing on her porch. “Ethan,” she says. “What … what are you doing here?”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“Oh. I was … I was just about to go for a walk with Mam.”
“Don’t be rude, sweetheart. Invite the man in and have a word with him,” Mrs. Carter says.
The older woman is standing in the foyer, dressed and ready to head out, but gives me a warm smile. Elodie holds onto the door, her face etched with uncertainty. Mrs. Carter steps out onto the porch and gives my hand a gentle squeeze before turning around and looking at her granddaughter.
“I’m more than capable of walking on my own,” she says crisply. “You two put on a pot of tea and have a chat.”
“Mam—”
“I’m going now. You two talk.”
“No more than twenty minutes, Mrs. Carter,” I say.
“No more than twenty minutes,” she replies.
We both watch the older woman head down the stairs and set out on a walk around the block without a look back at us. When she disappears from view, I turn to Elodie and offer her a small smile, which she returns. The uncertainty and tension in the air between us is thick. With a small shake of her head, she finally seems to come back to herself.
“Sorry,” she says. “Might as well come in.”
“Thank you.”
I follow her into the kitchen and watch as she puts a kettle to boil on the stove. After that, she takes her time getting the service set up. The silence in the kitchen has a physical weight on us. It’s heavy. It’s so thick and oppressive, it’s almost suffocating. The kettle whistles as it boils, so Elodie pours out a pair of mugs then carries the whole service over to the table and sits down across from me. Sitting so close, I want to reach out and take her hand. I want to touch her. But I can tell she’s uncomfortable, so I don’t.