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.
It was one of the many reasons why I'd loved her.
Elliot let her go, but slipped her hand down Sadie's arm to hold her hand. "The room is coming along. What can I help with?"
Sophie glanced over the room. "I was just going to go upstairs to gather up some of his things to bring down."
"Great, I'll come with you." She unbuttoned her coat, her eyes finding mine for a fraction of a second before she followed my sisters. That tiny sliver of time could have been a year for what it did to me.
"I need some air," I grumbled, my heart drumming in my ribs as I blew past the girls, down the stairs, and to the backyard.
Yard was a generous word to use — it was a twenty-by-twelve patch of concrete and brick with an outdoor couch and two chairs, lined with bushes and flowers. But in Manhattan, it might as well have been an acre.
I couldn't sit, not with a hundred thoughts of Elliot zinging through my head. So, I paced. Confusion, that was the primary emotion. Having her there, seeing her, remembering her … it stirred everything in me that I worked so hard to keep down. Regret. Love. Longing. And now of all times when I had no reserve energy? When I needed everything I had in me to keep my mask in place so that I could bear the days to come?