His shoulders sag in defeat. I really want to hug him, but I have to wait while Maisie flutters around, putting the photo of Evie Snow back into its envelope, and then launching into a long, pointless story about her sister Elsie’s next-door neighbor, who she suspects might be ‘up to something’.
Finally, though, she says goodbye, and heads off back down the hill, leaving Elliot and I to digest the fact that the search is over, and we’re still no further forward.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” he says, as the top of Maisie’s red bobble hat disappears behind the crest of the hill. “It looks like this book is going to have to be fiction, after all.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” I ask, puzzled by how seriously he’s taking this. “I know you wanted to figure out what really happened — I did, too. But it was always a long shot, Elliot.There was always a chance we’d have to make that part of the story up.”
“I know,” he says, taking my hand. “I just hate not knowing, is all. I hate loose ends. I hate that someone’s entire life can just … disappear. Like it didn’t matter.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” I point out. “Someone must know what happened to her; what her story was. And even if they don’t, she was still real. She still mattered. Things don’t only become real once someone’s written about them.”
“Don’t they? Do you really think that, Holly?”
Elliot’s words are soft, but his eyes, when I finally meet them, hold a challenge which makes me wonder which one of us I’m trying to convince here.
I’m the one who’s always felt like things haven’t really happened to me until I’ve written them down, after all. That’s why I’ve never written anything about Mum dying; not even in my diary. I always felt like once it was down on paper, it would make it real; and, as long as it isn’t, I can continue to pretend on some level that it didn’t happen.
So I’m a fine one to lecture Elliot about writing and reality, when I don’t even believe my own words.
“What I think is that you can still write an amazing story about them both,” I reply, shrugging off the question. “And I guess the best thing about it is that this way you at least get to decide how it ends.”
“And what about us? How does our story end?”
The question is the one that’s been circling my mind endlessly, almost since we met, but it still comes as a shock to hear it spoken out loud.
“I’m not sure,” I admit, my palms suddenly clammy with nerves despite the chill of the afternoon. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. I just know it has to.”
This time, my words are even less convincing.
“And is that what you want?”
His hand tightens almost imperceptibly around mine, as if he’s steeling himself for an answer he knows he’s not going to like.
“No. Of course not,” I tell him. “It’s the very last thing I want. If it was up to me, it would last forever.”
My voice catches on that last word. Until now, my feelings about Elliot have been a secret I’ve been trying to keep even from myself. But now they’re out there in the open, and it’s a feeling that reminds me of the time I fell off a swing when I was eight years old — or, more specifically, of the moment before I hit the ground, when it felt almost like flying. This, too, could go either way; although, if my past record is anything to go by, I suspect the only way for me is down.
My entire body tenses up, waiting for the moment of impact.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, Elliot takes my face gently in his hands and tilts it up towards his, until I’m forced to look him in the eye.
“That’s settled, then,” he says simply. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Are … are you making a book pun?” I ask croakily.
Elliot grins.
“Bad time to get cheesy on you, huh?” he says wryly. “Sorry. What I meant to say was that I feel like that too. I don’t want to have to say goodbye to you, Holly. Not on Christmas Eve, and not any time after that, either.”
We look at each other, both of us intensely aware that everything has just changed between us.
“So, what do we do? There’s that whole ‘different continents’ thing to deal with, remember?”
This time, my voice comes out as a whisper rather than a croak. It’s only a marginal improvement, but Elliot doesn’t seem to notice.
“So we’ll deal with it,” he says lightly. “Somehow. I don’t know exactlyhowyet, but we’ll find a way. It can be one of those plot points we have to figure out.”
