And somewhere in the middle of that ridiculous dance, I gave my heart back to Elijah completely and fully.
It wasn’t hard to do. Especially considering it was always his. I basically just had to see it for myself.
fourteen
Elijah
I climb into the driver’s seat of Koren’s flower van, and the seat is still adjusted perfectly the way I like it from when I drove it here. It smells mostly of lilac, but the aroma morphs into a hazy blend when Koren takes her throne in the passenger seat, bringing with her the lavender perfume she always wears, mixed now with champagne and two hours of nonstop dancing. I don’t mind the concoction; a post-hockey game bus smells much worse. She yanks off her heels one at a time and lazily drops them to the floorboard with a sigh. Then she closes her eyes, ignoring me, like we hadn't just spent half the night wrapped around each other on the dance floor.
“You aren’t going to go back to hating me now that you don’t need a dance partner anymore, are you?” I tease, starting the engine.
“I hope not.” That sideways smile I hadn’t seen in over a year tugs at her lips. “Ask me again tomorrow, but I’m pretty sure theimage of you dancing the chicken dance is seared into my brain, and I’ll never recover.”
I chuckle and shift the van into gear. Instead of gripping the steering wheel, I take her hand. This morning, we could barely make eye contact on the way to the wedding. But tonight? We can’t take our eyes off each other. As I back out of the parking spot, I ponder which direction to go. With my car at my apartment, I’d borrowed my parents’ lake car to take to the floral shop. It’s still there, all the way back in town. “Do you want to go to the floral shop to get your car?”
She leans over, assessing the clock on the dash. 2:21 a.m., and her eyebrows hike. “I didn’t think it was that late. Honestly, it will take too long to drive back into town. Just take the van to my mom’s. We can return it in the morning and get both our cars.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I turn the wheel, heading down the narrow lake road. The drive is comfortable and quiet. I never noticed it before, but as much as this lake feels like my home, a big part of the lake has always been Koren. We’ve been running barefoot along these roads half our lives. Maybe it’s my imagination, but my breath feels easier than it has in a long time.
When I pull into the private gravel driveway our houses share, I park and look at her. She doesn’t open the door right away. I assume she's as exhausted as I am. “I’ll walk you to the porch,” I offer.
“No,” she says tiredly, then surprises me with one beautiful, sleepy smile. “I’m tired, but I know I won’t sleep. Not after tonight. Come with me?”
“It’s almost three in the morning.” I give her a suspicious look. “Where do you want to go?”
“Let’s walk on the beach to our spot.”
Butterflies stir to life in my gut, urging me not to say no. As if I have a choice. My heart is already revving, and I slide out of the van, closing the door softly, careful not to wake the neighborlady. Koren takes my hand, and we walk in silence down the worn path to the beach. So many memories flood back. It feels like returning to a dream I forgot I was still allowed to have.
She’s still barefoot. I kick off my shoes and toss them into the grass, matching her stride. We wander near to the water’s edge, our fingers laced like an old habit we never unlearned. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but there’s so much we haven’t talked about yet. So many things I want to know. I start with an easy topic, “So, aside from the whole running away thing, how was your internship?”
“It was good, but a lot of it I already knew from growing up in the floral business. Lots of floral design. Sometimes I felt like I knew more than the teachers, but that was okay. I met a lot of people. We mostly did what I do here. You know all the events, galleries, and weddings.”
I try to picture her in Paris. I can. She’s the most creative person I’ve ever known, and I imagine her in a city full of color, of art, and tiny balconies spilling over with flowers. It makes sense. She was always building beauty out of mess. Even me. But as much as it makes sense, I feel a tug at my heart knowing she was there without me.
In the City of Love. All alone.
Or at least I hope she was alone. Not that I wanted her to be lonely, but the thought of her spending time with someone else twists something in me. I look down. So much of this past year hurts. “Did you get addicted to the croissants like you predicted?”
She keeps her whimsical smile. “You remember me talking about those?”
“I remember everything about you.”
She averts her gaze to the glossy waves as we continue to stroll toward our spot. “Everything?” she echoes, her voice shaking lightly. “Then we can talk about all the women you were dating.”
“There wasn’t anyone,” I reply flatly.
“That’s certainly not how it looked.” She peeks at me. The dark sky is just starting to lighten at the edges. It doesn’t surprise me that the sunrise is near. We’ve always managed to lose track of time when we’re together.
“Like I said before, most of those women were just people who wanted photos. I’ll admit, I went on dates. I mean, what guy in my position wouldn’t at least try? But you have to believe me, I always wanted you.”
Her breath hitches. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she squeezes my hand. “I hated you,” she says finally. “After we ended. I really hated you.”
“I know you did,” I manage a chuckle. “It was grueling.”
We reach the outcrop at the far end of the beach. The place we always went when we wanted to be alone, away from our families. She sits first, pulling her knees up like she’s always done, her chin resting on them.
I plop down beside her, feeling every pulled muscle from my chicken dance. All I can do is laugh, and then we talk about everything we’ve been dying to say to each other for the past year. Life. Fear. Who we were. Who we are now. I told her hockey feels different without her in the crowd.
