Not a question. Not an order. An invitation that assumes I’ll say yes.
And because I’ve missed him too, I grab my coat.
As we step out of the conference room, the chatter hits us first—the curious pauses and lingering looks from every direction. People slow their pace as we pass.
Right in the middle of the lobby, Eli closes his hand around mine. His grip is solid and possessive, familiar enough to make my chest ache.
Just like last week.
It feels insane how quickly my body remembers him. How easily I want to lean in and tell him everything. That I haven’t slept right since I last saw him. That my peace stayed in Canada even though my body boarded the plane home. That ten years of walls cracked open in five days, and I finally said the words out loud to Timantha because I couldn’t keep them contained anymore.
I want to tell him I fell in love with him on that mountain in his den.
The words press against my teeth, desperate to be released—but I don’t know why he’s here. So I keep quiet.
We walk instead. Down the block. Side by side. Passing the familiar streets of Cinnamon Grove while the city moves around us. It’s such a contrast to the quiet we’re carrying between us now.
It feels like everything important is hovering just beneath the surface, waiting for one of us to reach in first.
We end up at HollyDates without really deciding to.
It’s the place Timantha and I hang out when we’re not at the Cinnamon Grove Grind for book club. Mostly because the owner, Holly, pours rum into her lattes like she’s doing the Lord’s work.
When Eli and I sit down at the corner booth, the conversation drifts exactly where it’s supposed to. The pitch, the win, and the way people are still talking about my contribution like I pulled off a magic trick. He tells me how impressed the room was and how seamless the whole thing felt.
I nod. I smile when it’s expected.
But none of it lands the way it should. What he isn’t saying is louder than everything he is. He isn't talking about the hospital, the way he shut down, the way it felt like he didn’t want me anywhere near his vulnerability.
The ache in my chest has nothing to do with business. It’s tied to the silence he’s carefully maintaining—the very thing that made me feel like leaving Canada was my only option.
I’ve always hated the miscommunication trope. I refuse to be the woman who doesn’t say the obvious thing. That’s not who I am, and I’m seconds away from kicking him in the kneecap under the table if he doesn't say something that lets me know where his head really is.
Yet, despite the tension, we keep talking. One drink turns into two, and our chairs gradually pull closer, even as the elephant in the room remains unaddressed.
“My mom’s okay,” he says eventually. “And Elliot and I…we talked. Really talked.” He pauses, weighing it. “It wasn’t some magical moment where we hugged it out. But it was honest.”
I nod, letting that settle. I am happy for him.
“I don’t think I’m at that same place with my sister,” I admit. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
He doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t rush me toward forgiveness or growth. He just listens. Like he always does. But I can tell he’s holding something back, carrying it carefully.
“And I’m sorry about the hospital,” he says.
Aboutfuckingtime.
I don’t say it. Instead, I reach across the table and take his hand. “Thank you.”
I never say,that’s okay,when someone hurts me. I let the weight of their hurt sit with them instead of trying to ease it. It’s how my mom raised me.
He exhales. “I just—” He clears his throat. “I can admit there was some unresolved shit I needed to face before I could let you see me. When things fall apart.”
“I understand,” I say softly.
“Now,” he adds, almost defensively, “I haven’t unpacked all of this in therapy yet, so it could be something else entirely.”
I smile. “Something like what?”
