Finally, I get her attention, her eyebrows slumped, wet lashes brimming with tears.
“Better to be alone than surrounded by people who don’t appreciate you.”
Her lower lip wobbles and she’s trying so hard to keep it in.
“I’m s-s-orry,” she snivels. “I showed him that ring last year.”
Eliza’s body is shuddering under the weight of her suppressed sobs. She curls into herself tighter and it creates an uncomfortable twist as I feel awash in her hurt.
My body is guided by a strange force, and I settle behind her on the wooden step.
“Let it out,” I whisper into her ear, as I pull her against my chest, wrapping my palms around her dainty wrists. Her pulse thrums under my fingertips, spiking my heartbeat.
“You don’t have to be nice to me.” She rests her head on my shoulder and tilts her face up. I have to squash another urge to wipe her tears away.
“Shh. Cry it out. Don’t apologize.” I hold on a little tighter and rub her arms, hoping I can soothe her pain.
When her breathing steadies I dry her tears with my handkerchief.
“You can keep it.”
Eliza sniffles. “Who the hell carries monogrammed handkerchiefs? Are you eighty?”
“I got my first set for my fifth birthday.”
Her unwarranted outraged expression is amusing.
“You’ve already seen me bawling more than some people who’ve known me since I was little.”
For some unknown reason, satisfaction coats my insides, knowing she lets herself be vulnerable around me.
“Your secret is safe with me.” I try to lighten the moment.
I know it’s a promise I won’t break when hope and apprehension battle in the strained lines around her watery smile.
I’m not a person people seek for comfort. I don’t know what I’m doing, but witnessing Eliza take hit after hit makes me do the most uncharacteristic things.
That’s how I find myself inside Quinn’s coffee shop on a Wednesday morning.
This is after I spent more than an hour at an arts and crafts store with the pinkest Victorian front on the East Coast. The truth is that the rows of brick and classic coastal fronts have a certain charm when you’ve spent your entire life between glass and steel towers.
I wanted to buy some new pencils for her sketches. Did I get the woman, who wouldn’t accept dinner or help, a limited edition art and graphic wooden box set worth more than the three months’ rent for her cabin? I did.
It’s over the top but it might distract her from obsessively checking Jared and Caroline’s profiles. Even if it means she’ll yell at me, and I’ll have to resort to some creative mental gymnastics to convince her to accept it.
“My birthday is in June,” Quinn’s amused voice rises from where she’s crouched, refilling the pastry case. She nods at the gift bag, and I ignore the lingering question.
“Interesting place you’ve got here,” I admit, taking a better look around. It reminds me of the spot Jackie dragged me to in Williamsburg when she was on one of her quests to find the perfect cup of coffee.
“Try a cortado and the cheesecake,” she says. “They’re the same as the fancy ones you have in New York.”
I don’t bother telling her I don’t touch coffee or sweets.
“Coffee. Cream. To go. Throw in a hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin.”
She nods, pursing her lips. “Hm. Exactly Eliza’s sadness relief order. Isn’t that something?”
I won’t dignify her implication with an answer. Because it is. Eliza said something at one point in her continuous ramblings about it being her healing kit.
