And then Harry Monroe, one of the owners of Napkin Scribbles, served the tiramisu, and my mood sank like a soufflé being taken out of the oven too soon.
He went to college with Elliot. They played hockey together for a year before Elliot dropped out and threw his life away by getting involved with drugs.
Seeing Harry alive, well, and thriving is just another reminder Elliot’s gone.
It never fails—thoughts of my brother always seem to pull me under. Some days I’m almost at the surface, and then the past grabs me by the ankles and yanks me back down.
I don’t want this weight anymore. I don’t want the good things in my life to be tainted by the past.
Erin is my good thing.
I don’t want this touching her.
But letting go stirs up all kinds of wrong inside of me, like I’m spitting on Jack’s grave, dishonoring him in some way. It’s selfish.
“Hi,” Erin says from behind me. Has she been standing there watching me?
“Hey.”
We stare at each other, taking in the hum of people from inside the restaurant.
“There’s a trail,” she says then. “It’s not too far from here.” Her voice is quiet at first, but it picks up as she keeps going. “The full route is a bit of a trek, but there are a few shortcuts we can take that will lead us back to Main Street,” she continues. “I was hoping that maybe you might want to come with me?”
My pulse races, wild and uneven.
Maybe my change in mood didn’t ruin lunch, after all.
She waits for me to answer, and I think it’s the first time she’s had a conversation with me while maintaining eye contact the entire time.
“Yeah, Bookworm. I’d really like that.”
She gives a subtle tilt of her head and walks over to the steps of the chalet, leading me away from the restaurant in the opposite direction we walked to get here.
We’re silent until we get to a wooden directional sign that says Welcome to Huxley Trails, pointing in the direction of a path that leads into the forest.
The walkway is wide enough for us to walk side by side. Every few minutes our arms brush, and I have to clench my fists at my sides to keep from reaching out for her hand.
She’s next to me, but it’s not nearly as close as I want her to be.
“The night we met,” I say, “you said you overheard two guys talking. Do you remember the names they mentioned?”
“Jack and Elliot,” she replies in a gentle tone.
“Elliot’s my brother,” I tell her. “He was an addict. He left Huxley Bay before I was drafted.”
I don’t know why I’m telling her this. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t look away. Maybe because when I look at her, I don’t sense that I’m broken or a poster boy for a walking tragedy. So, I let the words hang in the air between us as branches break underneath my shoes.
“Elliot got himself tangled up with drugs. And he dragged someone else into it—his girlfriend, Laurel.”
She glances my way but keeps quiet. There’s no judgement behind her eyes, just understanding.
“By the time I understood the mess he’d made, I was already trying to clean it up. I wanted to protect him.”
“Oh, Chase.” She says it with empathy, as though she knows I made a choice I shouldn’t have out of love.
“The next time I saw him,” I say, my voice rough, “he was sober and said nothing about Laurel or the drugs. It made me question my sanity, Erin, as if I’d imagined the whole thing. So, I stayed quiet.”
Erin continues to move her feet in line with mine, letting me get out what I need.
