When I’m finished, Matilda is predictively, protectively furious. “That bastard. I hope his dick rots off.”
Nina, as always, is a little more circumspect with her judgments, watching me carefully as she speaks. “Have you heard from him at all since then?”
My heart lodges in my throat. Not once. Not a text. Not an email. Nothing. “Nope,” I say when I’m able, hardly recognizing my voice.
“Who cares about him anyway?” Matilda interrupts. “He’s dead to us. What we need to do is find someone new, someonebetter…”
I shake my head at that, firmly, even though I know she’s only trying to help. “I think I might keep romance on the page for now.” At the impending protest I see on Matilda’s face, I cut her off. “Not forever. Just for now.”
After all, Rosamund has been waiting for me patiently, wanting to get her happily ever after. I think I’m ready to give it.
More time passes. I bake. I read. I knit, badly, but finish my first hat, which will go to my father, since it is very poorly constructed, and he is likely to be the only person who would wear it. I go out with my friends, and I meet up for my monthly visits with Dr. Sandra. I make Matilda go through my clothes with me because I know she will give me her honest opinion on what looks terrible; and then I ask Nina to go shopping with me for new items, because I know she will give me her honest opinion on what looks good. I send care packages to Dean and start up a more regular correspondence by writing him letters, because I want to know my brother as the adult he is, not as the kid I remember him being. And I start writing again, after deciding to take my story in a new direction.
My life is full. I would even say it’s happy. I know, and have always known, that I don’t need a man or sex or romance to feel fulfilled. I’ve spent most of my life living without any of those things, and I slip back easily into life without it once again. It’s better that way, honestly, to just push it all behind me. To not think about him, as much as that’s possible. But when thoughts of him do slip through, more often than I would like, I wonder what he’s doing, where he is, if he’s happy. Mostly I wonder if he ever thinks about me. Probably not. He was this huge, monumental milestone in my life, but I was likely just some brief blip in his romantic history. If he thinks of me at all, it’s probably just on occasion.
The thought is meant to help me move on, but it brings me no comfort, only misery.
Which is why, one morning when I come out from the back room of the library, I’m stunned to see Thad standing at the service counter.
At first, I think it’s just my imagination. Part of me wants to see Thad, and so I’m seeing his features in a stranger. If I look at him long enough, change my angle, close my eyes and open them again, I’ll see that of course it’s not really him. There’s no reason for him to be standing there.
But I stare, and shake my head, and all but rub my eyes, and it’s still Thad, watching me silently as I stare back at him.
My body stiffens instinctively at the sight of him, my stomach roiling with nerves. Beyond the shock of him actually being here, now, in my library, I’m honestly not sure what to feel. Confused, mainly, I think. Angry that he’s here with no warning, no explanation, just as I was getting my life back on track. Hurt that it’s taken him so long.
“It’s you,” I blurt out.
Of all the lines I practiced with myself for if I ever saw him again—all the ways I planned to play things so mysterious and sexy and cool—that response was never on my list. I regret it immediately, but it’s too late to take it back. Instead, I straighten my spine a little, determined to recover. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
Thad’s tone is direct, firm, like he’s been practicing the words. I am unfortunately not as prepared or as practiced. My mind swirls around what he just said, trying to parse out its meaning. He came to see me? He’s not just in the neighborhood, or in desperate need of a book recommendation—he came to seeme. Why?
“Why?” I ask the question aloud, because again, I did not have the benefit of preparing ahead of time how this conversation would go.
Thad holds steady, not breaking my gaze. “Because I missed you.”
The words hit me like a blow to the chest. It’s what I always hoped would be true, but realize now that I didn’t believe it was actually a possibility. He’s missed me. He’smissedme? “Why?” I ask again.
“Do you know Philo’s—the coffee shop down the street?” At my uncertain nod, Thad continues, “Will you meet me there on your break?”
I check my watch, mostly for something to do, some way to stall. “It isn’t for another hour.”
“I’ll wait.” Thad’s steady gaze holds mine captive. “Will you meet me?”
I honestly have no idea if this is something I even want to do, until I glance down at his hands, and notice the way he’s gripping the edge of the counter in a way that belies the steadiness of his voice. He’s just as nervous, uncertain, as I am. And for some reason, that compels me to nod. “Okay.”
“Thank you.” Thad’s shoulders lower a little, and he holds my gaze a moment longer, nodding to himself, before leaving. “I’ll see you then.”
Chapter 48
Thad
Ifeel like I’m going to throw up.
And I probably deserve to, after everything I’ve put Helen through. My nerves, my racing heart, my indigestion, are mild prices to pay for abandoning her, for taking the choice out of her hands yet again. So, yeah. Penitent projectile vomit. It feels like the least I can do.
There are still a few minutes before Helen is supposed to come here to meet me, but I’m looking up and down the street, straining my head every time I see a flash of blonde hair go by. I check my phone, just in case she texted, then check it again a moment later to make sure I didn’t accidentally put it on silent. I haven’t. The ringer is all the way turned up, too, just for the record.
