Page 72 of Room for Us

Sorry, Celeste. Love’s timing sucks.

And, from the sight that greets me when I pull into the driveway of Rose House, love’s shitty timing isn’t exclusive to my life.

There’s a weeping woman on my front steps. The absolute last woman I want to feel sympathy for—but it’s there, anyway. She’s crying like her heart is broken.

I park and get out. Britt lifts her head when my door closes, and more sympathy rises when I see her puffy, tear-streaked face.

Be a good human, Zoey.

Steeling myself, I walk toward her. “Britt? Are you okay?”

“Noooo,” she wails. “We just had a fight, is all. One stupid fight a few weeks ago. I said some things”—hiccup—“but I didn’t mean them. He thought I broke up with him! He said he doesn’t”—hiccup—“love me! That we’re not right for each other!”

Words fail me, so I sit beside her and pat her back like the not-relieved, not-happy, not-confused person I’m pretending to be. After an agonizing series of whimpers, Britt straightens and pats the skin beneath her eyes. Then she shifts pointedly away from me, like Idaho might be contagious. My hand falls and so does my compassion.

“It’s not like I don’t have better prospects,” she says, sniffing delicately. “He’s infuriating. Impossible to talk to. Probably an alcoholic. Does he actually think I enjoyed watching him run his career into the ground over the last three years? I stuck through so much—all his bullshit excuses, his moods, his fucking indifference—and this is how he repays me? I should have known better. Everyone warned me, you know. They said, ‘He’s doesn’t commit. He’ll never put a ring on your finger.’ I really thought he’d change for me. What a fucking waste of my time.”

I think of the Ethan who arrived two weeks ago, so different from the man I’ve come to know. Listening to Britt tear him apart isn’t easy, and neither is hearing the ring of truth in her words.

He didn’t change for her.

But he’s changed in the short time I’ve known him. Here. With me. Not for me—I’m not that deluded—but he’s changed nonetheless. He’s easy to talk to. Not indifferent in the least. Passionate, vulnerable, and honest about himself and his past. He’s opened up to me. Allowed me to see what makes him tick. I’ve seen the biggest, oldest skeleton in his closet, while Britt never did.

I ask her, “If he’s so horrible, why were you with him?”

She looks at me in astonishment. “What rock do you live under? He’s E.M. Hart.”

I gape, speechless, until gravel churns as a car approaches. Britt stands, brushing nonexistent dirt from her skirt.

“That’s my Uber.”

She doesn’t say goodbye.

The house is silent, but a breeze leads me to the open back door. I peek outside and see Daphne in the hammock Zander strung between two trees. Ethan smiles down on his daughter as he rocks the hammock like a swing.

Daphne sees me first, a slim hand lifting in a wave. “Hi! This hammock is awesome. And your house is epic. Dad gave me a tour.”

Avoiding Ethan’s eyes for fear my heart will spill out, I focus my smile on Daphne. “I’m glad you like it. Anything I can get for you two?”

“We’re good,” replies Ethan. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Zoey? Inside?”

My heart squeezes. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” Turning on my heel, I mount the steps of the back porch.

“You okay out here, kiddo?” asks Ethan behind me.

“Great. I’m communing with nature.”

“Don’t leave the backyard, okay?”

“Duh, Dad.”

Inside the back hallway, I lean on the wall for support. Opposite me hangs a framed black-and-white photo of great-grandma Rosie. She sits on the front steps of Rose House, her smile private, eyes sparkling with life. I wonder idly if the photographer was one of her many lovers.

Ethan’s footsteps near me. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

He sighs. “I take it you ran into Britt.”

---