Page 76 of Room for Us

“Okay.”

Ethan scoots his chair back. Clears his throat. Lifts halfway to standing, then plops back down and drags hands through his hair.

“Zoey, listen. I, uh… I’ve decided to head back to New York with Daphne.”

Before I can recover from the sensation of my heart catapulting to my feet, he continues, “I’m feeling confident about the manuscript. It won’t take me too long to finish it. And, well, I think I need to minimize distractions. Shit. That’s not—I’m not saying you’re a distraction.” He sighs. “I had this all worked out in my head and I’m completely fucking it up.”

“I understand.” My voice is a sliver above a croak. “I’d be happy to refund—”

“No, no. That’s not necessary.”

“Okay.”

My head swims. With the film festival so close, I’ve been getting calls and emails daily asking if I have vacancies. Despite my initial worries, I’ll have no problem booking the inn to capacity within days. And with multiple guests, I’ll be able to get necessary reviews to put me on the map.

My dream is materializing right in front of me… and it feels like a nightmare.

I wait for Aunt B to say something, wishing more than anything I was still delusional enough to believe she was communicating with me from beyond the grave. And though I try to imagine a response from her, I can’t.

Instead I remember what Celeste told me yesterday. That love doesn’t care about timing. That love asks only for us to be brave and follow our hearts.

And I really wish it were that simple.

But it’s not.

There’s so much I should and could say—sorry for being a dick or thank you for choosing Rose House Inn or I wish you all the best—but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Ethan stands and pushes his chair in. His gaze flits across my face, stinging my cheeks, my numb lips.

“I don’t pretend to know why things happen the way they do, but I’ll never forget you, Zoey Kemper. Knowing you has changed me for the better.” He draws a breath, as though to say more, then shakes his head and leaves.

I’m still standing in the dining room holding a plate with the cold remains of pancakes when father and daughter noisily leave the inn for horseback riding.

42

I won’t have a chance to tell Ethan about my controversial flyer-graffitiing days, the culmination of which was a stern lecture from the sheriff and loosely veiled threats of arrest should I continue. The flyer-in-question, which graphically extolled the ways in which tourism was destroying local environments, apparently hit a nerve with the mayor. It was my last flyer, anyway; I left a few weeks later for college.

Oddly, that’s all I can think about as I sit on my bed late Sunday night—all the stupid shit I’ll never get to tell him, and all the mundane facts about him I’ll never learn. When did he know he wanted to be a writer? What was his favorite food as a kid? Where was his favorite place in the world?

It’s too late now. Last night and this morning confirm it. He’s finally realized how fucked up I am. That I’m not worth the work. And I don’t blame him for wanting to leave and never look back.

Ethan and Daphne ended up grabbing dinner in town and not returning to Rose House until after eight this evening. A text message from Ethan early in the day prevented me from wasting time and food on dinner, which I appreciated but also resented—because apparently I have no emotional regulation.

When I heard tires in the driveway about an hour ago, followed by footsteps on the porch, I hightailed it to the back of the house. Now I’m afraid to leave my room because if I see Ethan I might do something stupid. Like fall apart. Or beg him to stay. Or attempt to throw away my future on a doomed relationship. Again.

So I’m siting on Aunt B’s bed, pretending everything’s fine while fiddling with some of her costume jewelry I found tangled in a drawer last week. If I can just get the necklaces and earrings separated, maybe I won’t feel so out of control.

I free a gaudy brooch of a gem-encrusted beetle and stare at it, really taking in its hideousness until eventually, it becomes something beautiful.

“You really didn’t care what anyone thought of you, did you?” I ask the empty room. “You lived your life the way you wanted to. I wish… I wish we’d had more time, Aunt B. I would’ve liked to learn how to do that. To live like you did.”

Placing the brooch on the nightstand, I turn my attention to the next bundle of tangled jewelry. Some time later, I realize I’ve made zero progress, my head is pounding, and I’ve had to pee for God knows how long.

After using the bathroom, I open my door and peek into the hallway. A few seconds of listening to the silence gives me the courage to fetch Tylenol and some hot tea from the kitchen. It’s almost midnight, anyway, and they’ll be up early for their flight. No way Ethan’s still awake.

I make it to the kitchen on shaky legs, but a sound from the living stops me from entering. My heart palpitates. I take a few more steps and peek into the dim room.

Ethan sits in the winged armchair—the same one in which I sat vigil over his drunken self. Logically, I know it wasn’t that long ago, but it feels like years. That Ethan was angry, depressed, and bitter. Intriguing, but also Red Flag Central.

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