Page 118 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I laugh and watch her walk back into the sanctuary. We exchange a laugh just before she disappears inside.

Once I get into the car, Shortbread sticks his head in between the seats and lick my cheek. “Okay, buddy, no distractions while I’m driving.” I give him some well-earned chin scratches. “You’re so cute.”

It was supposed to be the two of us taking Shortbread home. I pictured it. Me driving while Eleanor lavished him with affection. This is her dog.

God, what the fuck is going on with us? I know I’m partly to blame, but is she really just going to walk out on our life together, on her life in Austin, without even saying anything?

“Goddammit,” I say.

Shortbread rests his head on my shoulder.

“I guess I have someone to talk to other than myself now,” I say.

He nuzzles harder.

“Maybe . . . should we call her?”

Shortbread looks at me, his ear flopping to the side in an attempt to understand.

That’s as good of an answer as any.

I navigate to our last conversation on my phone and pause on her last message. It was sent a couple days ago.

I hope you’re okay. I wish you’d talk to me.

“Yeah, maybe not, bud.” I turn off the screen and drop my phone in the cupholder.

I’ve had so many chances to change this outcome. I shouldn’t be surprised. And I shouldn’t be hurt. I don’t deserve to have any emotions other than acceptance. Eleanor has made her decision.

My heartbreak is my own damn fault.

39

ELEANOR

One suitcase down; two more to go. Over the next few days, people will be coming by to pick up the furniture they’ve purchased. Jolene has offered to be the point of contact for that, so I can get to Chicago as fast as possible. I don’t want to waste my time kicking around Austin and making myself more miserable than I already am.

It’s bittersweet. On one hand, I was so eager to make this place my home for a long time. On the other, I can’t live in a haunted house anymore.

Jolene is helping me sort through things in my bedroom when she pulls up my portfolio of photographs I’ve printed.

“Oh, I’ll take that in my backpack,” I say before she can open it.

Jolene ignores me and opens the portfolio. “Oh my god. Eleanor!”

I roll my eyes. “Jolene, please, we have to focus.”

“These are amazing!”

She holds up a photo from The Maverick. The nice thing about small venues is that you don’t need to have a photography pass to use a nice camera. The picture is of the guitarist I saw with Luke the night everything changed. He’s mid-lyric, eyes shut, fingers in an impossible combination. The light pours over him, almost heavenly.

“You could put this one in the museum.”

I snort.

“I’m serious.”

“Well for every one of those, there’s hundreds of shitty—”

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