Page 99 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“Just don’t decide right now,” he says, backing away to the door. “Okay?”

I can’t take looking at him anymore. I drop my head, trying to pull my legs up closer to my chest.

“I love you,” he says.

He doesn’t wait for me to say it back.

Once the door is shut, I cry.

Though he’s gone, I’m haunted by him the entire night.

32

LUKE

Seeing my mom on the front porch takes the edge off my heartbreak a bit.

Just a bit, though.

She looks as beautiful as ever. Her silvery blonde hair is coiffed in a Mary Tyler Moore bob, and she’s wearing a blue skirt and a white blouse. I know even if I wasn’t coming to visit, this is the outfit she’d choose.

I woke up this morning with the biggest emotional hangover of my life. I’m shocked I was able to sleep at all without Eleanor next to me, knowing that she holds the future of our relationship in her hands. That she could break it.

It would be her right.

Even if it would totally gut me.

So, I decided to head down to see my mom. I don’t know how or if I’ll broach the topic of the photo of Aunt Diane. Mom’s always been strong, even in the wake of losing Dad so unexpectedly, but that strength is a tenuous, thin film overtop the grief.

I don’t want to break it.

She meets me on the front steps, wrapping her arms around me from a step above so I’m at her height. It makes me feel like a little boy again.

Mom kisses the top of my head. “You need a haircut.”

I laugh and breathe in her perfume. She’s always worn Elizabeth Arden Red Door. I have my own bottle for when I get homesick.

Life has gotten to be too much. Working too hard, loving too hard. And now the picture. I don’t realize I’m crying until my mom chides me softly. “Now, why on earth are you crying?”

We go inside, and I tell her everything—well, regarding Eleanor. I'm not going to mention Dad. That would kill her. Giving her something to focus on outside herself has been invaluable to her grieving. Which is why she’s always having her friends over and going to book club and church functions. Consoling a crying thirty-five-year-old son fits the bill too, I suppose.

“You’ve fallen in love, and this is the first I’m hearing about it?” she asks. “Tsk, tsk. Luke.”

I laugh, rubbing my sleeve over my face to clear away the tears. “It’s still new.”

“Well, who cares if it’s new? Goodness gracious,” she says, then sips her cup of coffee. “What’s her name?”

“Eleanor.”

“Mm. And what did you do to make her mad?”

I hesitate. “I don’t . . . I told her a lie, and I thought it was, you know, a lie that would help and not hurt.”

“Mm . . . I know a man like that.”

Dad. How much does she know?

“You know, honesty is always the best policy, honey.”

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