Page 119 of Townshipped
40
MALLORY (EM)
The joy of spending even an hour with Gabriela wears off before I’ve even pulled in the semicircular brick driveway of my parents’ English country manor–style home.
Gabriela’s words cycle through my mind like a playlist set on continuous loop. Should I reach out to Aiden? What if he doesn’t feel the same way I do? I’d make a fool of myself. But it’s not like I’d have to run into him every day, or ever again. At least I’d know where we stand.
I walk in the garage door through the elaborate mudroom and into the luxury kitchen. Dark cabinets and rich granite define the space. The fading evening light makes everything look even more exquisite.
My heart physically aches for subway tile and a refinished wood floor in a farmhouse so far away it could be located on the moon. Gabriela’s right, I probably need to reach out, if for nothing else than to put some closure on things.
I make my way through the downstairs and up to my room after greeting my mom. My parents insisted I stay here with them until I go back to work, and I didn’t have it in me to fight them on it.
Once I’m in my old room, I fall onto the queen bed that sits where my childhood bed used to be. I curl on my side, wrapping my arms around myself. Unanticipated tears fall with wave after wave of grief.
The trauma of forgetting everything.
Losing Aiden.
Missing the farm.
Bordeaux.
Him—most of all him.
The half-life I lived before I left for my honeymoon.
Settling for Buck.
Not knowing my own mind.
Never allowing myself to take risks.
It all bleeds together in one knotted ball of grief, tangled and unruly. Each sob carries another loss up into my awareness. I couldn’t fully articulate any of them if I tried.
I seem to be made of tears. They keep flowing until, after a while, I take a shuddering breath and decide I’ve cried enough. Then, a spent exhaustion pulls me into sleep.
The next morning, I wake feeling somehow lighter. Gabriela’s right. I can’t write things off with Aiden until I’ve made sure where he and I stand. I need to take the risk and make the first move.
I sit up in bed, grab my phone off the nightstand, and start typing.
Then I hit delete. And I type. And delete. And type. Gah!
Mallory:Hope you’re doing well.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I need to be bolder.
Delete.
Mallory:I’ve been thinking of you.
Too direct. I need a smoother intro.
Delete.
Mallory:I think of you often.
