Page 46 of All This Time
Candlelight would send the wrong message, wouldn’t it?
This isn’t a date. Hell, this little meeting wouldn’t even be happening if it were up to me, but Fletcher stressed that his role in Elliot’s wedding is important to him, so I’m trying to be level-headed as I wait for him to arrive. I remind myself that I am in control over what happens tonight.
After Fletcher’s visit to the salon yesterday, a part of me felt guilty and slightly embarrassed that my employees revealed mynickname for him.
I can’t deny that hearing it from someone else made it seem so much more childish than when I instituted the rule years ago. But in my defense, I was just trying to protect my mental peace in the business that I built, wantingsomesort of control over how present he was in my life.
He never truly left my thoughts completely, though.
But then yesterday, he hovered over me while I ate after my glucose monitor went off, acting all protective when he has no right to, and suggested that he intends to wear me down and make me tell him why I hate him during our meeting tonight.
The truth is, I don’t hate him. Believe me, I think my feelings toward him would be so much easier to manage if that were true.
I just hate the way he makes mefeel.
And no matter how hard I’ve tried to convince myself over the years that I’ve moved past the things that happened between us, the past few days have proven otherwise.
Having him back in town and no longer at a distance that I can control is only fueling this loop in my life of me feeling like I’m living in the past, unable to move on from him and all of the other instances that have shaped me into the woman I am today because Fletcher is like a tether, holding me there.
At thirty, I thought I’d be in a much different place than I am, and letting go of that disappointment feels like trying to swim in quicksand—virtually impossible.
I light the candle again and keep it lit this time. The scent does help calm me, and my house smells like onions from the dip I made earlier.
Jesus, I even made dip and put out chips after I told him not to bring food.
The whiplash happening between my head, heart, and vagina right now makes me feel like I’m on one of those state fair rides that basicallythrows you in a blender as you spin around in the air while you hope not to die.
That’s what having Fletcher back in town and in my space is doing to me, and the sad part is, I didn’t even feel this unsettled after my breakup with Spencer.
The knock on the door signals that my time to freak out is over. Bracing myself for the impact of seeing him, I take a deep breath as I open the front door.
Fuck. I can’t do this.
Fletcher is freshly showered, his head void of the hat that he’s worn since he got back in town, and his body is covered in a simple black shirt and khaki shorts, his feet in black sneakers.
He looks effortlessly handsome, which makes me even less confident in my ability to keep a level head tonight.
He looks like the boy who captured my heart at fifteen and never gave it back.
“Laney.”
“Fletcher.”
Shutting the door behind him, I watch him as he walks further inside, looking around the space.
“Wow. So this is your house…”
“It is.”
He chuckles as he walks around, taking in my wall art and pictures.
My house isn’t big, however, I wanted this space to feel like my parents’ house—warm and cozy, yet also my own.
Everything is in shades of gray and cornflower blue. I have several plants around the living room for that pop of green, and the furniture is dark walnut. Two shelves flank the television on a far wall that hold my books and various pictures, and the only light in the living room comes from two floor lamps flanking the couch.
Fletcher walks up to the shelves, picking up a frame and staring at it. “This is a great picture of them.”
I don’t even have to look to know which one he’s referring to. “I know. That was my—”
