24
I’m on my last client for the day, barely able to keep my mind focused on thesession.
Meg’s here—without Ben, because he served her divorce papers, and I find myself wondering if relationships are even worthit.
Statistically speaking, Elijah and I are destined to end. And if we don’t, then I have to consider happens once the blissful passion fades away. I don’t want to end up like so many of my clients, in a stranger’s office, complaining that all the fire is gone. After Meg leaves, I take a seat behind my desk and stare blankly out my office window. Threedays.
I have three days to figure out what I’mdoing.
It’s five in the afternoon, and I don’t feel like shouldering my way through the crowded subways, so instead, I pull a notepad from my desk and scribble the title: “Pros and Cons” at thetop.
I jot down the positives of going to London with Elijah.He makes me feel good. He makes me feel safe. I could wake up next to him. Greatsex.
Under Cons, I jot.Leaving my entire life behind. Either of us realizing we were wrong. I’m too old to bereckless.
Shaking my head, I tear the paper from the pad, fold it, and tuck it in the side of my purse before I leave my office. I reach the subway platform and manage to cram into one of the packed trains just as the doors close. I’m sandwiched between a teenage boy whose Beats are blaring so loudly I can hear Snoop Dog singing about wiggling and a woman who’s shouting at her friend on the other side of the car. With each stop, the train becomes more jam-packed, and by the time I reach the 34thStreet station, I can’t take it any longer. I hop off, determined to walk the rest of the wayhome.
Maybe that will help clear mymind.
I end up wandering past a French bakery and an art supply store, and randomly I stop in front of a tiny shop on the corner. Cupping my hands around my face, I peer through the window at the wooden boxes on display. A handwritten sign taped to the glass reads:Hand carved memoryboxes.
The scent of cedar and pine waft onto the sidewalk when the shop door opens. An elderly man with an Argyle flat cap steps out and offers a toothy grin. “Would you like to come in and see what I’vegot?”
“Oh…” I move away from the window. “Sure.”
I follow him into the dim little workshop. Boxes of all shapes and sizes sit on old bookshelves. Pieces of driftwood are stacked against the wall behind the counter along with several old planks and oars. And propped in the corner, nearly hidden by a beat-up canoe sits a brokencello.
The man shuffles behind the register, smoothing a hand over his vest. “I can take anything wooden and carve you a pretty box. See anything youlike?”
My gaze strays back to the cello. “May I?” I point at the instrument as I step around thecounter.
“Be my guest.” He pats my back as I breeze past. “I found it in the alley behind my shop about six months ago. Looks like somebody just got fed up with it and took a sledgehammer to it. Solid wood.” He steps beside it and gives it a tap. “It sure would make a fine box. I could wind the strings around it, leaving just enough space where you could pluckthem.”
Sometimes the universe shits on you. Sometimes it shines a bright light in the darkness. This could be asign
“How long does it take to carve a box?” Iask.
He runs a hand over the smooth wood. “Twodays.”
“And could you engrave a few stars along thesides?”
“Don’t see whynot.”
Smiling, I follow him to the register andpay.
The things that make Elijah and I the most vulnerable carved together. Nothing could be more fitting—no matter how this playsout.
_____
Two days later,the polished memory box sits on my dresser. The scroll of the cello now serves as the knob to lift the lid. The strings wound around the sides create the most sullen of sounds when I run my fingers over them. Lonely and sad, like they know the beautiful noise they should make but no longer can. A smattering of tiny stars, almost reminiscent of the Milky Way, sweep along the front. It is uniquely beautiful. Perfectly us. And I have no idea what to do withit.
Steph is rummaging through the freezer when I step into the hallway. She comes away with two tubs of ice cream, tossing the chocolate at me before she grabs spoons from the drawer. “You look stressed,” shesays.
With a grumble, I sink onto the couch. I haven’t told her yet. I haven’t told my best friend that I’m in love with a man who says he no longer needs to fulfill people’s fantasies, because he’s realized his fantasy is loving me. I haven’t told her he asked me to come to London with him. I haven’t told her a damnthing.
I’ve suffered these past few days insilence.
Elijah’s called me three times today. He’s also sent me several texts asking if I’ve made up my mind about London. But I haven’t answered him. I don’t know how to. In the heat of the moment, he said if I wouldn’t go with him, he’d stay, but I don’t believe that. And I wouldn’t let him even if hetried.
