“Thanks,” I say, shutting the box. “I’m sure she’ll like it and I’m sure she’ll be glad that you gave it to her.”
Mr. Daniels nods, and then without saying anymore we leave the garage. My mom and he chat at the back door for a little while about nothing major as I stare at the sky noting that it’s turning gray and wondering if Ella came home while we were in the garage. I decide to go check and say thanks again to Mr. Daniels before I head back over to my house. When I walk in, Lila and Ethan tell me that she’s not there and that they’re getting ready to go visit his parents for a while, even though he doesn’t want to. They head out and I go into my room and hide the necklace. Then, trying to distract myself, I read some of her mom’s journal. Page after page of dark thoughts:
I can’t do this. Be a mother and a wife. I thought I could but now I feel like I need to run, flee, escape the fear of commitment on foot. Because it’s either escape or wait until Raymond decides he’s had enough of me and abandons me. It’s inevitable. I can feel it. He’ll leave me because really I’m not good enough and sometimes I don’t want to be good enough. It’s too much work and takes too much strength and I’m so tired.
Maybe I should just run away and leave it all behind.
I really should.
Her words pierce at my chest because if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Ella had written them. But I don’t believe that Ella will run away again. She loves me and I know that, even if she has a hard time expressing her feelings. I know she wants to be with me. She moved the ring to her engagement finger and moved in with me. She won’t run.
She can’t.
I keep reading through and my mom sticks her head into my room to tell me she’s heading out with Thomas to get some dinner.
“Do you want anything?” she asks me.
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
“Well, there are some leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say and she smiles and then starts to shut the door.
“And Mom?”
She pauses. “Yeah.”
“Thanks for going over to the Daniels’s and doing that,” I say.
She smiles. “No problem. I’m just glad we found you something good to give her.”
“Me too,” I tell her.
When she leaves, I glance at the clock and decide to give Ella fifteen more minutes before I go searching for her. I continue reading the journal, periodically checking the clock. The next several pages are equally depressing and my heart starts to feel heavy in my chest. It’s like I’m reading about a downward spiral, but fortunately I’m the one reading it, not Ella. It was her choice not to, which makes her so much stronger than all this darkness, because she knew it would probably bring her down and she chose not to let it—she chose to be happy.
I’m about to put the journal away when I realize there’s only one more page left and I decide to read it so I can be done with it. But then I’ll have to go and break the news to Ella that I couldn’t find anything happy inside the journal. Hopefully it won’t crush her heart.
But as I read over the last page the heaviness dissipates and the words kind of make me smile. After I finish reading it, I get up to go look for Ella because I’m worried about her being gone for so long and because she needs to read this. I put my jacket on and head to the back door where I left my boots, but as I’m crossing the kitchen, the door opens and a breeze gusts inside. Ella enters looking as frozen as a Popsicle, her lips blue, her cheeks kissed pink, and she’s shivering.
She offers me a small smile as she shuts the back door behind her. “Were you going somewhere?” she asks, eyeing my coat as she hugs her sketchbook to her chest.
“Yeah, to look for you.” I stop zipping up my jacket and place my hands on her cheeks, which are ice cold. “God, you’re freezing. How long were you out there?”
She looks over at the clock on the microwave. “A couple of hours.”
“Jesus, Ella.” I take the sketchbook and set it aside on the counter. Then I tug off her gloves, gather her hands in mine, and breathe on them while I try to rub warmth back into her.
She smiles up at me. “How was your day tux shopping?”
“As good as any other day shopping. Although we didn’t get tuxes.”
“Good,” she says. “I’ve never been a fan of them. You’ll look much better in your jeans and a button-down shirt.”
“As long as you think so then I’m okay with it,” I tell her, then pause, choosing my next words carefully as my fingers wrap around her wrist. “When I came home I read some more of your mother’s journal.”
“Oh yeah?” She pretends to be only slightly interested but I feel her pulse accelerate in her wrist. “Find anything good?”
“I did. Do you want to read it?”
Her throat bobs up and down as she swallows hard, and then she looks at the sketchbook on the counter. “Can I wait just a little bit longer? I’m in good mood and I want to stay in one.”
“But what I found is good,” I promise her. “Trust me.”
“I know, but it’ll still be hard to read, whether it’s good or bad. It still has to do with her and she’s gone and it always makes me sad.”
How can I argue with that? “If that’s what you want, but I promise it’s not bad and I really think you need to read it before we get married.” I massage her right hand and she winces. “Does your hand hurt?”
The pencil briefly stops moving across the paper. “Can I explain it to you later?” She peers over her shoulder and wisps of her hair fall into her face. “I want to finish it first and then tell you everything.”
Everything. What does she mean by “everything”? “Can I have a hint?”
She studies me, chewing on her lip, and then she directs her attention back down at the drawing, covered with angled lines and dark shades. “It’s about our past… and our future.”
Our future. I’m surprised by her honesty and feel guilty because she’s been so honest with me lately and I’ve been keeping a huge secret from her. Well, not exactly a secret, but I’ve been withholding information, concerned about how she’ll react, fearing she’ll say she’ll go even though she doesn’t want to. Or she’ll say she won’t go and that will be the end of my music dream. But it’s time to stop avoiding the decision, especially when she’s being so straightforward.
I let my finger trail up her back a few more times and then I drape my arm over her side and press my face against the back of her neck, folding my arms around her. “I have to tell you something,” I say, and her body goes as rigid as a board. “Calm down. It’s not bad. It’s just news… a decision we need to make.”