Return To You: A Small Town, Second Chance Romance

33. Grace

thirty-three

Ihave so much to catch up on, when it comes to Ethan’s life. I used to know everything about him, and now it’s like there’s this whole void, this universe that his life has become that I know nothing about.

He doesn’t want to, or can’t tell me about his job. Fine. But I want to know everything else. “Tell me about Germany.”

He sighs and arranges himself on the bed so he’s holding me tight. “What do you wanna know?”

“How long were you there for?”

“Three years.”

“You spent three years in Germany?”

“Yup.”

“Wow. Germany. For someone who doesn’t want to live in the cold? That’s not exactly the tropics.”

He shrugs.

“Did you like it there? In Germany.”

Another shrug.

That can’t be classified. “What did you like about it?”

He still doesn’t answer.

“The beer? The job?”

He looks down at me and kisses the top of my head.

My heartbeat drops. “Oh. A woman.”

He kisses the top of my head again. That’s a yes.

“What is… was her name?” Is there still a woman? No, right?

He huffs. “Uh—Ilse.”

My heartbeat picks up, but I force it down. “Ilse. That’s a pretty name. What happened?”

He takes a deep breath but doesn’t answer.

“We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

He strokes my shoulder repeatedly. “It’s fine. It’s just… I never put it into words, what happened. She uh… we were supposed to get married. I mean we… talked about it. And she wanted to. But I never… I never got around to proposing. And that seemed to be a big deal for her. She wanted me to propose. Not just do the paperwork at Town Hall and be done with it. I—I make it sound like I was a jerk. I don’t think I was. But now that I think about it, maybe I was. Anyway… We had a big argument, the day before I was going off base for a month. And I hated that. I hated that I argued with the woman I was going to marry. So I promised myself I’d propose when I came back. And then while I was away, I kind of…” He takes another deep breath, his hand now caressing my arm. “The days went by and I didn’t miss her. I realized I’d only think about her when she called. And I had to put a reminder on my phone to call her.”

“Well—were you very busy? That could explain it.” How awkward is it, that I’m trying to find him excuses.

He leans over me to kiss the top of my head. “No. It was a boring as hell mission. The kind when you just sit, you need to stay awake, and you’re just waiting for intel that never comes in. Lots of time to think about shit. And the shit I was thinking about… it wasn’t her. The woman I was thinking about… it wasn’t her.” He squeezes me softly, trailing his lips along my hair. “I’d only ever missed one person in my life, Grace. And so, after that, I broke things off with Ilse and decided it was time for a bigger career move.”

I take a while to process this. I’d never pictured Ethan with someone else, but of course he would have been. Of course he’d be in a relationship. He’s such a good, solid person. How is he going to deal with being alone in Brussels? “Brussels is pretty close to Germany,” I venture.

He turns me in his arms, his gaze roaming my face. “So?”

“Nothing,” I breathe.

He kisses me softly. “Good.”

Then he takes a breath, moves his head around, and I know he’s going to ask me about my failed marriage. It’s only fair. I owe him the explanation.

“So…” he starts. “What’s up with the box?”

The box? Shit. The box. It’s on the floor. I was making space in it to add… ohmygod, this is so embarrassing. “What box?”

“The hoarder’s delight.”

“The what now?”

“The crush in a box… The stalker’s chest…”

“I’m not a stalker!”

“No? I think your therapist would differ.”

“I don’t have a therapist.” Liar.

He guffaws. “Ha! Therein lies the problem.” He plops me off him and scissors off the bed. “What do we have here?” He crouches next to the box, then grabs his underwear and throws it on top of his bag. “Don’t want that ending up in there,” he mumbles.

I can’t help but giggle.

“Seriously, Grace, should I be worried?” Damian walks up to him and watches him as if he’s just as worried as him.

“Why? I’m just… attached to souvenirs of my…” Love? (too much). Devotion? (too crazy). Crush? (Not deep enough). I settle for, “souvenirs of us.”

“Souvenirs of us, huh?” He takes apart all the bits and pieces of my life without him and lays them neatly in order of size.

Afraid he’s going to throw them away or destroy them somehow (he did call me a hoarder and a stalker, after all) I stand over him. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking about making something.”

I knew it.“Making what?” I try to sound sane and reasonable, but I’m ready to lose it. No one is touching my souvenirs, not even very present, very real, and very sexy Ethan right here almost naked in my bedroom.

Which, I get it, is a contradiction. You might think I don’t need all these things now that I have Ethan. But here’s the thing. I don’t have him. Not really. He’s going to come and go. I’ll have his love, always—I know that for a fact—but the tangible reality of him? I won’t.

That’s what this box is to me.

“Why did you take it down? The box,” he asks me suddenly.

Um… “I was going to add to it. I need to make space, or possibly get a new one.”

“For what?” He’s genuinely confused.

I cross my arms. He’s not talking me out of this one. “For the flowers. I’m going to dry them. And the chocolates—or the chocolate box. I’m eating the chocolates. I might keep one or t—”

Still crouching, he twists around to look at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You heard me.” I jut out my hip to show him I’m serious. My house, my rules.

He stands slowly until he towers over me. Holds my shoulders and stares me down. I pinch my lips. I am not giving into him.

“Listen to me, babe. This,” he says, pointing to my treasures laying on the ground, “is the past. You and I, we have a future together. The flowers, the chocolates? You’re going to get a lot of those. So many they won’t mean as much.”

I open my mouth to protest. But there’s no way he can understand. My eyes water.

“I’m going to get you so many flowers and chocolates you’ll beg me to stop. You’ll be nauseated. You’ll open a flower shop. You’ll be a Valentine’s pop-up store. Not only that, but jewelry, and clothes, and perfume, and whatever else I feel like sending over to you when I’m away.”

And that’s when my heart breaks. “You don’t understand, Ethan.”

“No?”

“I only want you.”

“Fuck,” he growls and pulls me into him. “Then why do you keep all this shit?”

“Because when you’re not here, I can touch it, and see it. It’s a piece of you.”

“Shit,” he whispers in my hair, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.