Elsie
Chapter Seven
What was the perfect peace offering when trying to make a deal with the devil?
Or, in my case, Will Hughes.
I settled on muffins. Pumpkin muffins with gooey little chocolate chips in every bite.
They were innocent enough. A sign of good faith to hopefully steer him away from poisoning my latte whenever I next ventured into his shop, because if I was being honest, his coffee was good. Too good to stay away from during my stay here.
I just hoped he didn’t read too much into it and view it as some invitation for us to become the type of neighbors who had dinner parties with each other.
If he even ate proper meals. Honestly, he looked like the guy to have a stick of beef jerky and call it a night. Maybe a canned stew.
No, that wasn’t right. With the muscle mass he was packing, he had to be sustaining himself on something.
After a few moments of deep consideration of Will’s eating habits, I smacked my head to push the thoughts out.
I’d been paying this man way too much of my time and energy, even when he wasn’t around to notice.
A common theme with me. And one I’d come here to break.
I’d really had no idea what time Will would be coming by. He’d been so vague.
I’ll stop by tomorrow.
Was that code for, “See you never, sucker?”
Making up my mind not to worry about it, I sat down at the kitchen table and opened my laptop. It was a dingy thing, but I could hardly afford anything better on the budget I was existing within.
Besides, I probably wouldn’t ever write anything worthwhile anyway, so was it even worth the expense?
“Creative writing is a hobby, dear. Not a major.”
My mother’s words still rang through my head.
I’ll show her, I thought, fingers hovering above the keys.
And then my hand paused. I didn’t have a single clue what the next sentence should be. She stormed off from the broody, arrogant man and then—my mind went blank.
What happened next?
It should’ve been easy. I was the writer, wasn’t I? I could decide what happened. I just needed to figure out what I wanted to happen next.
And what I wanted was—well, I wanted my old life back.
I bit into my muffin angrily, furious about the way events had transpired.
Because when I thought about it, I didn’t actually want my life back. Not after everything that had happened.
Here, I was free. Poor but free, for the first time in my life. No mother to answer to. No fiance to disappoint. No expectations to fall short of in the eyes of everyone around me.
I hadn’t been happy. That was the truth of it. But I also hadn’t done anything to change it.
I rewrote my own story through the eyes of my fictional character. I’d give Ellie more of a backbone than I’d ever had. I’d make her interesting and smart and successful, and the type of woman a man would go back for.
And then?
I’d have him do it. Go back for her, I mean.
Because that was the thing about fiction, I could write whatever the hell I wanted.
I nearly laughed at the realization.
Ellie’s ending didn’t have to be my ending.
I could write Ellie’s true love coming back for her, realizing what a mistake he’d made.
He would come, profess his love, and beg for her forgiveness.
She, of course, would have become wildly successful in their separation and after going through several obstacles that forced her emotional growth, the happily ever after would feel earned.
Because isn’t that what men in fiction always did—come back for the girl in the end?
Maybe writing the ending I wanted for myself, even in the form of fiction, would be healing. Maybe it would help me lay the past to rest.
And if nothing else, at least my fictional counterpart would get the love she deserved in life. Even if I never did.
The sound of a car door slamming broke me from my musings, and I crossed the kitchen to peer out the window.
In the dirt driveway, Will was getting out of an old, beat up Chevy, looking grim.
Did he ever smile?
He had on a plaid shirt today, thrown over a T-shirt. I watched as he rolled up the sleeves to his forearms before grabbing a toolbox out of the bed of the truck.
Then, before he could notice me lurking in the window, I hurried to sit back down, waiting for his inevitable knock where I could put my master plan into action: he’d announce he was here to change the lock and I would offer him a muffin and we would patch up any hostility still lingering between us.
But the knock never came.
I sat, staring at the door for a solid three minutes, wondering if he was working up the courage to announce himself before I was walking to the back door and threw it open.
Will’s ‘surprised’ face was barely perceptible, save for the slight quirk of his brow when he saw me standing in the doorway.
“Hi,” he said dispassionately, his hand gripping a screwdriver.
“Were you going to knock?” I asked a bit accusingly.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Can you let me work?”
“Can you answer my question?”
He sucked in a breath, as if I were truly trying his last nerve. I grinned at the accomplishment.
“Because I’m here to change the lock, not get into another,” he flicked a hand as if searching for a word, “sparring match with you.”
“Well, looks like it’s too late for that, huh?” I shot him a cheeky smile.
“Is now a bad time?” he asked, not bothering to hide how annoyed he was.
There was something refreshing about that. I didn’t have to guess where I stood with him.
“For sparring?”
“For fixing the lock.”
“Why, thank you for asking,” I said, playing into that overly cheerful bit that seemed to really piss him off. “It is.”
“It is a bad time?”
“Yes.”
“And why is that?”
“Because if you had knocked, I would’ve invited you in and we would’ve had the opportunity I was looking for to break the ice, but now the plan is ruined.”
“We don’t need to break the ice,” he said. “The ice is fine.”
“Well, we’re not exactly skating over here, are we?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said through furrowed brows.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Fine!” He huffed, dropping his screwdriver. “I’ll come inside.”
I beamed, opening the door wider for his entry.
He muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out, but paused when he got into the kitchen.
“Now what?”
“Sit.” I gestured toward the table. “Have a muffin.”
He eyed them suspiciously, as if the sight of something delicious and sweet offended him.
“I don’t want a muffin.”
“But I made them for you.”
He squinted. “You made them for me? Why?”
I rolled my eyes. “Just have one.”
Smart enough to know that I would go up to bat with him as long as he was willing to put up a fight, Will wisely skipped the back-and-forth and sat himself down at the small circular table in the center of the kitchen.
I took a warm muffin out of the tray and pushed it in front of him, proud of the cute fall wrapper I’d baked them in. Will held it up skeptically, took a tentative bite and, to my delight, looked considerably less disgusted than usual after he swallowed it.
I watched him, unable to tear my eyes away from how comically oversized he looked in my chair.
But he didn’t notice me staring. Instead, he was busy focusing on every detail of my kitchen with those scrutinizing eyes of his.
I’d hate to be that crack in the ceiling he was eyeing with such displeasure.
I crossed my legs, looking around the place anxiously.
The condition of the house wasn’t my fault.
And anyway, I’d done my best to make it cozy on the limited budget I had.
The antique store in town provided me ample opportunity to re-decorate for cheap, and even though it wasn’t exactly in the budget, I knew I couldn’t live in a home that didn’t have at least a touch of me in it.
I’d put up some curtains in the kitchen window, threw a candle on the countertop, and a few fall decorations here and there.
It wasn’t much, but it was considerably better than what I’d walked into. I’d done just enough to make the statement: twenty-six-year-old girl lives here instead of the place screaming Murder House formerly inhabited by Mr. Briggs.
“This house needs a lot of work done,” Will remarked anyway.
“Tell me about it,” I responded, following his gaze to cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling.
He stood up, moving toward it with intent.
“I saw that,” I told him, needing him to know I wasn’t some slob who didn’t properly clean her house upon moving in.
For some reason, I didn’t want to give him any other reason to have a worse opinion of me than he already did.
“I tried, but I couldn’t reach up there and I didn’t exactly pack a ladder when I—”
But he took off his backward cap, revealing a head of thick, tousled brown hair that stopped me in my tracks.
It’s not that I thought he’d be bald or anything, but I certainly didn’t expect him to be packing a head of hair that could earn him a spot in a shampoo commercial.
Right while I was in the midst of admiring it, he reached up and began swatting at the cobweb with his hat.
“Well, that’s convenient.” I blinked. “How tall are you?”
He was already moving to the next thing.
“Did you change the batteries in this?” Will moved to the other side of the kitchen to examine the smoke alarm.
“Shouldn’t that have been done before I moved in?”
“You shouldn’t trust other people with things regarding your own safety,” he said, back turned toward me as he fidgeted with the buttons.
“I—”
But my words were cut off by a screeching test sound, alerting us to the fact that the battery life was safely in the medium zone.
“See?” I beamed triumphantly. “It’s fine.”
“Hardly,” he said. “Is there even a carbon monoxide alarm in here?”
“How would I know?”
“I’ll pick one up at the store. I can install it tomorrow.”
“Uh.” I held a hand up in protest. “I can do that myself.”
“I don’t trust that you will.”