Chapter 7 #3
And Ethan and Lydia sat on opposite ends of the couch, sipping some of the hot chocolate Caleb had brought, covered in a thick afghan.
The yarn was soft with age, the colors faded, but still beautiful.
Blues and greens and a cream that had yellowed slightly over the years.
He had found it in a thrift store, and it had made him think of grandmothers like Mrs. Figgs.
They’d been sitting in comfortable silence for maybe twenty minutes, just listening to the crackle of the wood and the whisper of wind against the windows.
But the silence felt different now. Charged somehow, heavy with things unsaid.
Ethan could hear every small sound. The rustle of the blanket when Lydia shifted, the soft intake of her breath, the barely audible sip when she drank her chocolate.
He was hyperaware of her presence in a way that made his skin feel too tight. Could feel the warmth radiating from her body even across the expanse of couch cushions between them. Could smell the blueberry scent of her hair mixed with the woodsmoke and the sweet chocolate.
Under the blanket, their knees brushed.
It was accidental. Just a shift of position, a readjustment of the blanket’s weight. But neither of them moved away. Ethan could feel the warmth of her leg through two layers of denim, could feel the slight tremor that ran through her at the contact.
His heart was beating too fast. His hands were shaking slightly around his mug.
And he couldn’t look at her because if he did, he wasn’t sure what would happen.
Wasn’t sure he could keep pretending that this was just kindness, just hospitality, just a temporary arrangement that would end as soon as she found somewhere else to live.
The truth was, he didn’t want her to find somewhere else. Didn’t want the house to go back to being quiet and empty. Didn’t want to wake up to silence instead of children’s laughter and the smell of fresh coffee properly brewed.
Didn’t want to stop seeing Lydia’s face across the kitchen every morning.
The realization should have terrified him. And it did, a little. But more than terror, he felt something like … renewed interest.
Outside, the wind howled like it wanted in. Lonely and wild and full of winter’s bite. But inside, Ethan felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the woodstove.
“Ethan?” Lydia’s voice was soft, tentative, barely above a whisper.
He made the mistake of looking at her.
Her eyes were huge in the firelight, dark and uncertain and full of something that made his breath catch.
Her lips were slightly parted, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
A strand of hair had escaped her ponytail, falling across her cheek, and Ethan had to resist the urge to reach over and tuck it behind her ear.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Long enough for Ethan to see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, long enough to notice the way her breath had quickened, long enough to realize that if he leaned forward just a few inches, if he closed the distance between them, he could?—
What? Pull her into a kiss? Confess she’d been in his dreams?
He couldn’t. Not yet. Not when everything was still so new and uncertain. Not when she was still dealing with the trauma of the fire, with the knowledge that her ex-husband had maybe tried to kill her. Not when she was vulnerable and living in his house and dependent on his help.
It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be right.
But how he wanted to.
Lydia’s eyes darted away first, breaking the spell. Her cheeks were burning now, visible even in the dim light, and she took a sudden interest in her hot chocolate, studying it like it held the secrets of the universe.
“I should—” she started, her voice unsteady.
“Yeah,” Ethan agreed, even though neither of them moved.
Neither of them suggested going to bed, or ending this moment, or putting proper distance between them.
They just sat there in the near-dark, their knees still touching under the blanket, the silence stretching between them like something alive and electric.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows, trying to find a way in.
Inside, two hearts beat too fast, two people sat too close, and the future hung in the balance like snow about to fall.
Ethan thought about his dream. About Lydia’s hand warm in his, about the moment before their lips met, about Sarah’s sad smile that had seemed to say it’s okay, let go, be happy. He thought about Michael’s words in the woods.
She’s happy where she is now. She wants you to know it’s okay.
Okay to feel this? Okay to want this? Okay to imagine a future that included Lydia’s laugh and Eli’s serious questions and Rosie’s gap-toothed smile?
Maybe it was okay. Maybe Michael was right, and Sarah was happy where she was, and she wanted him to live again. He would always carry the memory of what they’d had. But, nevertheless, live. Really live, not just exist in the empty spaces between shifts.
Maybe it was time to stop being afraid of what he might feel.