4. Eli
ELI
Irush through my other jobs as quickly as possible, eager to get back to the Lane cabin, despite Melody's reassurances that I can tackle the renovations whenever it suits me.
She claims working from home gives her a flexible schedule, but something in me can't bear the thought of keeping her waiting.
It’s strange how the exhaustion that normally weighs me down after a full day's work seems to evaporate when I'm at her place. Even on weekends, I find myself putting in extra hours, attacking the cabin's to-do list with renewed energy.
Part of me wants to honor Lucy's memory by restoring her beloved home, but I can't deny that my conversations with Melody are becoming the highlight of my days. She's clever and genuinely funny. And she never lets my coffee cup stay empty for long.
“You really don’t need to work so hard,” Melody urges me on Saturday afternoon as I measure the deck for a lumber order from Sampson’s. “It’s the weekend.”
I look at her apologetically. “Am I distracting you from your work? Do you want me to work on something quieter?”
She laughs nervously, wrapping her slender arms around herself, and shakes her head, causing her messy blonde bun to wobble and a single curl to escape, falling delicately over her forehead.
I have an insurmountable desire to jump up and tuck it behind her ear, but I look back down at my measuring tape instead, eager to keep my hands busy before I do something out of line.
“No,” she reassures me. “I think the unpacking is slowing me down more than anything. I’m just saying that you’ve been going all week. Maybe you should take a break.” Her gentle, hazel eyes study me with compassion, and I inadvertently slip out the question I’ve been wanting to ask her for days.
“You’ve been working so hard since the movers delivered your things yesterday. Maybe we could both take a break… tomorrow,” I suggest.
Melody stares at me expectantly. “If you need a day off, take it. That’s what I was saying.”
“No, I mean…” I clear my throat and stand from the snowy deck. “The Christmas festival is still on until tomorrow at five. Did you want to go check it out with me?”
Her lips part in a perfect circle of surprise, her eyes widening as she blinks rapidly at the unexpected invitation. “Oh… I…”
Heat rises to my face as I take an instinctive step backward, my hand fumbling for something to do. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. Look, I have to go to the hardware store and pick up some supplies. I’ll be back in a bit,” I babble, embarrassed at my bold ask.
“I’d love to go to the festival with you,” she answers.
My shoulders slump with relief, and I offer her a hesitant grin. "Yeah?"
“I… I could use a change of scenery from the house,” she agrees. “And you could definitely use a day off.”
I don’t ask how the writing is going because I sense her answer is laced in the words she just said. She needs a reprieve from the four walls of the house, possibly from the memories of her grandmother.
“Good! Great!” I say, brushing the snow off my jeans. “But I do need to get to Sampson’s. Do you need anything while I’m there? Do you want to come with me? It will get you out of the house for a bit.”
She considers my offer briefly and shakes her head. “No. I better get back to work. Katie—my agent—is going to lose her mind if I take much longer with this book.”
Melody firms her lips as if she’s said too much, but I don’t push her on the subject.
“I can’t wait to read it,” I tell her. “I started reading your first one. It’s excellent.”
Her jaw slacks at my confession.
Her eyes widen. “Really? You’re reading it?”
I grimace lightly. “What? A handyman can’t be a reader?” Her words trigger me, and even I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.
It’s not so much what she said, but how she said it that reminds me of Jill’s condescending manner. Or maybe I’m just looking for flaws in her.
Her dark blonde eyebrows knit into a vee, and she shakes her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. My novels have a wide audience range… but most of the men I know are intimidated by my career. They say they’re going to read my work, but they never do.”
I scoff dubiously. “That’s ridiculous. If I were dating a writer, I’d be showing her work off to everyone.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could take them back, but they seem to please Melody.
“Anyway, I should get back to it. It’s not going to finish itself—as much as I wish it would sometimes.”
She sounds slightly tense under her light words, and I feel foolish for getting so upset, but how can I explain to her that my ex would fight with me over anything and everything?
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about Jill, but I stop myself.
She doesn’t need to hear me whining about my ex, not when she just told me about the weak men who couldn’t appreciate her work.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Around noon?” I say instead.
She smiles from the doorway and waves me off as I jump into my truck.
Melody is not Jill, and I will never be in another relationship like that again. But I can’t let myself be set off by innocent statements, either. Melody hadn’t been taking a jab at me. I only perceived it that way because of years of enduring Jill’s up-and-down personality.
Sighing, I turn up the radio, blasting the country station loudly to clear my head as I pull into the downtown area and park near Sampson’s Hardware. I park normally so I don’t get flagged by a police officer this time, and head inside the store for my list of supplies.
The interior smells of sawdust and pine, all the Christmas décor in front is on display. I pause to look over some wreaths and garlands before moving on.
Nodding at the familiar clerks and stockers, I take a cart and make my way through the aisles, picking up what I need, both for Melody’s house and my other jobs, snagging a couple of new tools for my workshop.
“Oh, my gosh!” A familiar voice shrills from behind me, her cart almost bumping into me.
I swivel around, paling to see Jill standing behind me with a huge grin on her face. The smile is almost as daunting as seeing the redheaded woman herself.
“What are the chances of running into you here, stranger?” She tilts her head and traces a finger along the handle of her shopping cart.
My eyes narrow slightly, her tone alarming me.
Did she follow me in here?
I wouldn’t put it past her. When we first broke up, I would “run into” Jill everywhere, from Holly Beans to the mechanic shop.
“You know that I come to this store once a week or more, Jill,” I answer calmly, curling my hands tighter around the handle of my cart.
“Still,” she insists, her smile fading slightly at my disdainful look.
"And Holly Ridge's population is like four thousand.
So the chances are pretty good that we'd run into each other here at some point.
" I turn my back on my ex-girlfriend, hoping she doesn't notice how rattled I am, and continue up the row.
But the weight of her stare follows me, burning into my back with each step I take.
She’s not going to let this go.
“Come on, Eli,” Jill begs, following me. “This has to be fate. Running into one another, so close to Christmas. I’ve been thinking about you…”
I stop and glower at her.
“It’s not fate,” I snap, irritated. “And stop thinking about me. Jill, we’re done. We’ve been done for almost a year.”
She has the audacity to look hurt, and I feel a pang of guilt.
"It's only been nine months! You know, we could have gotten married and had a baby?—"
"Just stop it!" My voice rises sharply. "You need to move on."
"Do you have someone else?" Her lower lip trembles as she clutches at her purse strap. "Is that why you're being so mean?"
I realize we have a bit of an audience, and I lower my voice.
“Jill,” I say, my tone even but firm. “I’m not being mean to you, but I don’t know how else to get through to you. I’ve asked you nicely to stop calling me. I’ve begged you to leave me alone. We’re done. We want different things. You need to move on, too. This isn’t healthy.”
She juts her chin forward, folding her arms tightly across her chest and dropping her head in an exaggerated display of wounded feelings.
I picture Melody in this same situation and can't imagine her resorting to such childish tactics.
For the hundredth time, I internally question what I ever saw in this woman standing before me.
"I never realized how cruel you were," she sniffs, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a perfectly manicured finger. I see right through the performance—after all our time together, I recognize the calculated nature of each tear. Jill has always been a master at emotional manipulation.
“I have to go,” I mutter, pushing my way out of the aisle and away from her. To my relief, she doesn’t follow, but she leaves me thinking.
Her behavior now seems worlds away from the woman I first met—the one who was sweet and attentive, who seemed to genuinely care. I never could have predicted this version of Jill would emerge.
Did I somehow create this monster, or was she wearing a mask all along?
I'm not sure which possibility disturbs me more.
I hardly remember picking out the rest of my purchases and loading them into my truck, but as soon as I get back into the driver's seat, I sit there for a long while, staring blankly through the windshield. The encounter with Jill has left me shaken in a way I didn't expect.
My mind races through the progression of our relationship—how it started with such promise and dissolved into something toxic.
The way her sweet gestures gradually transformed into manipulation.
The constant second-guessing.
The walking on eggshells.
Suddenly I see Melody's face in my mind. The thought of her warm smile makes my stomach knot with anxiety.
What if I'm incapable of a healthy relationship? What if I get close to Melody, and the same pattern emerges? The excitement in her eyes when I asked her to the festival flashes through my memory, followed by the hurt on Jill's face just moments ago.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I whip out my phone and text her.
Me: I think you're right. It might be better for us to just take a day off tomorrow. I'll see you Monday at the house.
It's cowardly, I know. But the alternative—risking Melody becoming another casualty of my emotional incompetence—seems worse. She responds almost right away with a thumbs-up emoji, and my heart sinks. The casual response feels like a slap. She's not impressed, but I don't blame her.
She doesn't realize I'm actually doing her a favor. Melody deserves someone who isn't carrying around a truckload of relationship trauma. Someone who won't flinch at innocent comments or see ghosts of past arguments in normal conversations.