Page 47 of Left of Forever

“Hi,” he says, a promise in his gaze.

“Hi,” I say, knowing how good it would be between us. Knowing, by exquisite firsthand experience, how he’ll take care of my body and needs. Knowing makes it no less anticipatory, but it does help me scrounge up some patience.

“I thought of some questions on my own,” I tell him. “Things you couldn’t have looked up beforehand.”

His quiet snort and grin are self-effacing. “All right,” he replies. Our server comes by and drops a basket of bread between us before telling us the specials and sliding drink menus onto the white tablecloth. When he leaves again, Ellis picks up where we left off. “Let’s pick out our meals first?”

“Oh, so you’renotgetting the liver and onions after all?” I joke incredulously.

He husks out a laugh. “Weare in this magical restaurant, andweare going to order something good.”

“Wealso need to learn when to let a joke die, don’t we?”

“Maybe we do,” he says, eyes flicking over his menu before they drift back to me. “It’s always better when you make things last, though.”

There’s a whoosh in my ears, like invisible hands placed invisible seashells up to them. I wriggle in my seat and study my menu with a shaky breath.

“Apparently, this place has some famous orange rolls they reserve for brunches,” he says, trying to ease us into safer territory.

“I made orange rolls a few times last summer,” I say, a little sad that he missed them. “You didn’t have to avoid the bakery for all those years,” I add, even though we both know that before the last few weeks, I wouldn’t have wanted that. “I mean, you could have come in. At least to visit Mom.”

“Wren, I see your mom at least once a month. Usually more.”

I gawk at him. “What?”

“Who do you think mows her lawn still?” he says. “Or took down that tree when it started leaning too close to her place?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“Because you would have tried to take care of it yourself. And we both know you’ve been busy running Savvy’s pretty much on your own the last few years.” His eyes go warm. “It’s yours, just like you always wanted.”

I study my nails and fidget. “It’s still Mom’s. She started everything.”

“And you grew everything and made everything greater. Which is what you always do. You can take anything and make it into something better, Wren.” He blows out a breath. “And yeah, I am still suspicious, now more than ever, that you dabble in witchcraft and put magic in your baking. But you also create community. Why do you think Martha gives you so much shit?” His grin tilts. “You’re, like, her main competition for head woman in town. I didn’t come in because I didn’t want to take away from that for you.”

My mouth turns down, but I feel myself blush. “You wouldn’thave taken away from it,” I say. It would have been hard to see him more, but maybe I would’ve gotten used to it. Maybe we wouldn’t have lost all this time.

He looks at the table and shakes his head. “Yeah, I would have. Would have made it less relaxing for you, anyway.” He sighs heavily. “You wanted a family, and you made it there,” he says. “I’m amazed by you.”

God, it’s disorienting, how forthcoming and open he’s trying to be. I feel like my lungs are blooming. “It was big of you to never make it feel like I didn’t have you guys, still. Your sister and your brothers. You never cut me off from that family, and I’m grateful.”

“We both know they wouldn’t have allowed it,” he says. “You’re still a Byrd.”

“I am,” I say proudly. His entire body seems to lift in response. “And we both know that they’re as great as they are thanks to you.”

We go easy on each other after that. Eat our bread and order our meals and drinks, sharing polite conversation and speculating on what everyone is up to back at home. We annihilate a baked Brie appetizer with jalapeño jelly and herbed crostini.

When we talk about the influx of tourism in Spunes, I ask, “Do you think Spunes will ever be one of those places that makes people turn seasons into verbs? Like, ‘Well, wesummerover in the Oregon headlands, but you can’t beat Aspen in the fall?”

His chuckle makes me feel unjustly clever. Making him laugh is inebriating. “Isn’t Aspen a winter town?” he asks, brow creased.

I shrug. “No idea. Are we boring for not knowing?”

I wonder for a second why something hungry passes over his face when I ask this, but then I realize the implication of that“we”… like we exist beyond this trip in a real and present way rather than in the past or in the hypothetical.

“Because we haven’t traveled?” he says, then answers himself. “No. I don’t think we’re boring just because we’ve had to work for most of our lives and happen to like where we’re from. I don’t think it makes us simple or boring to have been busy being… immersed in our days or our obligations. I knowyou’renot simple, at least.” A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.

My cheeks warm. “So…” I work up the courage to ask what I want. “You read it, I’m guessing. The journal?”