Page 68 of Return To You

“You better not put them in your box,” I growl.

She laughs softly. “I guess you have a point.” She plucks at the carved carrots, the radishes, the thin slices of zucchini, and eats them one by one. “I should have taken a photo.”

“I’ll make you others.” My heart hammers, trying to escape. Trying to reach for her, to hold her, to tell her everything will be alright.

She blinks and stops eating. “Why don’t we go for a walk,” she whispers.

nineteen

Grace

Imanage to grab Haley and ask her to box my food and keep it in the fridge for me. I might be out of sorts at the idea of having “the talk” with Ethan, but I don’t want his food art to go to waste.

And yes, I might take a photo of whatever is left, print the photo, and put it in my box.

What? I’ll delete the photo from my phone after that. Ethan souvenirs belong in the box. Nowhere else. That’s where it’s safe for me. The rest of the time, Ethan does not exist in my life.

Except right now. For the next few days, maybe. And for now, I need to be a responsible adult who’s capable of a grown-up conversation, even if it’s going to reopen some of my wounds.

Ethan holds the door open for me, and I almost teeter as I brush against him to enter the warm summer night. He settles me with a light touch between my shoulder blades, then safely plunges his hands into his pockets just as I fold my arms on my chest.

Good.

I take a left, toward the lower part of The Green, instinct guiding me away from the church, and its projection room, and the memory of where I first threw myself at Ethan.

“Place has changed, and at the same time, it hasn’t,” Ethan says as we walk slowly toward the park and the river.

“M-hm.” I take a shaky breath. What does he want to talk about? The box? Why did he leave my house so calmly earlier? What’s on his mind? “They added picnic tables to the park.”

“That’s nice,” he says.

“Nathaniel complains it adds work. The trash cans.”

“Nathaniel’s still here?”

“Oh yeah.” The old man is a fixture in town. I can’t imagine Emerald Creek without him.

“I guess ten years is a long time, but not that long either.”

“Not when you’re happy. Nathaniel’s always happy.”

“True. Until the trash cans.”

I chuckle. “Until the trash cans.”

“Maybe they should come up with a trash can solution? Emerald Creek wouldn’t be the same without a happy Nathaniel.”

I nod. “You should suggest that at the next Town meeting.”

“Ah. I don’t think I’m allowed to talk there. Not anymore.”

“Good point.” Vermont’s town hall meeting day, the first Saturday in March, is where all local topics are discussed. In Emerald Creek, it got a little out of hand when second home-owners thought that was the quaintest direct democracy experiment ever, and wouldn’t it be cute to participate? With some gentle guidance from the community, and after some discussions went totally out of hand, they were informed that only full-time residents were allowed to speak up. We felt a little arrogant, and then we felt like zoo animals when part of the crowd came just to observe us, but eventually we all got used to this bizarre state of affairs. “You could suggest someone bring it up.”

“Would you bring it up for me?”

My answer comes straight out. “Nope.”

“Why not?” he chuckles.

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