Page 31 of Not Your Girl
“Does she live here?’
He nods. “My whole family does. I think I told you I live in the same building as my brothers, and my grandma lives in the building next door. My parents live in Newton, in the same house I grew up in.” He shrugs, a smile playing over his lips. “We’re a ridiculously close, weirdly happy family. It’s all very wholesome.”
My brain works to find a way to change the subject because the picture he paints of his family has a kernel of longing for the family I lost burrowing into my chest. When my eyes land on his phone, I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“So, you’ve been using Genesis?”
If Elliot finds the change of subject strange, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he picks up his phone, unlocking the screen and flashing the app at me. “Sure am. I’ve been playing around with it, and it’s really cool. I think it might help me unravel a bit of a family mystery I discovered a couple of weeks ago.”
“What kind of mystery?” I ask, immediately intrigued.
He turns, propping one leg up on the couch so he’s fully facing me. “I found some old postcards in my parents’ attic when I was there for Christmas. They’re love letters written to my great-grandmother in the early nineteen hundreds by someone named Henry who was definitely not my great-grandfather. The letters are addressed to her in Boston, but they came from London, where she lived with her family before she moved here. My working theory is that she fell in love in London and had to leave him behind when she came to America.”
“You want to find him. This Henry.” I feel this with as much certainty as if he said it out loud.
Elliot nods, looking a little surprised by my response. “I do. I can’t get the letters out of my head. It’s not a want so much as a need. I need to figure this out.”
“Why?” I don’t know why I ask the question, but suddenly the answer is critically important to me.
Elliot studies me for a second before he speaks. “The letters hit me right in the chest. The love in them. The longing. They kind of…spoke to me.” He pauses, his gaze boring into me as he seems to argue with himself for a second before he keeps talking, his voice taking on a pleading edge, as if he’s begging me to understand him.
“I told you I looked for you. After the plane, I mean. I couldn’t get you out of my head, and when I read the letters, it was like I understood all the feelings this Henry poured into the words. The way it feels to connect with someone on that level and then just lose her. It’s not logical, and our circumstances are complicated, but the one thing I’ll never, ever do is lie to you, Amelia. I felt something on that plane, and so did you. And now that I know what this kind of connection feels like, I can’t unknow it. I felt it on the plane, and I felt it when I read those letters, and I feel it right now, sitting next to you. We can’t do anything about it yet, but I can do this. Untangle this family mystery and tell my great-grandmother’s story. It feels like something I need to do. For my grandmother, so she can know her mother’s story, but also for me.”
I ball my hands into fists to keep from reaching out for him as my heart gallops in my chest. He’ll never understand how deeply his words touch me, and right now, I can’t tell him, so I say the only thing I can.
“I want to help you.”
He furrows his brow in confusion. “Help me with what?”
“Help you find Henry. Help you tell your great-grandmother’s story. What was her name?”
“Clara.”
I smile at the softness in his voice. “Will you let me help?”
He slides his hand forward, his fingertips playing with mine, and against my better judgment, I let him, little currents of electricity shooting from where our skin touches. “You know, to help me, we’ll have to spend more time together.”
“I know.”
This time, when he smiles, it’s a full-blown grin. “I knew it. You can’t resist me just as much as I can’t resist you. It’s not enough just to see me in class. You need to manufacture more ways to see me.”
“Keep dreaming,” I say dryly, even though I don’t hate the idea of seeing him more nearly as much as I should.
“Well, why else would you offer to help me?”
I shrug. “Family history interests me.”
“Is that why you did a minor in genetics?”
I stare at him. “You remember I told you I did a minor in genetics?” It was an offhand comment during a rant at breakfast. I was sure he would have forgotten.
His eyes hold mine, the intensity in his sharpening my breath, and then I lose it completely when he pushes his hand forward, tangling our fingers together. “I remember everything about you. In the non-creepy way, I swear,” he adds, a wry smile on his face that makes me smile too.
“Hey, true crime addict, remember?” I say, sliding my hand out from his and pointing to myself. “Even if it was in the creepy way, I probably still wouldn’t mind.”
“In that case…” He waggles his eyebrows, and I burst out laughing.
“Okay, no, it turns out I do have a creep limit and it’s whatever you just did with your face.”
