Page 47 of The Words We Lost

“Keep it,” he said.

“I can’t. It’s your favorite.”

“Which is why it makes sense for you to have it, since you’re my favorite, too.”

Cece huffed a groan, indicating that she had no desire to hear whatever ridiculous thing her cousin might say next. She walked past them and thenthrough the front door into her living room. However, she chose not to flip on the living room light, aslightmade it far more difficult to spy into the night. Truth was, just because she didn’t want to hear them didn’t mean she didn’t want toseethem. She angled her body to fit discreetly between the front door and the living room window.

Joel hugged Ingrid one last time, this embrace lingering for nearly a minute before he whispered something in Ingrid’s ear that made her smile. Eventually, she turned away and started for the porch. And it was right then, in the short span of time between their last embrace and Ingrid walking through the front door, that Cece caught sight of Joel’s hand as it moved to hover over his heart ... and then she saw his fingers thump his chest three times before he, too, turned away.

16

Joel clears his throat as he finishes our fifth chapter of the morning but avoids making eye contact with me. I wonder if he’s wishing he could go back in time and take a red pen to that entire last page, cross it all out before it has the chance to go to final print. Because we’ve both learned the hard way that falling in love is far simpler than staying in love.

Gone is the sociable mood from earlier when we sipped on high-brow coffee from Cece’s fancy espresso machine and laughed at her bright and somewhat irreverent memories of our daily grind as hotel staffers and the mischief we shared in our off-hours—most of which was in the name ofbook research. But our laughter dulled during the retelling of the annual staff party. The atmosphere had slowly shifted from nostalgic and congenial to downright uncomfortable by the close of the chapter. And it’s clear by Joel’s reticence that he wasn’t a fan of that particular eyewitness account. Not that I can blame him. Some private moments, even those captured by our closest, most well-meaning friends, should have the right to remain private.

Despite the raw history that tethers us—the trauma, the loss, the devastating omissions and violated trust—I wouldn’t wish this kind of forced exposure upon anybody. Especially when that exposure shone a giant spotlight on an innocent teenage boy who simply wanted to believe love was enough to conquer all.

Empathy coaxes me to say something, to tell him it’s okay, that we were young and naïve and that nothing he read today needs to change this new rhythm of civility we’ve found ... and yet the words in my head are nothing more than a jumble of disconnected starts and stops. I wish I had Chip’s magical ability to create relatable small talk out of thin air, but I’m still stuck on trying to interpret the root emotion behind Joel’s disquiet. Humiliation? Regret? Frustration?

A compelling case can be made for them all.

“It really was a fun game night,” I say, tossing something out at random. “I remember your insane Scrabble plays.”

“Couldn’t have been too insane—you beat me,” he amends.

“Only because you let me.”

“Guess we’ll never know for sure.” And then, before I can continue this meaningless exchange, he gestures to the kitchen. “I should probably be going.”

“Right, okay.”

I watch him from the corner of my eye as we pick up our coffee mugs and breakfast plates and set them in the sink. Joel gathers the memoir and slides it into his backpack while I place his borrowed car keys on the sofa table beside him. We’re a wordless kind of polite, a functional, transactional kind of coexistence, which I suppose is an upgrade from some of our more heated exchanges. But then again, maybe it’s not. Maybe this bottled-up tension is worse, a step backward.

Like a well-mannered hostess, I trail behind him through the living room and eventually into the arched entryway. An instant before his hand connects with the doorknob, he draws it back, and I’m hoping his good-bye will release the vent on this pressure cooker we’re in and take us back to where we were earlier this morning.

He opens his mouth and—

His phone rings.

If it were me on the receiving end of such a perfectly timed interruption, there’s no doubt I would seize the moment and hightail it out of this uncomfortable situation. But this is Joel, and he’s neverbeen afraid to face the hard things head-on. He glances from his phone screen up to me.

“This should only take a second.”

I nod as if he’s asked for my permission, which of course, he doesn’t need. It’s not until he swipes to answer that I realize how close we are, the two of us standing on opposite sides of the same Welcome Home mat. The irony isn’t lost on me.

“Hey, Brian.” Pause. “Yes, it’s set for three o’clock today, why?” Pause. “What about Danny, then?” Pause. “Chris? Adele?” Pause. “Okay, well, has anyone called Allie?” Another pause, followed by a long sigh. “I know she doesn’t, but at this point, I’d take a warm body over this late of a cancellation.” Joel rubs a hand down his face, and I realize only then that I’ve made no attempt to give him privacy or even pretend to look away. Whatever the issue, Joel’s disappointment is etched in the deep V of his brow. “No, I understand. Thanks for trying. I’ll call them and cancel myself.” He taps the screen and lowers the phone.

“A warm body?” Out of everything I just overheard, these are the eloquent words I lead with. I try again. “Sorry, I realize it’s none of my business.”

“No apology necessary.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and from this close, I can count the handful of silver strands at his temples, easily picturing how they’ll duplicate in another decade or two. Easily picturing how his arresting features will continue to mature with time. He huffs an exhale. “I made a commitment for this afternoon that it appears I won’t be able to keep. It requires a ... specific skillset not all our employees are trained in, and we’re short-staffed at the hotel tonight as it is.”

I try to imagine what kind of specific skillset he might be referring to. The Campbell employees are thoroughly trained in every facet of hospitality and guest services, so I come up short in my guesses and throw one out to left field instead. “You running an underground fight club in the hotel basement?”

He cracks a smile that threatens to expand my own. “Doesn’tanswering any questions about Fight Club violate the first and only rule of Fight Club?”

I shrug. “Obviously my experience in such matters is limited.”

He laughs and I’m surprisingly grateful for the sound. “I was actually supposed to give a private tour today for a couple who booked an anniversary package with us—it’s their forty-fifth wedding anniversary this week.”

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