Page 106 of To Catch a Firefly

“Good,” he answers. “She and Mrs. Cole had brunch this morning with a few friends.”

“And Mrs. Cole?” I ask. It’s been a couple weeks since I was home.

“She’s good, Lucky,” he answers. “Steady.”

I nod. With her particular form of MS, she doesn’t have periods of remission. Her symptoms get progressively worse over time, but she does have stretches of stability without worsening symptoms, and those periods of time are what we hope for.

The drive seems to take hours, even though I know that’s not true. My dad fills me in on what’s been going on in town, including a small incident at the paper mill that required them to shut down a fairly important piece of machinery for a day. By the time my dad is pulling into the driveway of my parents’ home, I feel as if I’m jittering out of my skin.

The house next door is gently lit. Nothing seems out of place. Ellis isn’t in sight.

My dad grabs my suitcase from the back before I can, giving me a nod. “Go ahead,” he says. “He’s in the silo.”

Thethumpin my chest is a physical thing.

The wind is gentle as I make my way around the field. It rustles the leaves of the corn stalks, sending that familiar scent of soil and corn pollen my way. It’s somewhat soothing, even as my nerves are frazzled.

The silo is open when I reach it. Ellis is waiting inside.

My footsteps die.

“El,” I whisper.

He’s standing in front of the wooden table, his hands inside his pockets. A few candles are lit on the surface behind him, flanking both sides of his body. Even more cover the ground, creating a pathway from me to him. I walk it slowly, my pulse loud inside my ears. Ellis never wavers as I approach. His smile is calm. Grounded. He holds out a hand once I’m within reach, and I give mine willingly, the warmth of his fingers familiar and comforting.

“Luck,” he says.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice barely cooperating.

“Made you…something.”

Ellis steps to the side, letting me see the center of the table. On it, glimmering slightly from the glow of the candles and fireflies overhead, is a glass heart. Ananatomicalheart. I pick it up gently, the piece fitting perfectly in my palm. It’s blue, and something within the substance makes it glitter in the light.

“Ellis,” I say, at a loss for words.

“My heart,” he says simply. “It’s yours.”

My breath leaves my lungs.

I twist the heart carefully in my hands. It feels so delicate. “It’s beautiful,” I manage to say, meeting Ellis’s eyes. “You’rebeautiful.”

His smile tells me he feels the same. He holds out his hand. “Come with me?”

I don’t ask where. I simply return my hand to his.

Ellis blows out each and every candle on our way out of the silo. Smoke drifts lazily into the air with each flame that’s extinguished, and when we reach the doorway, he flicks off the lights.

The glass heart feels weighted in my palm as we walk around the cornfield, even though it’s quite light. I can’t stop staring at it. At the intricate lines and carefully crafted curves.

When Ellis stops in front of his—our—house, he reaches for it. I hand it over, and he says, “Wait here.”

I do, standing near the driveway as Ellis heads inside, presumably storing the heart somewhere safe. He returns only a minute later, walking around me to his truck and opening the passenger door. I get in with a small huff of laughter.

“Such a gentleman,” I murmur.

He tips an invisible hat.

Ellis leads us down the dirt road without a word. I keep sneaking glances at him, wondering where we’re going. Wondering why he looks so…pleased.

---