Chapter 31
Mira
The house is exactly the kind of place I imagine Owen building for himself. The open wraparound porch is charming. It looks like a home that was once well loved, even if it seems neglected now. I spot a porch swing and several rocking chairs swaying gently in the wind. This house was designed for a family. I imagine Owen lived here with his for many years.
At the top of the steps, my hand stops over the doorbell. I hesitate to press it.
I might as well hurry and get tonight over with. At last, I push the button. Less than a minute later, the wooden door creaks open. A version of Elliot I've never seen before appears in the doorway. He's wearing another pair of glasses, this time with tortoiseshell frames. Stunned, I take in his T-shirt and then his sweatpants.
My gaze travels down his body to his bare feet. His entire appearance is a diabolical plot to make me swoon. It's… He's… Argh!
"Hi," I say irritably.
Elliot deliberately looks me up and down. Somehow, he makes me feel as though my flared jeans and old T-shirt are inappropriate.
He opens the door wider to invite me inside, but since he remains planted in the middle of the doorway, I have no choice but to brush against him as I pass.
He leads me into a dimly lit living room large enough for a family of fifty. The enormous couch reminds me of a cloud I want to dive into. The carpet is so thick that I could lie down and take a nap on it.
Elliot invites me to sit on a cushion on the floor.
"This feels an awful lot like a date…" I mutter.
"Don't be difficult. I'm sure you're starving."
I glare at him,I hate that he's right,before sitting cross-legged in the place he indicated. He takes cartons from a takeout bag and serves me a plate of my favorite pad thai. My foolish heart is a traitor: it tightens whenever Elliot pays attention to details.
Get a grip. It's only dinner.
"I'm ready to hear your apology."
"Eat first."
His command makes me roll my eyes. I keep my hands in my lap.
"Please," he says with a sigh. "I don't want your food to get cold."
The hint of a smile crosses my lips at the request. I give in only because I'm starving. Elliot takes a bite with all the elegance expected of American royalty. If only I looked half as dignified when I ate…
After a while, when the silence becomes unbearable, I start a conversation.
"So you like to draw?"
His fork crashes onto his plate.
Oops. Looks like I hit a nerve.
I smile down at my plate. Making Elliot uncomfortable has become my favorite game.
"I used to love drawing," he says, picking up his fork and winding noodles around it.
"Why did you stop?"
His shoulders tense before he releases a long sigh.
"Why do most of us stop doing what we love?"
The question applies to me too. After everything Victor did, my desire to create went out. I put my dreams on hold to avoid confronting the pain of his betrayal. Part of taking the easy way out was ignoring the things I loved because I was afraid of being hurt.
That's what I did until Elliot shoved me out of my comfort zone. I owe him for that. It doesn't excuse his bad choices, but it makes me a little more forgiving. If he hadn't taken a chance on that drunken proposal, I might never have moved past what was still holding me back in life.
I'm the only person who has power over me. Neither my ex, my past mistakes, nor my fear controls me.
"I'm not asking about everyone else," I say, picking at a loose thread on my pants. "I'm asking about you."
"You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"
"If apologizing were easy, everyone would do it."
Elliot adjusts his glasses. I swear he's wearing them solely to wear down my resistance. I find myself squeezing my thighs together to soothe the pulse of desire he causes.
"My grandfather introduced me to drawing when I was a child."
Now that he's opening up, I wait patiently so I don't scare him off.
"My brothers and I always had a special relationship with him. Drawing was our thing, his and mine. Apart from him, I was the only one in the family with artistic talent, and I think he liked having that connection with me."
"That's nice."
Elliot presses his lips together unhappily.
"I didn't have that kind of connection with my father, and I think it frustrated him. Art was never really his thing, and when I was a kid, nothing else interested me. But it was as though he didn't know how to bond with me except by throwing balls at me."
His gaze turns distant, as though he's lost in his memories.
"I don't think my parents argued often, but when they did, it was usually about me. My father got angry because he didn't know how to communicate with me. My mother cried. When she got sick, it became worse. I think the idea that my father and I might never be truly close worried her, especially because she wouldn't be there much longer to help us."
My heart aches for him.
"Cancer, right?"
He swallows, his expression grave, and nods.
"I'm sorry."
I take his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. He clears his throat before lowering his gaze to his plate.
"That was the beginning of my chaotic relationship with my father. Eventually, I gave up drawing and moved on to activities he considered more appropriate."
I want to beg him to tell me everything because I desperately want to know more about the man sitting across from me.
Elliot must have spent years repressing his emotions. The way he speaks about his mother and the pain showing on his usually impenetrable face make me deeply sad.
"What made you give up your favorite thing?"
"It's… complicated."
I think he'll stop there, but he continues.
"Even though my father never told me to quit, he made sure to drain all the joy from it. Whenever I had an exhibition, he wouldn't come, and I had to watch the other students celebrate with their parents while I stood there alone. Eventually, I refused to participate anymore despite my grandfather's efforts. Then there was the time he found all the cards I'd drawn for my mother while she was in the hospital," he adds, his voice shaking. "He destroyed them simply because he felt like it. They were among the last memories I had of her, and they vanished after one of his drinking binges."
"Drinking binges?"
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
"Forget it."
Impossible. I wish I could travel back in time and protect him when he was little.
"If you'd rather not talk about it, that's okay," I say, placing my palm over his clenched fist.
"I owe you after everything I've done."
Elliot opens his hand and allows me to lace our fingers together.
"I'm not going to use this situation to pry information out of you. It's your choice whether you share your past."
I squeeze his hand once more before withdrawing mine. He looks into my eyes as if searching my soul for any sign of deception.
"Do you really mean that?"
"Of course. But I would like to know what made you return to your passion, if you're willing to tell me."
He nods.
"Your illustrations were awful, and I desperately wanted to help you."
"So you started drawing again because of me?"
"Yes," he mutters under his breath.
"Oh," I say with a wide smile. "But why?"
"You nearly cried during your first presentation."
"And?"
This is the same man who told me he didn't give a damn. And he wanted to help me when he barely even knew me… It makes no sense!
"At first, I only wanted to lend you a hand because I thought it would benefit me. You had the kind of talent I was looking for to renovate the park and make sure…"
Elliot stops abruptly, as if startled.
"Make sure of what?"
"That I made my grandfather happy."
He darkens again. Does he dislike the idea of relying on someone else that much?
"I understand. You're under pressure with this project."
"You have no idea," he grumbles.
"Why didn't you hire someone else to help me?"
"I considered it, but I didn't want to."
"Why?"
"Because my common sense deserted me."
"Or because you liked me."
I do my best not to smile, but fail miserably.
"No. Not at all. I found you both strangely annoying and far too nice."
"Hey! There's no such thing as too nice," I say, leaning over the coffee table to swat his shoulder.
"There is."
"Why do you think that?"
There's so much disgust in his eyes that it makes me nauseous.
"I'm used to people smiling at me and acting excessively friendly so they can manipulate me somehow. That's where my cynicism comes from."
"That sounds awful."
"I'm sure you'd be horrified to learn what kind of people lurk outside the gates of paradise. Wondervale is a kind of fairy-tale world. It's as though the whole park is sheltered from reality."
"Tell me. Help me understand why you are the way you are."
"Is that really what you want?" he asks tensely.
"Yes."
"All right. But I'm warning you, it isn't pretty."
"The truth usually isn't."