Down the Rabbit Hole

He stepped back. Having presented his argument, he didn’t seem to have much more to say. He stood quietly, giving her time to speak, to reconsider, to look him in the eye and reiterate her case. When she didn’t, and when the silence between them grew awkward, he spoke again.

“Look, I was sort of prepared for this—sometimes the gears in your head squeak really loud,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe you weren’t prepared for me to fight back—you underestimated that in me, too, I think. So just for the record, I do know you’re serious. I know you want out. But I also know that panic and fear can make us do stupid things. Disastrous things. So I’ll give you a little time, and some space, to reevaluate our situation.” He knuckled her chin up to look into her face. “I’m not going to beg you to admit that you love me. Not my style. But I will be around if you change your mind.”

Her heart felt like an egg—cracked, everything inside spilling out. She watched him walk away, taking the stairs for expedience, not quite running. She wanted to scream.

The scene blurred and slipped away.


*

The few weeks that followed were torture, and she was exhausted. Elise vacillated in the tiny breath between feeling stupid for putting her heart in peril again and being stupid by throwing away what could be the love of a lifetime.

“Tough one,” Superman said, though there didn’t seem to be any pity in his voice.

“No kidding. And I still don’t know what to do. I . . . I think I love him. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’d never deliberately hurt me, but that one percent, I can’t get around it. People fall down all the time, you know? But after the first time they’re more careful and take extra precautions because they know how bad it’s going to hurt if it happens again.”

“But don’t you think that standing in one place and going nowhere is extreme?”

“I’m not standing in one place,” she said, miffed. “I just think I’ll have better balance if I walk alone.”

“I might have to agree.” He had her attention now. He was tall enough to bend an arm across the top of the framed divider and lean on it. “Maybe Max is deluded. Maybe you don’t love him at all.”

“Why? I do. Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? He’s . . . We fit, you know?” Every inch of her ached for him. She missed him. “He’s wonderful. And smart and funny. And real. Kind.” She let out a deep, wistful breath. “He’s the calm to my crazy. He listens to me—even when I’m not saying much of anything. And hot! He’s hot, don’t you think?” He raised his superbrows. “He is, trust me. I think he’s amazing. I just don’t know—”

“And that’s why I’m wondering: Do you really love him?”

“What?”

“In this conversation alone there have been twice as many Is and mes than hes and hims. It’s all about you. It’s always all about you. What you want, how you feel. What about him?”

He motioned with his head toward the Medieval tunics, hippie dashiki shirts and polka-dot poodle skirts as another episode commenced . . .





CHAPTER SEVEN




“Relax. She’s sweating. She’ll fold. Just a matter of time.” Her brother, Roger, looked as unconcerned as Max looked gloomy and miserable. “She’s scared, not stupid.” He hesitated. “She can be stupid . . . I just don’t think this is one of those times.”

Slouching in a booth at some bar she didn’t recognize, Max’s sigh was deep and loud. “It’s been two weeks. And six days. That’s almost three weeks. I should at least call her; send a text . . . just hi. I need to do something. What if she’s forgotten about me?”