“Then again, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he pointed out, “and you can’t stop thinking about me.”
She nodded, then scoffed softly and shook her head, giving up her internal struggle and letting her head fall wearily to his shoulder. Preston decided that the soft weight of her burdens resting gently on his destroyed shoulder was a pleasure, and he had a quick thought that that small, broken part of his body belonged to her now. She would always be welcome there—always, no matter what, for the rest of his life.
“Maybe we can…”
“…figure it out,” finished Preston, dropping her hand so her could put his arm around her shoulders and pull her closer.
“Yeah,” she said, sighing like she was done fighting something that had proven it wasn’t going away.
He took a deep breath, his chest swelling with emotion—with relief, with hope, with attraction and affection, and the first real stirrings of love he’d ever known.
“Okay.” He rested his lips on the crown of her head, feeling a profound sense of gratitude for third chances at new beginnings. He grinned against her hair. “So, does this mean I can take you out to dinner tonight?”
“I’d love that.”
With enough words exchanged to know where they stood, they sat in silence as the sky changed from yellow to gold to violet to blue.
Chapter 6
Unsurprisingly, He Loves Me Not only lasted another week, which worked out perfectly, because as much as Elise despised playing Matilda, she would have felt bad leaving the play in the lurch to do Ethan Frome.
The first two weeks of May were a whirlwind. Elise quit her job at Vic’s and found a waitress position at a small French bistro near Lincoln Center, so she’d be closer to the theater. Because they only had four weeks to workshop the show, her rehearsals were six days a week from nine in the morning until six in the evening, and Sundays from one in the afternoon until six in the evening. She worked with the understudies for Ethan and Zeena, as Garrett and Maggie wouldn’t arrive until May 20th when they’d have only ten days to rehearse before their first performance. On Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays after rehearsal, she worked from seven until midnight at Bistro Chèvrefeuille, which, she learned on her first day with some delight, meant “honeysuckle.”
She didn’t make as much in tips as she would if she worked on weekends, but she was making good money doing Ethan Frome, and besides, Friday and Saturday nights belonged to Preston. As long as she didn’t have to work, she couldn’t bear to give up the evenings they’d agreed to spend together.
Every Friday and Saturday evening at 6:15, he was waiting for her by the Lincoln Center fountain with some new plan for exploring Manhattan together: a horse and carriage ride through Central Park, a visit to the top of the Empire State Building, a drink at the rooftop bar at the Metropolitan Museum…which had prompted him to ask, as he handed her a cup of sparkling water, “Why don’t you drink?”
“I was wondering when you’d ask me that,” she said, following him to an empty bench where they had a knock-out view of the New York skyline. “Does it bother you?”
“Nope.” He looked down at his Gin and Tonic. “Does it bother you that I do?”
“Not at all,” she said, grinning at him. She served alcohol regularly to the patrons at Bistro Chèvrefeuille and as long as a drinker practiced moderation, which Preston seemed to, it didn’t bother her at all.
She knew it was the right time to tell him about growing up in a Mennonite family, but before continuing, she paused. Would he think her old-fashioned? Unsophisticated? Na?ve? She supposed she was all three on some levels, but she wouldn’t want it to impact their blossoming relationship. Still, it was a part of who she was—an important part of her history and a latent part of her present. If he rejected her for it, she supposed it was better to know now than to fall for him any harder and find out it was a deal-breaker later.
“Elise,” he said, interpreting her silence for reticence, “it’s your personal business. I didn’t mean to pry. Forget it.”
“No, I want to tell you,” she said, offering him a brave smile. “Actually, it’s because…well, I was raised Mennonite.”
“What?” His eyes searched her face with surprise.
“My family. The farm in upstate New York? They’re Mennonite.”
Coming from Pennsylvania, where there were so many Mennonites, she wondered if he had some knowledge of her religion. But then, he wasn’t from Lancaster, he was from Philadelphia, so it didn’t necessarily shock her when he asked, “Like, horse and buggies? And no electricity?”
She shook her head with a soft chuckle. “That’s Amish.”
“Oh, right! Sorry. Mennonite.” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. “Is it terrible that I know nothing about your…um, culture? Religion?”
She shrugged. “Why would you? It isn’t exactly mainstream.”