Page 76 of Fourth and Long

We haven’t discussed what my leaving means for us. Surely she’ll still be willing to talk once I’m gone. Right? I could ask her. I should ask.

But what if she says no? It’s probably best to wait and see what happens.

“Let’s enjoy dinner,” she says.

We take the next few bites in silence.

I need to distract myself from my thoughts, so I glance around the restaurant. The other diners seem oblivious to our presence. Franz has disappeared but our waiter is hovering nearby. He approaches when he sees me looking at him.

“How is everything?” he asks.

“It’s great,” Ellie says with too much cheer.

Is she that happy? Or is she trying to fake it like me?

“Can I get you more water?” the waiter asks.

She nods and he slowly fills her glass. Afterward, he moves away but stays within visual distance, watching us out of the corner of his eye.

“I got a text message from my mother today,” Ellie says.

It’s unusual for Ellie to steer the conversation to herself, so I force myself to focus. “Where is she?”

“London. She sent me a couple of pictures, and then she told me all about them. Apparently she hired a photography instructor. He’s taking her to iconic spots and teaching her how to capture them on film.”

“Has she always been interested in photography?”

Ellie scrunches up her nose. “I’m not sure. She’s an interior decorator, so photography has always been part of her work. She’s not usually the one taking the pictures, though.”

“You seem—” I pause, searching for the right word.

“Conflicted,” she says with a slight smile. “For eighteen years, my mother has appeared one-dimensional. It’s like she was in survival mode, and now, suddenly, she’s living life. It’s a little bittersweet because it takes me back to the way she was before the divorce. Now I remember what she was like when she was happy and it’s weird.”

“In a bad way?”

“No. I want her to be happy.” She spins her fork on her plate. “I’ve wanted her to move on for so long, but now it’s hard to see her do it. It makes no sense, right?”

I pick up my water glass and take a slow sip. What’s the right thing to say? “Do you miss her?”

She tips her head to the side like she’s pondering my question. “I’ve missed her for years. She’s always been here, but she hasn’t been here.”

“Maybe that will change now that she’s moving on.”

“Maybe,” she agrees after an obvious pause.

“That’s a loaded maybe.”

She raises one shoulder. “I think it’s already changing. I felt closer to her today via text message than I normally feel when we’re in the same room.”

There are a host of things I could say, but none of them seem quite right.

She saves me from having to reply when she says, “I want her to be happy. Of course I want her to be happy. If she’s happiest in London, then that’s where I want her to be.”

I frown, because I wonder if she feels the same way about me. Is that why she mentioned my leaving as if it were no big deal? Is that why we haven’t talked about what it means for us?

Is it because she knows I’ll be happiest slinging a football? Or am I projecting feelings where there aren’t any?

TWENTY-FOUR