Page 32 of Middle Ground

I nod. “They told me that, too. But sometimes that makes it harder.”

Now, she truly can’t hide her curiosity. I have to stop myself from smiling. “How so?” she asks.

“As I said, they all loved your mom. They love you. So it’s understandable that they would be a little apprehensive about suggesting any changes.” When she still looks confused, I elaborate. “They don’t want to hurt you.”

This catches her by surprise. She looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. She just studies me, like maybe she’s seeing something different than she has all the times before.

I stand from the desk, ready to call it a night. My stomach is seconds away from eating itself, but my body also craves sleep. Sleep I haven’t been able to give it.

“You know, we’re not all that different, you and I."

At this, Meyer scoffs. “We’re not even remotely the same. The things we want couldn’t be more different.”

“How do you know what I want?” I counter. “You’ve never asked.”

“I just do.”

I nod. “Right. Very sound reasoning you’ve got there.”

With a roll of her eyes, she says, “Fine. What do you want out of all this?”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been goal-oriented. I lock onto something and sprint in its direction—damn anyone or anything that gets in my way. But in the face of Meyer’s question, I’m more lost than I’ve ever been before.

I sigh. “Truthfully, Ellison, I don’t know. I just know that I don’t want to be the villain in your story, but I don’t know how to do that."

She’s quiet for a beat, following me as I exit the office and start down the hallway. “I don't know either,” she admits.

We let the silence settle between us as we head for the stairs. We ascend, and then we start toward my room.

I glance sidelong at her. “Is there a reason you’re walking me to my room?”

She doesn’t look my way when she replies, just keeps her gaze trained on the patterned carpet under our feet. ”Because you look like death, and I can’t have you keeling over in my inn.”

In danger of seeming like she cares too much—scratch that, caresat all—she opens her mouth to add a sarcastic remark, like she often does. I seem to have the same idea.

“Too much paperwork,” we both say at the same time.

It’s a stupid, unoriginal joke. Lame, even. But in my tired state, it soundshilarious. Meyer seems to think so, too, given the slight upward curve of her lips that she tries to hide.

“Get out of my brain,” she huffs.

I grin. “See? Not so different.”

She reaches out and shoves at my shoulder. I can almost feel her touch through my sleeve. “All that proves is your boringness is rubbingoff on me.”

When we make it to my room, I unlock the door and push inside. Turning, I lean against the doorframe as I look down at her, ready to bid her goodnight.

Meanwhile, Meyer not-so-subtly tries to peer around me into my room. I open the door wider and take a step back, sweeping an arm out. “Since you seem so interested, you might as well come in.”

She accepts the invitation, gaze searching the room. “You haven’t let housekeeping in since you’ve been here. I was just curious as to why.”

I shrug. “I’m going to be staying here for a while. They don’t need to constantly be cleaning up after me.”

“Hmm,” she hums as she continues to walk the room.

I turn to hang my jacket in the wardrobe, and then I spin back around. She’s standing by the bed now.

I eye her warily. “Areyoufeeling alright? This sudden concern for my wellbeing is concerning in itself.”