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CHAPTER NINE

AMELIA

S tepping outside, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and then another one.

With each, the cold night air empties my brain, and I wonder if I can just stay out here until it’s time to go home.

Every part of me regrets getting off my couch, being the good soldier I’ve always tried to be, doing the thing that’s expected of me, and never putting a wrong foot forward. It’s all so completely exhausting.

Opening my eyes, I glance around the patio.

The heat lamps set up around the perimeter make it feel warm despite the frigid January temperatures.

Fire pits blaze on either end of the space, with supplies for making s’mores set on small tables.

Comfortable looking outdoor furniture is scattered around, making the whole space a cozy and inviting winter oasis—the exact opposite of everything inside.

The patio is empty except for a solitary figure sitting on one of the couches by a fire pit. I can only see the back of his head, but I recognize him immediately. This is where Elliot disappeared to.

His gaze is fixed on his phone, and even from across the patio, I can see exactly what’s on the small screen.

Genesis. The app that has consumed the last year of my life.

The one no one on Earth knows belongs to me.

He toggles through the different modules, attention focused on whatever data appears.

A curl of something that might be anxiety and might be excitement snakes through my stomach, and I’m not sure whether I hate that he’s focused so intently on something I created or I love that the app I worked so hard on is finally being used on a phone other than mine.

Maybe I make some kind of sound or, more likely, Elliot senses me because that’s how it seems to work between us. His head whips around and our gazes lock, that same slow smile from before spreading over his face.

“Of all the patios in all of Boston,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine.

I swear my knees almost give out at the eye contact.

At his low, gravelly voice. At the way his blue eyes swim with happiness and fun and just a touch of heat.

It’s an irresistible combination that has me taking steps towards him before my brain fully registers I’m moving.

“You escaping the forced socialization too?” I ask, coming to a stop in front of the couch.

He shrugs, leaning back against the cushions and stretching his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “I’m a social kind of guy, but between you and me, university events bore me out of my mind. And I love being outside at night in the winter.”

I make a move to stick my hands in my pockets before I realize I’m wearing a dress and don’t have any and honestly, what in the patriarchal bullshit is that all about?

If women ruled the world, every article of clothing would come with pockets.

“You have tenure. Couldn’t you just skip this if you wanted to? ”

“I probably could have, but I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?” I know I shouldn’t ask, but the I have a crush on a boy side of me is dying for the answer.

“Because I knew you would be here. I wanted to see you. I always want to see you, Amelia.”

Good lord, this man. I have the sudden, wild thought that I would stand here on this patio with him all night, uncomfortable shoes and too tight tights and too small underwear be damned.

In this moment, this is the only place I want to be.

It’s an inconvenient thought, but there it is anyway.

“Well, socializing really isn’t my thing, but I do love a winter night. Winter in general, really.”

Elliot’s grin lights up his face, and he holds out a hand before he thinks better of it, glancing quickly around the patio before letting the hand drop back to the couch. “Sit with me, Ames. We can enjoy this winter night together.”

I probably shouldn’t; anyone could come out here at any time, and sitting alone with my professor in the dark on the patio of the dean’s house isn’t a good look.

But I can’t resist him when he uses my nickname.

Anytime really, but especially then. And the thing is, I have spent a lot of my life twisting myself up into a pretzel to make myself as uncontroversial as possible and for some reason, on this night, on this darkened patio, my brain decides to riot.

Sitting here with Elliot feels deliciously subversive and like exactly what I want to do.

So, I sit.

He smiles knowingly, like he can see into my brain and understands the mental gymnastics going on in there, and at this point, I’m almost convinced he really can.

I’ve never felt attraction like this, and that thought has me sitting just a little farther from him than I want to, as if the extra six inches of distance can keep me from making the mistake that seems more inevitable with every second I spend in his presence.

“Why winter?” he asks, his gaze dropping as I cross my legs, his eyes tracking the movement in a way that has a bolt of heat moving through me.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why do you love winter? Most people don’t.”

I lean forward, enjoying the way the fire feels warming my skin.

“Until a couple of years ago, I spent my entire life in San Francisco, where the temperature stays frustratingly steady all year round. I always missed actual winter, with snow and ice and cozy sweaters and ice skating outside. It always seemed kind of romantic, I guess. When I decided to move to Boston after college, everyone told me the novelty of winter would wear off pretty quickly, but it hasn’t yet. I just freaking love it.”

“I love it too,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

The fire illuminates the hollows of his face, and I think he is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.

“I always have. My mom has this unwavering belief that snow is magic. I don’t know if it really is or if she just loves winter so much that she made it our most fun season growing up, but all my best memories are winter memories. ”

Elliot talks about his mom with such love and warmth that emotion lodges itself in my throat, and for a second, I can’t get any words past it.

“Why did that make you sad?”

Surprised, I turn to Elliot, and he’s looking at me with concern.

He reaches over and strokes a single finger over my hand where it rests on the couch, and I feel that small touch everywhere.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly before I accidentally tell him my entire sad family history, dead parents and all.

“Not sad, exactly. Just…thoughtful, I guess. It’s nice, the way you talk about your mom. It sounds like you guys are close.”

He seems to consider that before speaking. When he does, his voice is full of humor, the love shining in his words. “I mean, she’s overbearing and kind of crazy, and she makes me insane half the time, but she’s also one of my favorite people.”

“Does she live here?’

He nods. “My whole family does. I think I told you I live in the same building as my brothers, and my grandma lives in the building next door. My parents live in Newton, in the same house I grew up in.” He shrugs, a smile playing over his lips.

“We’re a ridiculously close, weirdly happy family. It’s all very wholesome.”

My brain works to find a way to change the subject because the picture he paints of his family has a kernel of longing for the family I lost burrowing into my chest. When my eyes land on his phone, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“So, you’ve been using Genesis?”

If Elliot finds the change of subject strange, he doesn’t mention it.

Instead, he picks up his phone, unlocking the screen and flashing the app at me.

“Sure am. I’ve been playing around with it, and it’s really cool.

I think it might help me unravel a bit of a family mystery I discovered a couple of weeks ago. ”

“What kind of mystery?” I ask, immediately intrigued.

He turns, propping one leg up on the couch so he’s fully facing me.

“I found some old postcards in my parents’ attic when I was there for Christmas.

They’re love letters written to my great-grandmother in the early nineteen hundreds by someone named Henry who was definitely not my great-grandfather.

The letters are addressed to her in Boston, but they came from London, where she lived with her family before she moved here.

My working theory is that she fell in love in London and had to leave him behind when she came to America. ”

“You want to find him. This Henry.” I feel this with as much certainty as if he said it out loud.

Elliot nods, looking a little surprised by my response. “I do. I can’t get the letters out of my head. It’s not a want so much as a need. I need to figure this out.”

“Why?” I don’t know why I ask the question, but suddenly the answer is critically important to me.

Elliot studies me for a second before he speaks.

“The letters hit me right in the chest. The love in them. The longing. They kind of…spoke to me.” He pauses, his gaze boring into me as he seems to argue with himself for a second before he keeps talking, his voice taking on a pleading edge, as if he’s begging me to understand him.