Page 68 of Time After Time

Before the others can start foiling my plan, I raise my hand. “Enough. This is between Ember and me, and you all need to stop running interference.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Aksel gives me the one-finger salute.

“Yeah, go fuck yourself.” Freja goes next.

I look at Margot, who just shrugs. “What they said.”

“Jean? Bob? Tanya?” I ask, wanting very much to get all the objections and abuse out of the way.

Thankfully, Heidi and Giselle have left. They’re going to spend New Year’s Eve in Reykjavik, otherwise they’d be giving me their opinion on the matter—which is mostly the same as the Rousseaus. I’m an asshole. Ember is a princess. I deserve to get kneed in the nuts.

“I’ve got a shotgun,” Bob declares, miming the motion with his fingers like he’s cocking a real one.

Jean looks me up and down, then turns to his youngest daughter. “Ember, do you want to talk to him?”

My heart seizes in my chest.

She looks at me, eyes wide, filled with hurt. She isn’t hiding one damn thing. I crushed her, and she isn’t pretending she’s alright.

“What do you…ah…what do you want to talk about?” she asks.

I want to talk about how much I miss you.

I want to talk about how much I love you.

I want to talk about how fucking sorry I am.

I want to….

“Can we go for a walk?” I’m more nervous than Iam when I walk into surgery. “Alone,” I emphasize, looking around the room.

Freja eyes me across the table like a hawk watching a wounded rabbit.

Aksel slouches, smirking.

Margot sips her mimosa (hold the orange juice) with the smug patience of a woman watching a Greek tragedy she’s seen before and knows ends badly for the male lead.

She clears her throat. “Maybe later,” she croaks out.

It’s not a no. That’s a positive. A win. Take it and run, Ransom.

After breakfast, after she’s gone, I go to my room.

I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a second draft of an apology, and my first draft was shit.

There’s a knock on my door, and before I can respond, Tanya walks in.

She closes the door behind her with the kind of theatrical sigh only a woman who’s survived marrying Bob can deliver. She has the inimitable air of someone about to meddle.

“I brought reinforcements.” She tosses a small linen pouch onto the bed.

I pick it up and peer inside. Lavender and chamomile?

“What’s this? Witchcraft? Are we making a love potion?”

“A tea blend.” She gives me a withering look. “You look like you haven’t slept in forever.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, pouch in hand. “She won’t even look at me.”