Page 40 of Eternal Devotion
“Somewhere… less populated.”
Quirking a brow, I side-eyed the empty parking lot and rain-drenched streets, absent of pedestrians. Without a clue what he meant, I put the Jeep in drive and took us away from the museum.
I followed the Sydenham River via 2nd Avenue East, took 8th Street to cross to the other side, and continued down 2nd Avenue West until I got to Jubilee Bridge.
I parked on a side street and studied the sky. It wasn’t pouring rain, but a steady drizzle made getting out less than appealing. “Ordinarily, in the fall, with all the colorful leaves, this bridge is quite scenic. If it wasn’t pissing rain, I’d show you.”
“I say we risk it.”
I chuckled at his complete disregard for the shitty weather. “If I catch my death, you’ll explain it to my mother, okay?”
He stared at me with an indecipherable look in his eyes and a slight quirk in his lip.
“What? You think I’m funny?”
“No.” He touched my leg, stroking gently with his thumb. “If you catch your death, Ensley Elowen, it won’t be from a bit of rain and cold.”
I bit back a grin. “Oh-oh. Are you suggesting there’s a troll underneath that bridge, ready to gnaw my bones?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Mordecai popped the door and got out. His mood had shifted since leaving downtown, so I didn’t question him and followed. Jubilee Bridge might have been marked as a historic site on Owen Sound maps, but it was just a bridge like any other.
We found a spot midway across and leaned on the hard metal rail overlooking the Sydenham. Even rain-soaked and under an ashen sky, the brilliant splash of fall colors along her banks managed to erase the depressive atmosphere.
I glanced at the rippling, pockmarked water below. “No troll in sight.”
“Must be your lucky day.”
“I think they’re afraid of the rain.”
He chuckled.
Cars passed along the road behind us, but traffic was sporadic at best, so for long stretches, we were alone with the weather and our thoughts.
Shoulder to shoulder, I watched Mordecai as much as I took in the landscape.
“What are you thinking?” I asked. “You seem… contemplative today. Are you homesick?”
A wistful smile turned his lips. “All the time, but not in the way you imagine.”
“What does that mean?”
He turned, leaning an elbow on the railing. “I’m homesick for a time I can’t get back. A time when my family was whole, and life was simpler.”
I thought of my dad—family vacations, Christmas mornings, playing catch in the field behind the school—before life fell apart and everything changed.
“Me too.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
But he hesitated like he didn’t know where to begin. Eventually, he shook his head with a huff. “I spent all night trying to figure out the right way to approach this. Perhaps it’s best I come right out and say it.”
“All right.” I cocked my head to the side, curious where this was going.
He wet his lips, huffed a self-conscious laugh, and spoke. “My initial plan was flawed. It turns out that I can’t pretend to enjoy your silly games simply to procure answers. It’s dishonest, and good gracious, Ensley. The language confounds me. Every time I try to write scenarios, I sound like a buffoon. It’s far more complex than I realized. I’ll give you that. The point is, pretending leaves me feeling utterly ridiculous, so I’m done pretending.”
