Maybe it was the way Elodie still tended that pumpkin patch like it might save her. Maybe it was the way Levi had started talking about her in the plural—like we were a we now, and not just two separate people orbiting the same four walls of this home. Maybe it was the part of me that knew, deep down, that dreams built on someone else’s ashes never tasted the way you imagined. I sat there for a long time, staring at the dying fire, thinking of all the ways a man could love something enough to let it go.
