Sweet Soul (Sweet Home #5)(33)

Feeling like I’d probably just given my admiring thoughts away, I felt my face burn. The coffee pot dinged telling me it was ready, and I pointed toward the kitchen. “You want a coffee?”

Elsie nodded her head, and followed me into the kitchen area. I busied myself making two mugs, handing Elsie the cream and sugar. She poured in cream, but no sugar, and I watched, mesmerized as she took a sip.

Seeing me looking, Elsie looked surprised. I quickly dropped my gaze, chastising myself for not being able to stop in staring.

Because she fascinates you, I heard my inner voice saying, but ignored it, then moved to the small table and chairs behind us. I sat down and Elsie followed, sitting directly opposite.

The silence was thick with tension, the ticking of the clock in my room filling dead air. Clasping my mug of coffee, I asked, “You do much while I’ve been gone?”

Elsie let put down her coffee to write on her pad. She turned it for me to read. “I watched you.”

“You watched me play?” I asked, my heart firing off like cannon.

Elsie nodded her head, and wrote, “On the TV. Lexi invited me to watch it with her. She explained to me what you play and,” she paused, her cheeks a rosy pink, and added, “how good you are.”

This time it was my cheeks that burned. My finger traced a thread of wood on the table and I prompted, “Did you enjoy the game?”

Elsie’s head tilted to the side. I looked up to see her tongue on her lip again. My heart lurched. I didn’t know why, but that action flattened me.

“I have never watched football before, so I didn’t understand much.” I nodded my head, when she slowly added, “But I liked watching you.”

Elsie dropped her head as she wrote that last part. But I couldn’t stop the flood of happiness that filled my body. And I couldn’t help the smile that spread on my lips.

Elsie peeked up at me, and smiled too. Her hand was laying flat to the table. I fought the urge to reach out and hold it. But when Elsie bravely lifted her head fully, and widened her smile, nothing could stop me from taking her hand in mine.

She gasped as I curled my hand around hers, but she didn’t let go. In fact, she flipped her palm and linked our fingers. And we sat there for a moment, silent, simply staring at our hands. I just prayed she ignored the slight shaking of my fingers.

Taking another drink of my coffee to help calm my mind imagining kissing her lips, I noticed Elsie writing something else. When she turned the pad, it read, “There were a lot of people watching in the stadium.”

Placing my mug on the table, I nodded my head. “Yeah. It’s crazy. At first I didn’t think I’d be able to play in front of a big crowd.” I shrugged. “I’m not real good in crowds, or being the center of attention. But I learned to block it out. Learned to stay in the zone and not see the crowd, if that makes sense.”

Elsie wrote again. “You like playing football?”

I huffed a laugh, and replied, “I love it. I’m good at it.” I traced the knot of wood again. “When I play, I can block things out of my head. It’s just me on the field with the ball. I have one goal, to score touchdowns.” Sucking in a breath, I confessed, “It makes me forget, for as long as I’m on that gridiron… well, everything.”

The dull ache that forever sat in my stomach stabbed and I shifted on my seat. Elsie sat still, then she asked the question I dreaded most.

“Where’s your mom?”

My eyes read and re-read that question, and my throat closed up like it always did. A pair of dark eyes flashed through my mind, but I struggled to see the rest. The usual panic that came with that struggle set in. Before I could get to my feet, Elsie squeezed my hand, her touch pouring strength into my heart.

I breathed, I breathed, until I found myself saying, “She’s dead.”

Elsie’s grip hardened so much that it caused me to look at her face. She was stone, her eyes wide and glossy. This time I squeezed her hand. “Elsie?” My voice must have snapped her from whatever was haunting her mind.

Her chest was rising and falling so fast that I pushed her coffee toward her. Elsie picked up her mug and sipped the steaming drink. As she lowered her coffee, I could see her hands were trembling. I opened my mouth to ask why, when she picked up her pen. I waited, desperate to see what she would write, then she pushed the pad toward me.

“My mom died too.”

I stared at those four words, and sadness slammed into me like a freight train. My breathing was shallow, and I slowly raised my eyes to see Elsie’s eyes brimming with tears. I stared at her beautiful face, a face that had seen tragedy—like me. A face that had watched her mamma die—just like me, and Elsie pressed her hand over her heart and clenched her fist. The pained expression on her face showcased her hurt more than any words could convey. I knew it, because I felt it too.

The knuckles on our joined hands were white as we clung to each other. But as hard as this moment was, something light, some feeling as light as air itself, lifted some of the ache in my heart.

She understood.

With few words, and little explanation, I knew Elsie understood me.

I dragged in a ragged breath, and Elsie mirrored my action. Minutes passed, silence again wrapping around us.

When the throbbing of my heart calmed, I asked, “Where are you from, Elsie?”

Elsie’s eyes narrowed on me, but she wrote, “Portland, Oregon.”