“I’m thinking about killing Eleanor.”

There. I’ve finally said it.

Becky frowns across the booth at me, her face a mixture of confusion and inquiry at my proclamation. Words form on her lips, then realization floods her features and she traps her words back inside unspoken. It’s apparent by this gesture alone that Eleanor isn’t that important.

I get that, I suppose. Eleanor is fictional. Eleanor was created in my imagination years ago and has been shelved and re-shelved off and on for the better part of my adult life. She’s been meticulously created and re-created so many times and to Becky’s credit, she hasn’t been on my mind or in my discussions in a while. She’s been shelved once again.

Here we are though, with our visit drawing to a close and the important, soul-searching discussions being kept at bay. I catch her eye and dare her to drop the subject of Eleanor and her impending fate. We could pick up this thread, re-invent a new ending for Eleanor and her love, Samuel, and avoid the reality of actual life. That would be the ideal thing to do.

Two women at the booth behind us are talking about a recent trip to a hypnotist. “I swear,” one says to the other, “she said twelve pounds in three weeks.” Dance Moms, both of them. The bane of my existence, aside from Madame Bienve herself. Fortunately, it’s late afternoon and by this time Madame has locked her upstairs dance studio and gone home for the day. No more tapping of her stick on the floor above my head. No more scowling, looking down her long, thin nose at me, or correcting my speech. Until tomorrow, anyway.

“Well, maybe not brutally killing her exactly. It’d be pretty hard to combine horror with historical romance.” I frown and gnaw at the skin surrounding my nail on my index finger, considering. “Maybe having Samuel accidentally kill her. Or maybe she and Samuel should die tragically together, instead of all this happily ever after nonsense no one cares about reading. Give the people what they apparently want.”

“Still no bites?”

“Nope.” I pop the P sound for emphasis. “Unless you consider twenty-three rejections a bite.”

“Oh.” Becky swirls her latte with a stir stick, playing with her food, treading carefully. “Maybe it is time to let them die,” she shrugs while she licks the stick like a child with a milkshake straw.

Surely she knows she’s crossed a line. She knows how much A Maiden’s Voyage means to me. She’s been hearing about Eleanor and Samuel since the day I first put pen to paper, knows their story as well as she knows my own — or thinks she knows my own.

Truth be told, no one knows my real story — not even sure I do. I’ve constructed one that serves me well, but my life has more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese, and I’m uncertain how to fill them. Dwelling on them brings too much to the surface that needs to stay buried. That’s why Eleanor keeps coming off the shelf, I suppose. I can fill in Eleanor’s plot holes, and in doing so avoid my own.

I place my elbows on the table in front of me and hold my head with fists under my chin. The new poster I had framed and hung over the lunch counter was a good choice. That pastry on the little china plate — the light captures the milkiness of the icing that drips off of it beautifully. Even the bit of tarnish in the hollow of the silver spoon that’s been propped on the plate — a nice touch. The tarnish spot blurs and takes on the shape of Texas as my mind meanders in directions I can’t afford to let it, not now. I run my tongue over the soft flesh inside my cheek, tasting the chocolate chip cookie I ate hours earlier until I’m calm enough to change the subject myself.

“So. Hailey’s last year,” I sigh and rest the side of my face in the palm of my hand, scrunching it. “Me, the mother of an eighteen-year-old. She’s graduating! We’re officially old!” My voice rises with each proclamation and I lean in, simply to show how good-natured I am, not angered in the least on Eleanor’s behalf, not anxious about my meandering thoughts.

“Oh, jeez. Remember us at that age?” Becky watches my waiter, Cory, wipe down the counters with a washcloth and toss dirty dishes into a gray plastic bin. There are still crumbs under the barstool, sprinkled across the wood floor like a trail. Huge chunks of Pumpkin Maple Muffin left behind by that little boy that came in earlier with his mom.

“I try not to.” I fold my hands in my lap, the mannerisms of a wayward girl turned proper, or attempting to appear so. “I was trying to graduate from high school and plan a shotgun wedding.”

“I was there.” She flattens her lips. “I remember it well. So what’s Baby Daddy Greg up to these days?”

“Same as always, I guess.” I shrug and glance across the street at the bookstore and watch the owner, Deaton, maneuver his clearance rack through his doorway while thinking about my ex-husband’s new life. “Still lying and sneaking around, I would imagine.”

Becky follows my gaze. “Well, he’s a looker.” She raises her brows to see if I have any details on the man across the street that’s now picking up a stack of books he’s dropped.

“Deaton?” I make a face like she might be hallucinating. I squint and try to see what she might be seeing, but I can’t. All I see is goofy Deaton, in his wire-rimmed glasses that he constantly adjusts up and down his nose like the doctor gave him the wrong prescription. Deaton’s not a looker. He’s just… Deaton. A friend, a brother of sorts, a big blob of geekiness.

Becky and I grow silent, both lost in our thoughts about everything that’s happened, both of us continuing to avoid the real questions, the real truths as we know them.

I should go back and try to find another poster to hang beside the new one—maybe a steaming mug of something to fill that space. The mug would need to match the dessert plate somewhat and…

“How is she?” Becky asks with no change in tone, like we’ve been sitting here talking about her this whole time instead of made-up people I can control. Her voice is almost a whisper though, as if she’s afraid to intrude on my thoughts. I know how hard this is. You’re damned if you ask and damned if you don’t.

How is she?

It changes from day to day, depending on Ian. Depending on the weather. Depending on which foot hits the floor first in the morning and how hard. Depending on if she’s found a doctor to keep writing the prescriptions.

“She’s alright. She’s plodding along.” I can never figure out an answer to this question. My response is unsure, noncommittal. “You know how it goes. Strong one day, broken the next.”

She nods, nothing much else to say about it. It’s been this way forever. But then, “Ames, don’t you ever think it might be time…”

“No! I don’t.”