A Million Reasons [ S. SALVATORE ]

CHAPTER EIGHT

          When Stefan takes his leave, there is little to keep her mind occupied and distracted from her worries. Has Stefan read the letter? she thinks as the food is passed around. Is he horrified by her confessions? she wonders as Mr. Lockwood says a toast. Perhaps there is a chance he could love me back, her heart hopes as the evening ends. It's a fanciful dream, one she secretly entertains despite her better judgement.

          She spends the following day fiddling with embroidery, tweaking her flower arrangements, drifting from room to room, waiting for him. Waiting for a sign, a reply, a knock on her door, anything. Then comes the creeping fear that the book of poems may be collecting dust, forgotten on a shelf somewhere, never to be opened.

          It's only been a day. A very long, nerve wracking day. And while the hours seem to drift by ever so slowly, they somehow turn into days, before she finds herself well into the second week after her confession. Still, no response. No rejection but no acknowledgement either. She's not sure whether to be upset or glad.

          She almost wonders whether she would prefer the brutal sting of rejection. At least she would know where Stefan stands. That must be better than this limbo.

          But what if he should return her feelings? What then? Adelaide is married.

          Some days, she sits by the window and regrets the moment she slipped the letter between the pages of the tome. It felt as if she had sealed her fate by making a very fatal error. It felt as if she had killed her most treasured friendship because of her selfish feelings. Feelings that she knew, deep in her heart, that Stefan could not return. And so she keeps herself company, trying to find anything that might occupy her thoughts without reminding her of him.

          A moment of peace comes when she's planting new flowers for autumn. Chrysanthemums always bring color when the world grows dull. Stefan once brought her a bouquet of mums, years ago now, and she's adored the flower ever since. It's hard work too, digging in the soil, placing the seeds over and over again. But it keeps her from aimlessly wandering the house, sulky or anxious.

          Even with the cool breeze she breaks a sweat, and she's wiping at her forehead when she hears the thunder of hooves approaching from behind her. Turning her head, she sees him veering off the dirt road to ride towards her. She stands on remaking legs, hastily wiping her dirtied hands on the white apron wrapped around her waist. She can do nothing else but stand and wait, watching as he trots towards her, and desperately try to think of what she'll say to him, how she can explain the letter away.

          She's scared, she's lonely, she's not in her right state. Stefan wouldn't know better, he never does.

          When he reaches her place, right in front of the house, right in front of the torn up grown, he slides from atop his horse. He looks almost as messy as she, missing his hat and coat, wearing nothing but his trousers, cotton shirt, and suspenders. His clothes look disheveled, buttons on his collar undone allowing a glimpse of his smooth chest underneath.

          The two face each other and Adelaide's words catch in her throat. He looks troubled, eyes dark and brow furrowed. Brooding. Damon often teased him for her.

          "I read your gift," he says, breaking the silence. It's the first thing he says to her, so calmly as if she hasn't been fretting over this reunion for over a week.

          "Oh?" she replies, wondering if this is what they will talk about, Keats and poetry and flowery language. Should they discuss Ode on a Grecian Urn while her heart races inside her chest?