That night I got home late after a few drinks and a game of darts with Amos at the pub. The cottage was dark and quiet. I slipped my shoes off by the door in the kitchen and gave Sam a quick pat as his tail thumped against the floor.
As I passed through the living room, I heard something that made me stop—quiet inhales and exhales coming from the armchair. I silently turned on the tabletop lamp at the end of the couch and smiled at the sight of Elsie sleeping in the chair in her dressing gown, a blanket wrapped around her, and my well-worn copy of Death on the Nile by Agatha Christie in her lap. She was a few chapters into it already.
“Elsie,” I murmured. “Elsie?”
Her eyes opened faintly before falling shut again.
Sighing, I relocated the book to the table and switched the light back off. Made bolder by beer, I carefully slid my arms beneath her small frame and peered down at her peaceful, slumbering face as her head fell limply against my shoulder. Avoiding the creaky spot on the bottom stair, I carried her upstairs, making sure to not bump her head as I maneuvered her down the hall and into her room. I thought she might be able to feel the frantic pounding of my heart but she didn’t stir.
As I slowly lowered her down onto her bed and pulled my arms from under her, she opened her eyes again and gazed up at me from beneath heavy lids.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi. Go back to sleep.”
Soon her eyes were closed again and her shallow sleepy breaths returned to their previous rhythm. Cautiously closing her door as I left, I went next door to my own bedroom. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall, a fervent realization shaking me of all the warmth and comfort of exhaustion and alcohol: if I didn’t soon tell Elsie how I felt, I would go mad.