While I was away at school, at least once a month I’d get a package in the mail from him. Inside would be his latest sculpture. A miniature Stonehenge or a tiny, detailed Arc de Triomphe. He’d never attach a note but he hadn’t needed to. Those sculptures had been the only message I needed.

I got up and walked over to where he was working and sat down. I watched him slowly mold the piece of clay in his hands. Manipulating it into some semblance of a shape.

I didn’t dare speak until he acknowledged me. I knew that when he was working on his art, he didn’t like to be disturbed. But he liked me watching him. When we had first gotten together, he would often ask me to come to his studio on community college campus to watch him work.

When we were kids and secret friends, I had enjoyed nothing more than to watch him doodle in his notebooks. Flynn seemed to reach a level of Zen while drawing or sculpting that was calming. Even for me.

I pulled my knees up underneath me and rested my chin in my hand. Flynn picked up the small chisel and start scrapping away the excess clay, putting it in a pile off to the side.

The drone of the television in the background and the methodical movements of Flynn’s hands lulled me into a peaceful quiet.

A little while later I was being nudged awake.

“You’re snoring,” Flynn said flatly.

I sat up and wiped drool from my lip with the back of my hand. I had a crick in my neck from falling asleep with my head at an awkward angle.

“Sorry,” I muttered, stretching my aching muscles. Must remember to never fall asleep sitting up ever again.

Flynn slid something across the table toward me.

“Don’t pick it up, the clay is still wet,” he ordered.

“Yes sir,” I muttered, leaning down to get a better look.

“Is that a church?” I asked.

“It’s Westminster Abbey in London. I hadn’t made you a new sculpture in a while.”

I smiled. “It’s pretty. I love it,” I said sincerely.

Flynn lowered his head, not meeting my eyes. “Are you happy here, Ellie?” he asked, throwing me with the change in subject.

“What?” I asked, rubbing sleep out of my eye.

“Are you happy here? I know you didn’t want to move back. You wanted me to come with you. I didn’t. Now you’re here. But I haven’t asked you if you’re glad. I can’t tell if you are. Sometimes you smile and I know you’re happy. Like when you came home and saw the flowers. And when we were having sex, I know you’re glad to be here. But you also look sad sometimes, so it’s hard for me to know,” Flynn said in slow, thoughtful sentences.

“Whoa. Where’s this coming from?” I asked.

“I met with Leonard this morning. I have a session every Monday at ten o’clock. I have a two-hour break between classes. Then I have a session on Thursday after work. So I went this morning and we talked about you. I told you we talk about you a lot,” Flynn said, looking at me for confirmation that I understood.

I nodded. “Yes, you told me,” I said, still not liking it but that wasn’t the point. Something had agitated Flynn all of a sudden and I didn’t know what it was. I thought we were having a good day. Now it had turned into something else.

“Leonard asked if you were happy, and I didn’t know how to answer him. Because I didn’t know. You’ve never said you were happy, and I can’t tell if you are. So I wanted to ask if you were happy because Leonard told me it’s good to make sure. Because having a relationship is about both people.” Flynn had his hands clasped on the table in front of him, and I knew he was struggling not to wring them together like he used to.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I should answer the question. If I told him truthfully how I was feeling, that I wasn’t sure I could stomach the thought of living in Wellston, West Virginia until I died, I was pretty certain it would upset him.

If l lied and told him I was completely happy, I would hate myself for not being honest.

“I’m happy being with you,” I said, hoping that was all he needed to hear.

“But you’re not happy living here,” Flynn deduced, showing an uncharacteristic moment of astuteness.

I sighed, wanting to touch him but at the same time, needing the physical distance to give him this truth he seemed to need to hear.

“I hate Wellston,” I let out in a rush.

Flynn blinked. No other reaction. Just blinked.

“You hate Wellston,” he repeated.

“Yes, I hate it. I’ve lived here most of my life. And it was a pretty crappy life, Flynn. Nothing good ever happened to me here.”

Flynn blinked again, his jaw clenching ever so slightly.

“Except for you. And even some of that was horrible. The way I treated you. The fire...” Flynn looked away, clearly upset by that particular memory.

“I don’t know if you realized this, but I was a pretty miserable person,” I continued.

“You never smiled much,” Flynn offered, seeming to think about what I was telling him.

“So, no, I wasn’t thrilled at the thought of coming back here. I worked my butt off to get my degree and moving back to West Virginia feels almost like a defeat.”

“I don’t understand,” Flynn said, frowning.

“I wanted to leave so badly. I wanted you to come with me, Flynn! But you couldn’t. And that’s okay. But when I left, I never really wanted to come back here. Ever again. But I also knew that you were settled. That you wanted to be here. And I wanted to be with you. So I came back. I told you I would. It was a promise I wanted to keep.”