Chapter 59 Jayden
JAYDEN
Eli’s been fishing things out of the cart all night. Every time I toss in something “unapproved,” he gives me this look—half exasperation, half a smile he’s trying real hard to hide—and puts it back on the shelf.
So, of course, I throw in another bag of trail mix just to see the vein in his temple twitch.
“We’re supposed to be shopping for dinner,” Eli mutters, setting it back like he’s in charge or something.
“Hey, we need snacks for the flight,” I shoot back, grabbing a box of protein bars he hates just to watch him put them back, too.
Finley’s watching us like we’re her own personal comedy hour, a strawberry-sweet smile tugging at her lips. “Do I need to pack you both snack boxes like you’re five?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately. “With notes. And stickers. Maybe a gold star if we behave.”
“You’re not old enough to have a kid his age,” Eli says mildly, unloading spinach into the cart.
“I’m only three years older than you,” I counter.
“Feels like more sometimes.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but there’s the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth when Finley laughs under her breath.
She drops a bag of pretzels in the cart just to see him scowl before he puts it back on the shelf.
“Stop encouraging him,” Eli mutters.
I can’t help laughing, mostly because he’s glaring at both of us now, and it’s adorable.
“But it’s so fun, Bombshell,” she sing-songs, picking up a sharing bar of chocolate and putting it in the cart. “It’s for JJ’s lunchbox.”
“Jesus, he’s going to be climbing the walls with that much sugar. You don’t have to sit next to him. He’s bad enough on honey roasted cashews.”
“Swap seats,” Fin suggests, walking toward the checkouts with a shrug.
Eli and I both pause, shaking our heads at her nonchalant remark.
“She doesn’t know any better,” Eli sighs.
“We have to educate her on the importance of hockey superstitions,” I tell her solemnly, falling into step beside him.
We reach the checkout just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I juggle grocery bags, Finley reaching to grab one as I thumb open the screen.
The message is from the >hey daddy< group chat.
It’s new, and I’m not sure how I feel about the name Matheo gave it.
But as always, his heart is in the right place.
And it’s times like these when it makes total sense that he’s the alternate captain of the team.
Without Dylan in the group the guys are all volunteering ways to help him and his family get through the tough time ahead.
Matheo
Update on Paige: she’s home.
Auguste
Tried calling earlier, but he didn’t pick up.
Matheo
He needs space right now
Ollie
Maybe we should convince him to stay home???
Matheo
Already tried. Paige wants to keep things normal
Momma was the same when she was sick. She insisted everything stay normal. Apparently, it stopped her from feeling worse. Reminded her of what she had to fight for.
Ansel
Lizzie’s taking Lily and Micah to Disneyland on Saturday so Paige can rest.
August
Lily will be stoked. I’ll pay for fast track so they can get all the crazy rides in
Matheo
Good idea
Erik
I got Door Dash covered
Matheo
Liv will swing by every day to feed the kittens and change the litter on the way to the shelter.
I tighten my grip on the phone.
A beat of quiet hangs heavy between the lines. Even through text, it sits like a stone in my gut.
Eli leans over my shoulder, scans the messages, then pulls out his phone and adds…
JJ and I have flight snacks covered
Three dots keep wiggling across the screen before a slew of messages pops up.
Erik
Snacks include sugar
Matheo
Potato chips are snacks
Ansel
CHOCOLATE
Auguste
Maybe Jayden should pick?
Eli’s eye roll is so loud for him that I snort.
We got snacks
Auguste
Roll Ups. Dylan loves that shit.
Matheo
And fruit jerky. Pineapple
Erik
Chocolate banana chips
Eli
WE HAVE THE SNACKS COVERED
Finley reads over my arm, her hand sliding over my back like she knows the weight sitting in my chest. Eli’s palm presses warm and solid on my shoulder for half a second before he reaches for a bag of licorice gummies I like to take on flights to stop my ears from popping during take-off.
He doesn’t say anything. But he’s here. Right here.
And it helps more than any word could.
I lock the screen as Finley guides us back down the snack aisle and we fill the cart with all the requests and more.
When we leave the grocery store, stepping out into the evening air, my chest is lighter. It feels good to do something instead of worrying and thinking about all the crappy possibilities.
Eli takes the cart from me before I can argue, his shoulder brushing mine in a quick squeeze as I shoot Momma a quick text while we cross the lot.
Momma
To the moon
Her reply allows me to breathe again as we load the groceries into Eli’s G-Wagon. Finley climbs into the back seat while I toss the last bag in and claim shotgun.
Eli pulls us out of the lot with his usual no-nonsense focus while I thumb through playlists.
“Are you serious about this seating thing?” Finley asks, leaning between the seats.
“Dead serious,” I tell her.
“She doesn’t get it,” Eli says, eyes on the road.
“Superstitions,” I remind her again. “We have a cup to win.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling when she leans forward between us, chin on her folded arms against my seat and asks, “When am I getting my driving lessons, Elijah? Summer’s gonna need more help as she gets further along, and I can’t exactly Uber between suppliers forever.”
He glances at her in the rearview, eyes softer than his voice when he says, “Next weekend, maybe. We’ll start in a parking lot somewhere quiet.”
A low-key squeal bursts from her as she plants an exaggerated playful kiss on Eli’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
I can’t help grinning at her excitement. Seeing her this happy softens the weight of today.
“What are you going to do if she likes the fast lane?”
“Huh? What does that mean?” Finley asks.
“It means, Eli drives like a grandpa,” I tease.
Eli smirks faintly. “Do I need to remind you of the incident with Matheo’s mailbox?”
“It jumped out at me,” I mutter. “It’s in a stupid place anyway. And he doesn’t use it.”
Finley laughs at our back and forth, warm and bright in the back seat, and it’s the most normal life has felt in so long.
She reaches forward, fingers brushing mine as she steals my phone. “My turn for the music.”
When she finds something new on Spotify and the first chords fill the car, Eli glances at her in the mirror.
A soft pull at his mouth while she bobs her head along to the catchy rhythm.
Then as she places my phone in the cupholder, his hand skims her arm before it settles on the console waiting to touch her again when she leans forward next.
By the time we pull into the garage, the playlist’s grown by five songs.
Finley’s curled into the back seat, humming along, her eyes half-lidded like she’s memorizing every note.
Eli kills the engine, and she finally peels herself off the seat with this lazy stretch that makes her sweater ride up just enough to test my sanity.
We unload the groceries together, shoulders bumping, bags swinging. She drops a kiss to my jaw when I hand her the last one, quick and soft, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t light me up all over.
Inside, the apartment feels warmer than it did this morning. Brighter somehow, even with the shadows stretching long across the floor. Eli tosses his keys into the dish by the door, shrugs off his hoodie, and trails us to the kitchen like he’s not already scanning for ways to help.
He’s useless in the kitchen. Not even kidding. But he leans against the counter while Finley pulls vegetables from the bags and lines them up on the breakfast bar in front of him.
“We’re doing bowls, right?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at me.
“Grilled veggies for Eli. Salmon for us. Whole grain rice. Easy.” I flash her a grin, bumping her hip with mine as I grab the cutting board. “Chef JJ at your service.”
Eli opens the fridge, takes one look at the chaos inside, and shuts it again with a groan. As messy as he is, his fridge is always in order. Everything is regimented and meticulously prepped by his chef.
“You wanna help or just brood in the corner?” I toss over my shoulder when he opens the fridge again and starts trying to make sense of it before giving up for real.
He smirks faintly, the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll sauté onions.”
“Atta boy,” I tease, knowing damn well the last time he touched a frying pan, he almost burnt the pine nuts he was meant to toast lightly.
The three of us fall into this easy rhythm. Finley chops, I season, Eli stirs. I love how easy this feels between us. So normal, like we’ve been doing it for years.
Every now and then Eli’s shoulder brushes mine as we switch spots, the touch casual but lingering in a way it never used to. Like the walls he’s always carried are slowly cracking, piece by piece, and tonight’s warmth is spilling through.
Even so, the weight from the hospital still hangs in the back of my head. Every time I drift toward it, Eli nudges me back with a hand to my shoulder when he passes me the tongs, a quiet look when Finley laughs at something I say. He doesn’t call me on it, but he doesn’t let me drown in it, either.
By the time the rice is done and the salmon’s crisp around the edges, Finley’s leaning against the counter with a hard seltzer in hand, cheeks pink from the stove’s heat. She grins at Eli when he plates everything, at me when I steal a bite of her broccoli before sitting down.
It’s… domestic. That’s the only word for it.
The three of us at the table, eating something we cooked together, with the music still low in the background and the city lights bleeding through the windows. For a second, the road trip, the games, the past—none of it exists.
Just this.
Her soft laughter. His quiet presence. The peace I didn’t know I needed settling under my skin.
Dinner doesn’t last long. We’re athletes—none of us linger when there’s food in front of us—but it isn’t just the eating.
It’s the way Finley keeps leaning into Eli when she laughs, or the way he keeps sliding things onto her plate like she hasn’t eaten enough.
It’s me catching both of them watching each other when they think no one’s looking.
And maybe it’s the tight ache in my chest every time I remember Dylan’s face earlier, every time Paige’s name whispers across the back of my mind like a weight I can’t shake off.
I think Eli feels it, too. There’s this moment when I catch him watching me across the table. He doesn’t say anything—he rarely does—but his fingers brush my wrist when he takes my empty plate, deliberate enough that I know he’s there. That he’s paying attention.
By the time the kitchen’s clean, the heaviness in my ribs feels easier to carry.
We end up on the sectional in the living room, the three of us collapsing into the cushions like we’ve lived here forever.
Finley claims the corner of the sectional, legs tucked under her, Wuthering Heights cracked open in her lap.
I stretch out beside her, head tipped back, while Eli settles on her other side with the remote in hand like he might actually pick something to watch.
He doesn’t. Of course.
Finley reads quietly, stopping only when something ridiculous happens in the book and she has to groan about it.
“Shoot,” she mutters after a chapter or two, blotting at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “I swear, I hate this guy one minute and love him the next.”
“Because he’s a narcissistic bastard,” I tell her, deadpan.
“But he loves Catherine so hard,” she argues, voice wobbling as she sniffles.
“They are the definition of toxic, Lucky.” I drop my hand to her knee, squeezing lightly before rolling my head toward her. “You need a palate cleanser after this one. Something that doesn’t make you cry on me.”
Her lips twitch like she might smile. “Like what?”
“Austen,” I say instantly. “She wrote happy endings before they were cool.”
“Not sure Mr. Darcy counts as happy,” she mutters, turning a page.
“He’s better than this guy,” I nod at the book in her hands. “At least he’s not trying to ruin lives for fun.”
Her quiet laugh sinks under my skin, softening the edges of everything else crowding my head.
I glance at Eli. He’s leaning back, eyes half-lidded, listening, but not interrupting. There’s this calm about him tonight, but every now and then his gaze flicks to me like he’s checking in. Making sure I’m still here, still present.
And the truth is… I’m not. Not fully.
My brain keeps spinning—over Dylan, over Paige, over the fact that in less than twenty-four hours, we’ll be on a plane and Finley will be here without us. Without me.
The idea twists something sharp in my gut.
Then her hand slides over mine where it’s resting on her knee. Just a small thing. Her fingers lacing through mine like she knows exactly where my head’s at without me saying a word.
And Eli… Eli just smiles.
It’s a simple enough action, but the ease that it washes over me is everything I need.
A look from him and a touch from her…
And my world steadies itself.