Chapter 4 Eli
FOUR
ELI
Friday mornings always feel different. Lighter somehow. Like the weekend’s already poking its head around the corner.
I lean against the doorway of the maintenance shed, sipping coffee from my battered stainless mug.
The air’s still the perfect warmth from overnight, just a whisper of salt in it from the coast, and the playground’s quiet apart from a couple of early-arriving teachers hauling in boxes of stationery.
I like this part of the day—the calm before the storm of bells, announcements, and kids tearing across the oval like their lives depend on it.
Yesterday was one of my volunteer days at the men’s shed.
We’d finished sanding back an old cedar blanket box someone had pulled from a garage clear-out, and it came up a treat.
I’d also managed to put the final coat of oil on a custom piece I’d been working on at home—a low-profile Tasmanian oak coffee table with joinery I was quietly proud of.
Furniture making’s been a slow-burn love of mine since I did my carpentry and joinery cert at TAFE.
Carpentry on building sites was fast work—repetitive, sometimes brutal—but it paid well, especially in Queensland, where the next big job is always waiting.
Between storms, floods, and rebuilds, you never go hungry.
But furniture making? That’s a different kind of satisfaction.
Slower. More deliberate. Every joint, every line, every bit of grain telling you what it wants to be.
I don’t take commissions. That’s a quick way to turn joy into pressure.
I just build what I feel like building and either keep it, gift it, or sell it if someone insists.
I know I could do it full-time if I wanted.
But I don’t want to give this up—being here, close to Noah and Ava, able to pick them up from school and run them home while my sister works herself ragged.
It’s a privilege, really. One I’ve had to work my arse off for, but a privilege all the same. I’m not in the rat race anymore, and I’ve got no plans to climb back in.
Today’s special for another reason. This afternoon is the big after-school hangout Noah’s been talking about all week. He and Henry made the plans on Wednesday, sealing it with all the gravitas of a trade agreement between nations.
I’ll be honest—when I first heard about their plans, my gut reaction was hesitation.
Letting my nephew go off with another family, especially when I don’t know the bloke well, doesn’t sit well.
Ant’s easy on the eyes—no point pretending otherwise—and he seems like a good guy.
But I’ve seen enough to know “seems” doesn’t mean much.
That’s why I was relieved—impressed, even—when Ant jumped in before I could say anything and made it clear I was invited too.
Not just me—Ava as well. He’d turned to her and asked what she liked doing, actually waited for her to think about it, and then promised to make sure she’d have a part in things so she wouldn’t feel like the boys had ditched her.
That right there loosened a tightness in me.
Showed me he was thinking about more than just keeping the kids occupied.
And I can’t help it—the thought of seeing him outside the school gates, of having a proper chat that isn’t interrupted by bells or a kid needing help with a shoelace—yeah, there’s a little bubble of excitement there.
Especially after Noah, in that blunt way ten-year-olds have, mentioned Henry’s “other” dad being overseas. My interest didn’t just pique—it properly sharpened. Not that I’m about to go digging into someone else’s business, but it made me curious about the story.
I’m hauling a couple of bins out towards the admin block when Amanda appears, carrying a tote bag that looks like it’s one gust away from spilling its contents across the path.
“Morning,” she chirps. “Big day?”
“Every day’s a big day when it starts with bins.”
She laughs. “I hear you’ve got social plans this afternoon.”
Word travels fast. “If you mean taking my niece and nephew to a mate’s place, then yeah. Social.”
Her eyes twinkle. “That wouldn’t be the new single dad in Year 5, would it?”
I just give her a look.
She grins like she’s caught me out. “Play your cards right, Eli.”
I roll my eyes and keep moving. “It’s a kids’ playdate, Amanda, not speed dating.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says in that singsong way that tells me she’s not listening.
By midmorning, the quiet’s gone. I’ve patched a fence paling the preppies were using as a makeshift seesaw, swept up half a tonne of bark from the paths, and helped Carrie, who’s preparing for a science project with her class, lug a delivery of potting mix into the garden shed.
The air’s hotter now, cicadas starting their relentless chorus in the gum trees at the edge of the oval.
At lunch, I’m sitting on a low wall near the veggie patch, sipping water and checking my phone.
There’s a message from Mel—Don’t forget, Ava’s got her reader to do before bed tonight—and a picture of Ava from this morning, grinning with her hair in two lopsided braids.
I send back a thumbs-up and promise to have them home on time.
The afternoon stretches out the way Fridays do. The kids are buzzing, teachers are counting down the minutes, and I can feel the whole place shifting into weekend mode. I take a moment to duck into the on-site greenhouse and check the seedlings there that the Year 3s will be planting next week.
By the time the final bell’s close, I’m hovering near the gates. Parents start to gather—more mums than dads again—and I’m half listening to Ava tell me about her day while I keep an eye out for Ant and Henry.
They appear a moment later, Henry bouncing on his heels like he’s been running on sugar fumes all day. Ant’s walking at an easy pace beside him, looking around until his eyes find mine. There’s that flicker—recognition, warmth—that I feel right down to my gut.
“Hey,” he says when they reach us. “Big day?”
“Always,” I say. “You ready for these two to create chaos?”
Henry’s already halfway to Noah. Then they clap each other on the back in that awkward, too-cool way boys their age do before making a beeline for the handball court.
Ava starts after them, but Ant crouches slightly so he’s at her height.
“You bring that colouring set you were telling me about?” he asks her.
She nods shyly and pulls a small zip-up pouch from her backpack.
“Perfect,” he says. “We’ve got the dining table cleared for it.”
I watch the exchange, that little bubble of excitement expanding just enough to make me wonder what the next couple of hours might hold. Not that I’m expecting anything dramatic, but I’m looking forward to them more than is probably sensible.
We load up in Ant’s car—me riding shotgun, the kids in the back, already arguing about which Mario character is superior.
Henry’s adamant it’s Yoshi. Noah reckons anyone who picks Yoshi is “basic.” Ava, sitting between them with her colouring pouch on her lap, informs them that Peach is the best because “she has a pink car and wins in style.”
Ant glances at me over the top of his sunglasses as he pulls away from the kerb. “I’m learning so much already.”
“It’s good intel,” I say. “Next time you’re forced into a race, you’ll know the politics of it.”
He grins briefly, and it’s the kind that sneaks up on you—quick, a little crooked, but warm enough to stick around in your head.
The drive isn’t long. We wind through a couple of leafy streets, past low-set weatherboard houses and tidy lawns, before turning into a driveway shaded by a massive poinciana tree. The house itself is modest and neat, with a wide front verandah and a couple of mismatched pot plants by the door.
Inside, it’s all light and air—ceiling fans turning lazily, the scent of something citrus in the air. It’s not styled within an inch of its life; there’s a lived-in feel. A throw blanket on the couch, a stack of board games on a low shelf, Henry’s school hat hanging lopsided on a hook.
The boys make a beeline for the lounge and boot up the Nintendo. Ava lingers by the dining table, where Ant’s set out a large sheet of butcher paper and a jar full of colouring pencils.
“You weren’t kidding,” I say, nodding towards the table.
“I try to deliver on my promises,” he says, heading into the kitchen. “Coffee? Tea? Something cold?”
“Cold would be good,” I reply, sliding into a chair at the table with Ava.
He comes back with a jug of iced water, beads of condensation running down the sides, and stacked plastic cups. He sets them down before perching on the chair opposite. For a moment, we just watch Ava lean over her paper, tongue poking out slightly as she colours in a giant flower.
“She’s quiet when she’s focused,” I say.
He smiles as he starts pouring water. “Better than my kid. When Henry’s concentrating, you can hear the sound effects.”
As if on cue, there’s a loud whoop from the lounge, followed by Noah’s groan of defeat.
Ant’s eyes meet mine, amused. “Friendly competition,” he says.
“Until it isn’t.”
We lapse into an easy rhythm—little bits of conversation about the school, the weather, where the best bakeries are.
It’s comfortable, no pressure. Still, I’m aware of him in that way you are when someone’s got your attention without even trying.
The way he leans back slightly in his chair, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his voice drops when he’s searching for the right words.
“So,” he says after a moment, “how long have you been here?”
“Three years. Moved up from Brisbane. Needed a change of pace.”
“That’s a hell of a change,” he says. “Quieter?”
“Much. On purpose. I work part-time at the school, do some volunteer stuff, make furniture when the mood takes me. It’s enough.”
“Furniture?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Like… building it?”
“Yep. Carpentry and joinery originally. Building sites for years. But I like making things you can slow down over. Pieces you can take your time with.”
He nods like he gets it. “I used to work from home part of the time before the move. I’ll get back there eventually. Right now, it’s nice to meet people face to face, but… I do like the slower days.”
We talk about work, moving from cities, the weird in-between feeling of starting over somewhere new. At one point, Ava asks Ant for a different shade of green, and he doesn’t just hand it to her—he gets up, crouches beside her, and helps her find exactly the right pencil.
That small, patient moment sticks with me.
After an hour or so, the game noises in the lounge die down, and the boys appear, demanding snacks. Ant produces a plate of cut-up fruit and a bowl of popcorn, and somehow the five of us end up outside under the shade of the poinciana, the kids sprawled on a rug and talking over each other.
It’s nice. Easy. I don’t feel like an outsider here, and I’m not sure when exactly that happened.
At some point, Ant ducks inside for more water, and when he comes back, he sits next to me on the steps, close enough that our knees nearly touch.
“Thanks for coming today,” he says quietly, watching the kids. “Henry’s been buzzing about it since Wednesday.”
“Noah too,” I admit. “And… thanks for including Ava. Means a lot.”
He glances over at me then, and his expression—open, unguarded—makes the air feel a little warmer.
We don’t say much after that. We just sit, listening to the cicadas, letting the kids’ chatter fill the space.
When it’s time to go, the boys are reluctant to pack it in. There’s talk of “next time” before they’ve even put their shoes on, and Ant catches my eye again, like he’s silently asking if that’s all right.
I nod.
Yeah. I think there will be a next time, and maybe not just for the kids.