Chapter 8 Eli
EIGHT
ELI
By Thursday, the heatwave’s eased enough that working outside doesn’t feel like penance.
I’m in before seven, dew still clinging to the oval like a thin lace.
Sprinklers tick over the far sidelines, throwing rainbows into the low sun.
A kookaburra laughs from the paperbarks by the boundary fence.
For ten quiet minutes, it’s just me, the birds, and the soft thrum of town waking up.
It’s been a few days since that afternoon with Ant.
We’ve seen each other in the in-between—school pick-ups, a coffee on Tuesday while the kids hammered out a handball treaty—but there’s a new hum under everything now.
I catch myself looking for him across the yard without meaning to.
I know the shape of his walk already. The way he tips his cap when he spots me.
The way his smile lands—small, a little crooked, and somehow all mine.
I coil the last hose and duck into the staffroom for water. My phone rings just as I step inside.
“You busy this arvo?” Mel says, like hello is optional.
“Define busy.” I pry open a cold bottle from the fridge and lean on the counter.
“Someone’s called in sick and asked me to work an extra few hours. I’ll need you to grab the gremlins and run point till eight if that’s okay.” She hesitates, then adds, “It means shifting Noah’s plan with Henry. Or expanding it.”
“Expanding it,” I confirm automatically. “If Ant’s cool. I’ll text him.”
“You’ve no doubt got him on speed dial.”
I don’t bite. Instead, I tell her I’ll look after the kids, say goodbye, then head back out with my water and run an eye over the Year 1 garden bed. The marigolds survived the weekend; the lavender is having a sulk. I deadhead a few blooms, then wipe my palms on my shorts and fish out my phone.
Me: You up?
Ant: Sadly yes.
Ant: Henry has declared Weet-Bix “too dusty” and is negotiating for pancakes.
Me: Tell him the council requires a handball licence for pancake households.
Ant: You work for the school, not the council.
Me: Powerful adjacent.
Me: Speaking of power—Mel’s working a long shift. You still good for the boys this arvo?
Ant: Yep. Can grab Noah and Ava with Henry.
Ant: I’m working from home. I should be finished with a call in plenty of time.
Me: I can do pick-up if you get stuck. You sure you’re okay to have Ava too? If you are, we can decamp to mine or yours.
Ant: Come to mine? I promised Ava a go at my colouring pencils that smell like fruit next time I saw her.
Me: She’ll marry you for the grape one.
Ant: Noted. See you later.
The bell tower clicks to life with a warble test. I pocket the phone and take the long way around to the prep playground, where I retie a loose net on the shade sail.
Teachers start to arrive, each trailing their own weather systems—coffee steam, paper stacks, harried hellos.
Amanda sweeps past with laminated shapes and a smile that says, Don’t you dare ask me how my photocopier’s going.
“Morning, domestic god,” she calls. “You look suspiciously buoyant.”
“Hydration,” I say.
“Mm. Or a man.”
“Workplace boundaries, Amanda.”
She laughs and disappears in a rustle of butcher paper.
I shake my head and go to the maintenance shed to swap tools for the bin run.
The morning unspools in steady jobs—tighten a loose tap, replace a squeaky hinge on the library door, rescue a volleyball from a gutter with the long pole like a suburban fisherman.
By lunchtime the cicadas start up, a wall of sound in the gums near the far fence. I sit on the low brick wall by the veggie patch with my water and let the heat soak into my shoulders. My phone buzzes again.
Ant: Curveball. Boss asked me to stay on a call at 3:30. Should be quick, but…
Me: I’ve got it.
Ant: Are you sure?
Me: Logistics. Powerful adjacent, remember? I’ll grab the kids and meet you at yours.
Ant: Thank you.
Me: Always.
I don’t overthink the always. It feels accurate. It also feels dangerous if I look at it too hard.
The afternoon tilts into that sticky pre-weekend energy.
Fifteen minutes before the bell, I’m already at the gate.
The bell splits the heat, and the tide turns.
Henry barrels out, hair damp, a smear of paint on his wrist. Noah appears a beat later, cricket bat poking out of his bag like an antenna.
Ava comes in at full tilt, clutching a drawing of a horse that is, frankly, one mischievous eyebrow away from a llama.
“Uncle Eli, look,” she says, breathless.
“It’s majestic,” I tell her. “And it has opinions.”
She beams. “It hates maths.”
“Relatable. Go grab your bag, legend. We’re off to Ant’s for a very serious coloured-pencil enquiry.”
That gets a cheer from Henry and an approving nod from Noah, who is currently trying to jam his lunchbox back into a backpack that has decided to be small out of spite. I take pity and hold it steady while he zips.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
“Any time, mate. Shoes tied?”
He looks down, then back up with a very Year 5 shrug. “Close enough.”
We do the headcount shuffle through the gate and across the crossing.
The sun sits lower now, throwing long dappled stripes through the street trees.
We walk the fifteen minutes to my place, and once there, I wrangle kids into my ute’s back seat and herd us all towards the sweet salvation of air-con.
Ant’s place smells like citrus and washing powder when we step in via the unlocked flyscreen door.
The ceiling fans tick lazily. The fruit-scented pencils are already lined up on the dining table like a tasting flight.
Ava makes a sound that can only be described as reverent and sets up shop.
The boys vanish with a handball and the kind of intent that suggests a new treaty will need to be drafted before dinner.
Ant isn’t downstairs yet. His shoes are by the door the way they always are—neat, practical. It means he’s still locked in his office on a call.
“Jelly snakes?” Ava asks, peering up at me from under her fringe as if I might produce them from a pocket.
“Fruit first,” I say, because Mel is in my DNA at this point. “Then jelly snakes.”
She sighs like I’ve personally thwarted destiny and goes back to making the grapes actually smell like grapes.
I cut up apples and take them into the lounge for the boys, who are back inside and have annexed the rug and declared two cushions sovereign states.
The house hums around us—familiar now. Safe.
It’s weird how quickly a place can start to feel like a home you don’t technically live in.
The office door opens fifteen minutes later. Ant enters with a muttered “Sorry,” cheeks a little flushed, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows. He clocks me, then the kids, then exhales like he’d been holding something tight inside his chest.
“Crisis averted?” I ask.
“Yup,” he says, smiling. “Thanks for grabbing them.”
“No worries. Hardly an issue when I have my niblings.”
He steps in, and for half a heartbeat, we do that almost-there thing—close enough that I feel the warmth off him, far enough we could claim innocence if someone rounds the corner. His mouth quirks like he felt it too.
“Hi,” he says, softer.
“Hi,” I echo, equally useless, and then Ava yells, “The watermelon smells like watermelon,” and the spell breaks into a friendlier rhythm.
We do the easy domestic shuffle. He opens the fridge. I pour water. He adds a dash of cordial to Ava’s glass, like he’s clocked that she’ll drink more with a bribe. We stand side by side for a minute, watching the boys play, Henry narrating and Noah pretending not to love it.
“How’s your afternoon?” he asks, voice pitched low out of habit.
“Uneventful. Amanda only insulted me twice. A sprinkler head tried to drown me, but I prevailed.” I bump my shoulder against his. “You?”
He huffs. “Work was fine. The call was not. My manager started sentence-stacking. ‘Quick one’ turned into ‘as I said earlier’ turned into ‘looping back.’ I considered chewing my own arm off.”
“Glad you didn’t. Would have ruined the fruit-pencil degustation.”
He grins, then sobers slightly, gaze flicking to the kids and back. “Thanks for being… you, I guess. The past few weeks would’ve been harder without you.”
The way he says it isn’t big, but it lands big. I feel it in the space just behind my ribs, warm and heavy.
“Any time,” I say, and mean it.
We make dinner without announcing it as such—toasties for the boys and Ava, a salad for us, because balance.
The late sun puddles on the kitchen tiles as we eat.
After the plates are wiped and the pencils reluctantly packed, we spill onto the verandah.
The sky’s that particular coastal blue that looks like it’ll never end.
Somewhere in the neighbourhood, a lawnmower drones.
A gecko ticks from the eaves like a tiny metronome.
Ant leans against the rail beside me, forearms braced, watching the kids chalk a hopscotch grid on the path. The muscles in his forearms shift under summer-brown skin. I am, in this moment, a man of very few useful thoughts.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, still watching the kids. “About… us.” A careful beat. “Not in a panicky way.”
My heart does a quiet slide. “Okay.”
He turns, shoulder brushing mine. “I like this. Whatever we’re building. I’m not in a hurry. I don’t want to make it weird for them.” He nods towards the kids. “But I also don’t want to pretend I don’t… want this.”
“Same,” I say, and it’s almost embarrassingly easy. “Slow suits me. I don’t do theatre. Only low angst, high communication, and lots of snacks.”
He laughs, the line of tension between his shoulders easing. “Good. Because I can do snacks.”
A message pings on his phone where it sits on the railing. He glances down. The shift is small but there—his mouth flattens; the light in his eyes changes. He reads, swallows, then pockets the phone with that too-casual motion people do when they don’t want to drop a glass in a quiet room.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, then seems to reconsider. “It’s Owen. He wants to line up a visit in a few weeks. Just… logistics. Flights. Time zones. The usual.” He tries for a smile. “It’s fine.”
The word sits there between us, too neat.
“How do you actually feel about it?” I ask.
He blows out a breath, eyes on the hopscotch grid, where Henry is arguing that eleven should be a half square because maths.
“Mixed. Henry will be excited and anxious. I’ll be…
the same. I want it to go well. I also don’t want him—either of them—spun out for days afterwards.
” He turns his head. “Sorry. You don’t need to be pulled into this. ”
“Ant,” I say, and when he looks at me, I hold his gaze. “If it touches you and Henry, it touches me. I’m not a bystander.”
He waits, like he’s testing the edges of the words to see if they hold. Then he nods, a trace of relief softening his face. “Thanks.”
“You want me there more that week?” I ask. “Less? Hovering? Hands-off? Name it.”
He smiles, small and real. “Let’s… keep things normal. If we can. That helps Henry the most.”
“Normal we can do. I have a PhD in normal.” I tilt my head. “And if you need an outlet, you can borrow my workshop and sand something until it becomes a chopping board.”
He laughs properly then, tension fracturing. “Dangerous offer. I might end up with a dining table.”
I smile and squeeze his hand.
When Mel arrives at eight fifteen, she looks wrecked and happy. She kisses Ava’s forehead, ruffles Noah’s hair, thanks Ant three times, and gives me the kind of look siblings give that doesn’t require translation: You okay?
I nod. Better than.
We gather my niblings’ bags and herd small humans to collect stray socks. Mel corrals Ava and Noah with a promise of a story when they get home. She hugs Ant, thanks him again, and shoots me a quick You staying? look before shepherding her two down the front path.
“I’ll help you tidy,” I tell Ant, which is technically true and also just an excuse not to leave yet.
He gives me a small, knowing smile but doesn’t argue. “Henry—wash up for bed, mate,” he calls.
There’s a grumble from the lounge, but moments later, the shower kicks on down the hall.
I gather the empty dessert plates—crumbs from the muffins, a smear of chocolate from Ava’s biscuit—and carry them into the kitchen.
The fan hums above. The night air drifts through the flyscreen, cooler now, with the faint scent of cut grass.
I rinse plates, slot them into the dishwasher, and reach for the cutlery basket.
That’s when he’s there—still silent until his arms wrap around me from behind, warm and sure. His chin rests lightly on my shoulder for a beat before his mouth finds my neck.
I sigh, head tipping instinctively to the side. His lips are soft, unhurried.
“Mm,” I manage, my voice low. “You trying to distract me from loading this thing properly?”
“Maybe,” he murmurs against my skin, breath warm.
I let my hands fall from the plates and cover his where they rest at my waist. The kitchen’s dim except for the under-cabinet light painting the counter in soft gold. It feels ridiculously easy, like we’ve done this a hundred times—dishes and quiet touches in the background hum of ordinary life.
I could get used to it.