Chapter 9
Day One
JONAH
The silence in the car is so thick I could skate on it.
Eli stares out the passenger window, his small face blank—no joy, no anger, nothing I can read.
The court hearing was a blur of legal jargon and sympathetic nods from the judge.
“Temporary custody granted.” Three words that changed everything, officially making me responsible—at least for now—for this kid who shares my DNA but might as well be from another planet.
I steal another glance at him as I turn onto my street, Steelhead Drive.
My son. The concept still feels foreign, like I’m trying on someone else’s life.
“We’re almost home.” I wince at my word choice. It’s not his home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Eli just keeps staring out the window, clutching his backpack.
“Here we are.” I try again as we pull into the driveway.
Still nothing.
Coach forced me to take the week off given my situation.
So, I’ve had nothing but time the last five days.
Time to stress about the hearing all last night, clean the entire house, and rehearse answers to questions about my parenting philosophy that I’d decided on.
In the end, the judge reviewed the paperwork, asked me questions about my work schedule, the caregiving situation, and then he asked Eli what he wanted.
When Eli said he’d like to give this a try, my throat closed up, and I had to swallow hard to clear it. Then the judge signed the order.
I park in the garage and take a deep breath. “You hungry? Tired? We can do whatever you want.”
Eli shrugs, finally turning to look at me. “Not sure.”
“Okay.” I try to sound casual.
We climb out of the car, and I resist the urge to grab his backpack for him. Ms. Hernandez warned me about this: don’t baby him, let him maintain his independence, but be ready to help if he asks. The problem is, I don’t think Eli’s going to ask for anything.
I unlock the front door and step aside to let him enter first. The house still smells of fresh paint.
Eli’s furniture’s assembled and his room’s decorated, creating a space that’s supposed to feel like it’s his.
But as I watch Eli walk into the foyer, his shoulders hunched, steps hesitant, I second-guess the blue paint color, the superhero theme, and every piece of furniture.
“So.” I force enthusiasm. “We have a few hours before dinner. Want to check out the backyard? The pool’s heated, but it’s probably too cold to swim today. Hot tub works, though.”
Eli’s face puckers like I’ve suggested we go dumpster diving. “No, thanks.”
“Maybe another time.” I run a hand through my hair, already feeling out of my depth. “How about the game room then? I’ve got an Xbox, Switch, PlayStation… whatever you’re into.”
A flicker of interest crosses his face, but he shuts it down. “Can I just go to my room?”
That one stings even though it probably shouldn’t. “Sure. I’ll show you.”
“Thanks.”
I lead Eli up the stairs, and he looks so small against the backdrop of my oversized house with its vaulted ceilings.
When we step inside his room, I say, “The bathroom’s stocked—toothbrushes, soap, all that, but let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay.” He shrugs his backpack off his shoulders.
I get the sense I’m not welcome, so I leave, closing the door behind me.
When I’m back downstairs, I head to the kitchen, and I don’t know what to do.
I could throw some nuggets in the oven, make him a sandwich, but he said he wasn’t hungry.
I could guide him through the TV stuff, show him all the kid channels I got.
I pull out my phone to text Zoe. She’s been living at the house for the last four days, but she’s staying at her sister’s tonight to give Eli and me some alone time. I write:
Me: He hates it here. Help?
Her response is immediate:
Zoe: Give him time. He’s adjusting. Don’t hover.
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one standing in her kitchen, listening to the silence upstairs, wondering if her kid’s plotting escape routes out the window.
I hear movement, then the door creaks open and shuts again. I resist the urge to go up and check on him. Don’t hover, Zoe said. Give him space.
God, this sucks.
I busy myself ordering pizza, because that seems safe, and checking emails from my agent about media requests.
The video Zoe and I posted has over five million views now.
Most of the responses have been positive, but there are the assholes who have to weigh in with their opinions about my “secret love child” and what a deadbeat I must be to not know about him for nine years.
I don’t bother explaining I would’ve moved heaven and earth to be there if I’d known. That I would’ve quit hockey in a heartbeat to be a father to my son. That the years I missed feel like a physical wound that won’t close.
Instead, I turn off all notifications.
When I go upstairs to check on Eli, I find him sitting on his bed, playing with his Flash action figure, well-worn and clearly loved. He hasn’t unpacked his backpack.
“Hey buddy,” I say, then immediately correct myself. “I mean, Eli. Sorry.”
He glances at me, then back at the wall. “It’s fine.”
I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to invade his space. “Pizza should be here any minute. I got cheese and pepperoni—wasn’t sure what you like.”
“I like cheese.”
“Great. Cool.” I shift my weight, searching for something else to say. I noticed the flicker of interest when I mentioned video games, so I say, “Do you play Minecraft?”
Eli shrugs, but his fingers twitch. “Sometimes.”
“I’ve got pretty much every game out there.” So much for not sounding too eager. “We could play after dinner if you want. Or not. No pressure.”
He hesitates, I think we’re good. Then the mask comes down again. “I’m pretty tired.”
“Right, of course. It’s been a long day.”
I’m saved by the doorbell. “That’s dinner. Come whenever you’re ready.”
I head downstairs, pay the delivery guy, and set the pizza boxes on the kitchen island. Then I stand there like a bonehead, at a loss. Should I go get him? Set the table? What’s the protocol here?
I set out plates, along with napkins and glasses for water. It looks too formal, so I move everything to the coffee table in front of the TV instead. More casual. Less pressure.
“Eli,” I call up the stairs.
No response. I wait a minute, then try again. “Eli? Food’s getting cold.”
I hear his door open, then the patter of feet on the hardwood. He appears at the top of the stairs, looking wary.
“I thought we could eat in front of the TV.” I gesture to the coffee table setup. “If you want.”
He nods and makes his way down, still moving like he’s afraid to make too much noise or take up too much space.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch, with the pizza boxes between us. I open them both—cheese for him, pepperoni for me—and wait for him to make the first move.
But when he just stares, I say, “Help yourself.”
He takes a slice of cheese pizza and sets it on his plate, but doesn’t eat it right away.
I grab two slices of pepperoni and bite into one, trying to act normal, like we do this every day.
Like I’m not counting every breath, every movement, searching desperately for signs that I’m not completely screwing this up.
“Do you want something to drink besides water?” I ask through a mouthful of pizza. “Soda? Milk?”
“Water’s fine.” He picks at the edge of his pizza, peeling off a string of cheese.
I pour water for both of us, then settle back on the couch. The silence stretches between us, chewing the only sound.
“So,” I try again. “What kind of stuff are you into? Besides Flash, I mean.”
Eli takes a small bite of pizza, chewing before he answers. “I dunno. Normal stuff.”
“Normal stuff,” I echo. “Like... sports? Books? Movies?”
He shrugs. “I guess. I like science. Chess. And Avengers.”
Finally. Something concrete. “Avengers? That’s cool. Who’s your favorite?”
“Iron Man,” he says, no hesitation. Then shrugs. “But they’re all okay.”
“I’ve got the movies.” I point to the entertainment center. “When you’re not so tired.”
For the first time, I see a flicker of interest in his eyes. “Which ones?”
“All of them.” I blow out a puff of air. “The first Avengers is my favorite. Classic.”
“Mine too.”
My heart rate spikes. Common ground. “Want to watch it while we eat?”
He nods, and I practically lunge for the remote, afraid he’ll change his mind. I pull up the movie, hit play, and settle back, watching Eli from the corner of my eye.
As Avengers plays, his shoulders gradually relax. He takes a real bite of pizza, then another. By the time Loki shows up, he’s finished his first slice and is reaching for a second.
I want to cheer, to call Zoe and tell her about this monumental breakthrough—my son ate pizza and didn’t glare at me for a full ten minutes. But I keep quiet, afraid to break whatever fragile peace we’ve established.
The movie rolls on, and Eli becomes absorbed in it. His eyes track the action, his body language loosens, and during a battle scene, he even lets out a sound of appreciation at a particularly cool moment.
Yeah, I’m watching him more than the screen.
By the time it’s over, Eli’s eaten three slices of pizza and emptied his water glass. I take that as a huge win, and say, “It’s almost nine. Probably time to get ready for bed.”
Eli’s face closes off again, but he nods and stands up. “Okay.”
He heads upstairs without another word, and I hear the bathroom door close. I clean up the pizza boxes and dishes, giving him space.
When I hear the water turn off, I head upstairs, knocking on his open bedroom door. He’s already changed into pajamas, plain blue ones, and is sitting on the edge of his bed.
“All set?” I hover in the doorway.
He nods, then flashes intense eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” I say, all eager beaver. “Anything.”
Eli chews his lip. “What happens when we die?”
The question hits me like a slap. Of all the things I’d geared up to discuss—school, house rules, maybe even feelings if I was really pushing it—mortality wasn’t on the list.
“That’s, uh...” I clear my throat. “That’s a big question.”
“Mom said people go to heaven. But how does she know I’m okay if she’s up there, and I’m down here?”
Jesus. I’m so out of my depth that I can’t even see the surface.
“Honestly, I don’t know exactly how it works.” I move to sit beside him on the bed, careful to leave space between us. “But I think... I think the people we love are always with us. Even when we can’t see them.”
He considers this, frowning. “But what if she’s looking for me and can’t find me because I’m not where I’m supposed to be?”
My throat tightens. “She’ll find you, Eli. Moms are pros at finding their kids no matter where they are.” I hesitate, searching for the right words before I add, “And she’d want you to be safe. That’s why she made arrangements for you to be with me.”
“Did she?” He glances at me with those too-old eyes. “Or did she just not have anyone else?”
The question cuts deep. “I think,” I breathe, in and out, “that your mom made the best choice she could for you. And it’s my job to make sure it was the right one.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “What about God? Is he real?”
Christ. We’ve gone from existential crisis straight to theology. I’m failing this pop quiz spectacularly.
“Some people believe he is.” I try to be honest. “What do you think?”
Eli shrugs. “I don’t know. Mom said he was.”
I definitely don’t want to go against what Rosie told him, so I say, “Well, your mom was so smart. So I’d listen to what she said.”
“But if he’s real, why did he take her away?”
Dammit. This kid is killing me, but again, I do my best. “That’s a really good question, Eli. One grownups struggle with. But your mom was an amazing person, so maybe he needed her help with something really important.”
“Oh.” He sounds disappointed, like he’d hoped I’d have more answers on something Rosie couldn’t give him anymore.
“But it’s good to ask questions,” I add quickly. “And it’s okay not to have all the answers. We can figure things out together, if you want.”
He nods, but I can tell I’ve let him down. Add it to the growing list.
“Time for sleep,” I say. “It’s been a long day.”
Eli climbs under the covers, and I resist the urge to tuck him in. He’s nine, not four, and he’s made it clear he doesn’t want me treating him like a little kid.
“Goodnight, Eli.” I stand in the doorway with my hand on the light switch.
“Night,” he murmurs, already rolling over to face the wall.
I turn off the light and close the door partway, leaving it cracked just enough that some hallway light filters in. Then I head to my own room, my body heavy.
I collapse onto my bed, not bothering to change out of my clothes. My phone buzzes with a text.
Zoe: How’s it going? Need backup?
Me: He’s tucked into bed.
Her response makes me smile despite everything:
Zoe: Congrats, you made it! Get some rest.
Rest. Right. Like I could possibly sleep knowing there’s a grieving child down the hall who just lost his mother and gained a father he doesn’t want or trust.
But my body has other ideas. The stress of the court hearing, the constant tension of trying to connect with Eli, the emotional whiplash of the past few days—it all catches up with me at once, and I’m drifting off before I can even set an alarm.