Chapter Two #2
Eli swam to the edge like his life depended on it. Hauled himself out, grabbed his shirt and towel, and vanished off-screen before the other person rounded the corner.
Didn’t want to be seen.
Marsh sat back, gut twisting.
He understood that kind of shame. Of covering pain, hiding trauma. He’d lived it. Was living it.
But that didn’t explain why Eli’s scars felt like a punch to his own chest.
He closed the feed.
Sat there for a long while in silence, thoughts looping.
Eli. That mouth. Those eyes. That pain.
He didn’t want to care.
Didn’t want to be seen as something broken that needed fixing.
He wasn’t going to dinner at Ezra and Ricky’s.
He was sick of the concerned glances from the team, sick of being the project no one wanted to admit was failing.
Let them eat pasta and pretend everything was fine.
He’d stay here.
With his tech. And his cameras. And the ghost of a man with swimmer’s shoulders and eyes full of defiance.
****
Dinner was already underway when Eli arrived, following the path Ezra had described behind the Ridge House. It led to a stunning craftsman-style home nestled beneath the rocky overhang of the ridge. Light spilled from wide windows and the scent of roasted garlic and warm bread met him at the porch.
Ezra greeted him at the door and introduced his husband Ricky who had been emerging from the kitchen with a wine bottle in one hand and a teasing smirk.
Then Ezra pointed out their niece, Sophia, who was curled up on the floor near the fireplace playing with two other children, Ryan and Celia, the three of them deep in a card game involving animal noises, wild giggles, and some very flexible rules.
The table that was set against a bank of windows with stunning mountain views was a long rustic piece that could easily seat twelve, already half-filled by the time Eli walked in.
Anton Bateman, Dale Ricoh, Chris Hogan, and Blake Bateman were there—each an imposing presence in their own way, but quick to offer a nod or warm smile.
Conversation flowed easily, laughter even more so.
Eli kept mainly to himself, answering questions politely but not offering much.
His nerves thrummed just under his skin.
These people were close—tight in the way he supposed only people forged in shared danger and pain could be—and it left him uncertain where he fit in.
And to be fair, recent elements in his private life had told him over and over that he was trying too hard to please, and that his role should be more in the background.
That he lacked the basic intelligence to hold a conversation with smart people. He smiled when spoken to, nodded at jokes, but his posture was guarded, his voice soft.
Until Marsh wheeled through the door.
The room quieted.
The scrape of a chair. A clink of a fork.
No one knew quite what to say.
Marsh looked like he regretted coming the second he crossed the threshold. His jaw was tight. Shoulders drawn up. He was quite literally seconds from fleeing, it was easy to see.
Eli felt it, too—that collective unease. No one wanted to say the wrong thing. No one wanted to look at that man like he was broken.
Eli sat up straighter. His eyes flicked toward Marsh, then to Ezra, then to the others who suddenly didn’t know where to look. He hated that silence, hated that awkward hush of people unsure how to behave around pain. He cleared his throat and jumped in.
“So,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm, “I was thinking today that there’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity—and buying a two-tone car with your last five hundred bucks probably lands somewhere in the middle.”
Everyone turned and stared at him.
“But the funny thing?” Eli continued, warming to the story.
“Halfway up the mountain, with the engine rattling like it was signaling its death throes to the world, and a teaspoon in the ignition, I realized—I wasn’t nervous.
I wasn’t even scared. It just ... felt like I was going the right way.
Even if it was in a glorified tin can that might’ve doubled as a getaway car at some point in its past.”
Bateman raised an eyebrow. “Is that positive glass-is-half-full crap, a therapist thing?”
Eli smirked. “Nah. That’s a ‘I bought a two-tone death trap with my last five hundred bucks and trying to justify it’ thing.”
That earned a round of laughter. Hogan leaned in. “I wondered who owned that death trap.”
“Cream and green beauty? Hell, yeah, she’s mine. Starts with a teaspoon. Total classic.” Eli said with a grin and an exaggerated sweep of his hair.
Dale snorted. “Looks like something that’s seen a crime scene or two.”
“Probably. But it got me here.”
Ezra, visibly relaxing, lifted his wine glass. “To beaten-up cars and better instincts.”
“Cheers to that,” Ricky added.
As the laughter mellowed, Eli turned subtly toward Marsh. “Anyway. Some places grow on you. Fast. Some people, too.”
He glanced at Marsh without being obvious, giving the man a doorway to enter the conversation without feeling exposed.
Marsh arched a brow. “You sayin’ you’re already forming opinions?”
“Professionally, of course,” Eli said smoothly. “Strictly observational. Like a wildlife documentary.”
Dale leaned in. “Oh, now I need a narrator voice.”
Eli deepened his voice theatrically. “Here we observe the elusive Pathfinder in his natural habitat—surrounded by chaos, caffeine, and carefully concealed sarcasm.”
The table burst into laughter again. Marsh’s mouth twitched, the barest start of a smile, and just like that—he was in the conversation.
The rest of the evening unfolded with easy teasing and familiar rhythm.
The tension broke. Laughter rippled around the table.
Eli kept the conversation going, quick, sharp, animated.
It wasn’t about being charming—it was about redirecting, shielding, giving Marsh a second to settle without the weight of everyone’s sympathy crushing him.
He slid smoothly into the role, catching nods and chuckles, drawing the room’s focus just long enough for Marsh to wheel in and slide quietly into the end spot beside Ricky.
Eli caught the flicker of relief in Marsh’s eyes before he looked away.
Conversation resumed, loud and light. No awkward glances. No pointed silences.
They made space. For Marsh. For Eli.
By the time coffee was poured, Eli was leaning back in his chair, cheeks sore from smiling, stomach full.
The team was chaotic. Blunt. Loyal to the bone. And it was clear, even without a speech, that the people around this table were home for them.
Marsh was quieter than the rest but held his own, tossing out the occasional barb or sarcastic dig that landed just right.
When Ryan tried to balance a spoon on his nose and sent it clattering across the floor, Marsh caught it mid-roll and muttered, “Fucking amateurs,” which sparked three adults, Anton, Blake, and Ezra into yelling “Language, Marsh,” in stereo that made Sophia laugh so hard she fell over.
And Eli had watched it all, heart pinched by something he didn’t want to name.
When the evening wound down, Marsh declined Ezra’s offer to call a buggy for him.
“I’ll push you back,” Eli offered, already moving.
Marsh hesitated, then nodded.
The path was lit with solar lamps and smelled like pine and cool stone. Eli walked behind the chair, hands firm, footsteps soft.
They didn’t speak until they reached the ramp at the Ridge House.
The house loomed above them, silent and still, its windows catching slivers of moonlight. The cool night air had settled into Eli’s bones, mixing with the remnants of warmth from dinner and laughter. His hands tightened around the handles of Marsh’s chair as they reached the ramp.
Eli stopped, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots.
Marsh shifted, the mechanical hiss of his chair was barely louder than his voice. “You gonna say it?”
Eli blinked. “Say what?”
“That you had to lay out the conversation for me tonight, that without intervention I can’t even talk with my own fucking team anymore.
Shit. Not even team, maybe not even friends.
If I can’t be who I was before this happened.
” March punched his thigh, and Eli knew it had to have hurt.
It was still healing after all. “Then I am just dead fucking weight to this team.”
Eli’s jaw clenched. His fingers flexed against the push handles. “Marsh, you can’t possibly believe that?”
“Why not?”
“Because from what I’ve heard, you more than contribute to the running of this place,” Eli said, voice steady. “I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I say that.”
Marsh let out a sharp breath, something bitter curling his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t say anything at all, then.”
Eli frowned but didn’t speak.
“You come in here all sunshine and sweet, telling stories like they’re some kind of personality trait. You think talking about your crappy car and teaspoon ignition makes you real? Makes you relatable?”
Eli stiffened, a slow breath dragging through his lungs.
Marsh pressed on, cruel now, jagged. “It’s not honesty, Eli.
It’s a smokescreen. You charm the room, so no one asks what’s underneath.
You act like you’re part of this team already, but you haven’t earned that.
And when things get real—when it’s not about quips and giggles—you’ve got nothing to say.
Because maybe deep down, you know you’re not smart enough.
Or worthy enough. Or strong enough to hold that silence without breaking. ”
Marsh’s voice dropped, cutting and low. “You’re not real. You’re just a performance wrapped in bruises. And I’ve fucking had enough of pretending that noise is connection.”
Eli stepped around the chair. “Done?”
Marsh’s mouth opened, then shut.
Eli nodded. “Great.”
He turned and walked away, shoulders slumped, steps steady but silent.
Marsh called out, “Hey—Eli, wait.”
Eli gave no response, just kept walking, his inner demons alive and well.