Chapter 11 Elijah
ELIJAH
Easton was a scrawny little thing when we first moved to St. Samuels.
It’s not that she wasn’t being fed, although in retrospect, almost anything was possible in that household.
She was just one of those kids, the sort that is always in perpetual motion, knobby-kneed and permanently barefoot.
She’d come to our house in an oversized T-shirt that probably belonged to one of her brothers first, her dark curls snarled.
Her brother Kevin was in my grade, and on the surface, she seemed like she’d end up a junior version of him—reckless, the kind of kid who was always crashing on a bike or skateboard doing some kind of crazy stunt.
And yet, there was a spark in her that was absent in her brothers, that was absent in almost anyone I’d ever known.
It was as if her intellect was this flame you could see flickering, if you looked her straight in the eye—a flame she herself barely seemed to care about, and would prefer you not notice.
Easton grew up, obviously, but I can still see who she was: the bruised, scrappy little girl who needs one goddamn person to step up and say, “This isn’t fucking right.”
She’s retreated to her room to dry her hair and put on sixteen kinds of makeup she doesn’t need and I remain behind with my fists clenched, furious at my impotence in this situation.
I should’ve made sure she didn’t stay at that house. I should’ve fucking killed him when I had the chance, but if I start taking out all the people who could do Easton harm, it would be a very long list.
It leaves me in a shitty mood, which is less than ideal for the night ahead. My grandmother is not generally a bad person—sure, she’s opinionated; sure, she can be a bit of a snob—but she’s had thoughts on Easton for decades now, thoughts she’s way too comfortable voicing aloud.
That bruise on Easton’s face leaves me disinclined to put up with those thoughts, though, and it will be an incredibly stressful drive to New Orleans if I don’t get a grip on myself right fucking now.
Easton emerges in white jeans and jewelry and glossed-up lips. If I saw her out somewhere, as a stranger, I’d think goddamn, who’s that?
But I want the old Easton back, and that extends way beyond her looks. I want the girl who was cheerful and relatively carefree, whose jaw didn’t pop when she yawned, who’d dive into the water heedless of temperature, riptides, or expensive hair shit.
“By the way,” I tell her as she climbs in the car, “my grandmother’s best friend is coming to dinner too. Don’t worry. She’s actually pleasant.”
“Let’s try not to tell the friend or anyone else that this whole road trip romance is fake, eh?” Easton says as I back out of our parking space. “The more people who know, the more likely one of them is going to DM Thomas and ruin it.”
I laugh. “Easton, my grandmother is eighty-eight and her friend is about the same age. I doubt either of them will be dropping into Thomas’s DMs. They probably don’t even know what DMs are.”
Although, actually, Betty might. The last time I was down here she encouraged me to go out and “get some strange.”
I navigate to the salon where they get their hair done three days a week, and leave Easton in the running car to go get them.
My grandmother beams at me from her chair. I sometimes wonder if she’s seeing me or my dad, her only child, when she looks at me the way she is now.
I hug her gently, then hug Betty, followed by Sharon, my grandmother’s hairdresser...who still has my mother’s last Christmas card tucked into the corner of her mirror eight months later.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask.
My grandmother takes a scowling glance at the car idling in front. “So she’s coming?”
“Grandma,” I warn, holding the salon door open for her, “I told you she was. And she’s going through it right now, so behave.”
“I always behave,” my grandmother snipes.
I’m not sure who she thinks she’s fooling...or how low her standards are for the treatment of others. She’s been shitty to Easton for decades.
Easton climbs down from the passenger seat as we approach, her face wary.
“Easton, you remember my grandmother, and this is her friend, Betty Lennox.”
Easton extends a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Lennox.”
Betty clasps her hand warmly in both of hers. “Call me Betty.”
My grandmother frowns. “You may continue to call me Mrs. Cabot.”
Easton laughs under her breath. “Always a pleasure, Mrs. Cabot. Would you like to sit up front with Elijah on the way to dinner?”
My grandmother snottily opens the back door. “No, no, if you’re insisting on coming, then you might as well stay up front.”
Easton gives me a look that is mildly amused and also says, I’m definitely not calling 911 for her, then returns to her seat.
I drive to my grandma’s favorite waterfront restaurant, hoping it will improve her mood, while she and Betty openly discuss Easton.
“She’s a lovely girl,” Betty says quietly, “but not really his type. Too fancy. Are those really her lips or does she get them filled?”
Betty appears to be texting someone as she says it. I hope she’s not texting about Easton.
“She’s not as pretty as she thinks she is,” says my grandmother. “And they’re not actually dating, thank God.”
Easton stares out the window, but her jaw is grinding. Super.
“Are you sure?” Betty whispers. But it’s a loud whisper. “They’re staying in the same house, aren’t they?”
“You realize we can hear you, yes?” I ask, glaring in the rearview mirror.
“They’re pretending to date to make Easton’s ex jealous,” says my grandmother in an even louder whisper. “He ended things on their anniversary. She thought he was proposing.”
“Ooof,” says Betty. “Why’s she even want him back, then?”
Fair question, Betty. Have wondered myself. Will allow it.
“Rich. What else?” chirps my grandmother, at which point, I’ve had it.
“Grandma,” I growl, “Easton’s given up a lot to be here, and we can hear every word. Stop talking shit about her.”
“No, don’t stop her now,” Easton says. “She’s basically said I’m not pretty enough, thanked God for the fact that we’re not dating, and then implied that I’m a gold digger. Surely she’s nearly done.”
My grandmother snorts. “I’ve got more, believe me.”
Jesus. If there really is a medical emergency, I won’t blame Easton if she throws my phone into the ocean and walks away.
“So why do you want him?” asks Betty, leaning forward until her head is between our seats.
Easton’s shoulders sag. “We’ve been together a long time, and he just got cold feet. It’s not a big deal.”
“I know exactly what we’re going to do, then,” replies Betty. “Not to brag, but I’ve successfully manipulated men for the past seventy years.”
I’m not sure it’s the flex she thinks it is.
“Leave it to me. Oh, and what’s this young man’s Instagram handle? I’m going to drop into his DMs and let him know I saw you.”
Easton shoots a look at me. A look that says, I thought you said they were too old to know about DMs.
“I think Easton would prefer to go for subtlety with this, Betty,” I say gently.
“If she wanted to be subtle,” says my grandmother, “she wouldn’t be wearing all that makeup.”
This whole fucking thing is going about as well as I expected.