Chapter 14 Elijah
ELIJAH
“Did you know that you’re statistically more likely to marry someone with the same first initial?” Easton asked. She was twelve at the time and this was a standard question from her—one that somehow combined a strange fact with her plan to marry me.
“Did you know that you’re statistically more likely to go to jail if you’re an adult marrying a minor?” I replied.
“It’s the familiarity bias,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Something that small makes you feel more comfortable.”
“Maybe I’ll give Ellie Anderson a call,” I replied, laughing as she flipped me off.
Back in those days, when she was a kid and I thought I was an adult, it all came so easily. I’d just laugh at the shit Easton said and pat her on the head like an unruly pet, but even then she was vibrant, full of life.
She isn’t vibrant anymore. The wide smile and laughter that came easily are a distant memory: now her jaw is always locked, as if she’s bracing for test results. She no longer offers me any strange facts.
Leaving Oak Bluff behind was supposed to make her life better, but is this better? She got away from her shitty dad and her even shittier brothers, but she’s no longer happy. It seems like an unfair exchange.
I walk out to where she’s sitting. She’s under an umbrella and covered in towels. It’s as if she’s scared of life now.
“Look, about tonight,” I begin, sitting on the edge of the chair and facing her. “I know you’ve got no desire to go, but Betty had to pull a bunch of strings. She’s super invested in winning your boyfriend back for you.”
For reasons I can’t fathom. I mean, is there a shred of proof this guy even deserves Easton?
She raises her sunglasses. “Well aware. She just posted something in Thomas’s comments trying to make him jealous.”
I press my face to my hands. I love Betty, but I should have known it would go too far. She’s never had any boundaries. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “It’s fine. I mean, seriously...what right does he have to text me about this? He went to fuck around on a yacht, but apparently I’m supposed to be waiting in Boston for weeks on end, roasting him a chicken.”
“That chicken would be super dry if you’d been roasting it for weeks,” I say, and she snorts. “So how did you respond?”
She lifts her phone and reads. “We broke up, as I recall.” Her shoulders drop as she sets her phone down. “Too bitchy? Would something else be more effective?”
“I wish I was sucking your dick would probably have gotten him here faster,” I reply, “though I hope it’s occurred to you that maybe marrying a guy you have to lure into marriage could turn out badly?”
“I suppose it occurred to you at some point that as a thirty-five-year-old man who seemingly has never had a long-term relationship, you aren’t exactly well positioned to give advice?”
I frown. “Then it puzzles me that you’re asking me for it. Whatever. You’re making him jealous, clearly. That’s what you wanted. So this is a good sign?”
She shrugs. “Maybe, but...did I just shut down the whole conversation prematurely? How am I supposed to make him jealous from here?”
There is nothing I want to do less than give Easton thoughts on how to win this dick back, but I’m doing my level best not to show it. “What would make him jealous?”
She stretches, delicate feet arching as the towel falls to the ground. “I have no idea how the male mind works. What would make you jealous?”
Imagining you fucking someone else, or even caring about him. Those would make a guy sick to his stomach.
Or so I assume.