Chapter 17 Easton
EASTON
Ihave thought over the one night I spent with Elijah so many times I’m no longer certain what actually happened and what I’ve made seem more real than it was by hyper-focusing on it.
I think about him pulling my panties to the side on that table in the garage, in the middle of a party. Letting his tongue slide over me in long, gasp-inducing washes, then flickering hard and sharp in the exact right way.
Him groaning, saying, “I’ve wanted to do this for more years than you can imagine,” more to himself than me.
Anyone could have walked in and seen us. We were too far gone to care.
If you’d asked after he dropped me off in the early hours of the morning, I’d have told you there wasn’t a single moment I’d have changed, not one second about which I had misgivings.
It’s only in these years I’ve spent picking over it that I’ve unearthed things I should have seen at the time, except I don’t know that I should have seen them, or if I’ve just roughed up the surface of that memory so much that I’m finding what wasn’t really there.
But none of those things occurred to me at the time. Not when he held me on my doorstep, telling me he didn’t want to leave, not when I woke the next day.
Sure, I didn’t understand why he hadn’t texted, but this was Elijah, who I’d known for nearly all of my life.
Elijah, who’d told me he loved me the night before and that he’d loved me for years.
Even when I began to wonder if I’d just imagined everything, even when he texted saying, “We need to talk,” I never lost faith.
He was pale beneath his tan, and there were dark shadows under his eyes when I met him on the beach. Later, I’d wonder if he’d just stayed up all night, agonizing over how he’d extract himself.
I’d wonder if he somehow knew what I’d done after he dropped me off.
But he didn’t. That was a secret between five people, and we’d all take it to our graves. It was just incredibly poor timing—the two worst things that had ever happened to me taking place hours apart.
Elijah told me he’d made a mistake and that he was sorry. The night before he’d said he’d wanted this with us forever. Now he was telling me it was just the sort of thing guys say, and that he didn’t feel the right way about me.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to beg him to tell me what I’d done or what I needed to change, but I did none of these things. Reacting in a situation only makes it worse. Let someone know that they’ve hurt you and they’ll know how to keep doing it.
He’d been my protector all of my life, and in a second’s time he’d shown me that at heart, he was just like everyone else.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said, and then I turned and walked away.
For a long time after that, for years, really, every breath I took felt sharp. I braced myself and made my movements small and careful enough that they’d cease to wound as much.
And I’d thought I was better but no, the memory still makes it hard to breathe. It probably always will.
There is something about me that is not enough. Maybe it just took Thomas two years to learn something Elijah discovered in a matter of hours.
But despite all of this, I’ve felt safe these past few days with Elijah. I’ve felt safe and coddled, and yes, I’ve felt adored.
And it’s been a long time since I’ve felt any of those things.
I wake just as the seaplane is landing. “I missed the whole thing,” I yawn.
Elijah leans over, removing a single headphone from my ear so I’ll hear him. “You needed the rest.”
His breath is a chill against my ear, my neck, my shoulder. There’s something in his voice that brooks no argument, something that says, Easton, I’m going to be your safe space whether you want me to be that or not.
It’s getting harder to remember that he’s sort of the thing that made me the way I am now.
We land at the airport, thank Jed, and walk to the car. Already my olive-toned skin is turning brown from the sun. I’m supposed to hate that. I’m supposed to worry about free radicals and DNA methylation, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“You finally look like yourself,” Elijah says as he opens my car door. His voice is gentle and guttural at once. I’m not sure how, but he manages to make a simple sentence—a mere five words—sound like foreplay. My nipples tighten as I climb into the car.
“Thank you,” I tell him when he joins me. “Today was really great.”
“It’s not over, but I’m not sure how much you’ll like what’s next.”
“I assume it involves time spent with your grandmother.”
He laughs. “Betty’s putting more of her plan in action. We’re supposed to go straight to her house.”
“Is Betty actually trying to help me out, or is this just some non-subtle way to stick it to your grandmother?”
He grins, smoothly turning out of the parking lot. “She wants to help you, but yeah...pissing off my grandmother is definitely a side benefit.”
In fifteen minutes, we are back on Elizabeth Street and parking in front of Betty’s house, where she and Mrs. Cabot sit on the porch, waiting for us.
“Barely recognized you without all that warpaint on your face,” says Mrs. Cabot.
I swear to fucking God...
Betty jumps to her feet and claps her hands. “Are you ready for your surprise? It’s a bath!”
I glance from her to Elijah and back. Being offered a bath makes me feel like an orphan getting a hose-down because no one can stand the smell. I cough. “A bath?”
“What she needs is a comb,” Mrs. Cabot adds.
“What you need is a muzzle,” I reply.
Betty laughs and Elijah sighs.
“Not just any bath,” Betty says, grabbing my hand. “Come upstairs and I’ll show you!”
We climb three levels to Betty’s rooftop deck, where a bathtub sits under a small awning, filled to the brim with bubbles and covered with floating orchids. “This is my favorite thing,” says Betty. “A nice long soak up here. Go ahead and hop in, and I’ll take your picture.”
Ah. We’re back to the photo dump plan, I guess.
I hate baths, to be honest, the same way I hate pedicures and manicures and getting my hair straightened and pretty much everything that women are supposed to think is a treat.
I spend those minutes or hours thinking of all the ways I could be using that time, that I could be in my lab, or reading, or out for a run.
I’d even rather be scrubbing my grout with this stuff I bought off Instagram but haven’t had time to use.
My life is full of things I have to do and things I’m supposed to do and sitting in a tub, unable to read, unable to accomplish.
..it just seems wasteful. But of course, I can’t say this to Betty.
“Just undress?” I ask, gesturing at the sea of rooftops around us—some of them occupied. “Here?”
Go ahead!” she cries. “No one can see you!”
She can see me, and I’m a tiny bit worried she’s going to send nudes to Thomas if I do it, but I don’t know how to say no.
I strip out of my shorts and T-shirt and the bikini under it, but just as I’ve stepped into the tub, Elijah bursts through the entrance.
And stares.
I sink into the water as fast as I can, but he still saw everything. Far more than he even saw the night we hooked up.
“I, uh—” He blinks. “I didn’t know this would be so, um, public.” He turns away, facing the wall.
“You raced through that door like the house was on fire,” I say, pressing a hand to my flushing cheeks. “Though obviously your grandmother would have encouraged you to just let us burn to death, were that the case.”
“I was worried you’d fall asleep because you’ve been so tired lately,” he says. “Can you swear to me you’ll stay awake if I’m not here to watch you?”
“Betty’s here,” I say, gesturing toward the wall where Betty is currently watering her potted palms. “I’m sure she’d wake me up.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets as if he remains unconvinced.
“Aww,” I tease. “Elijah cares just a wittle bit after all.”
He glances back over his shoulder, his gaze falling to the bubbles, to the upper curve of my breasts floating at the water’s surface, and he turns away fast, reaching for the door.
He didn’t deny it. And na?ve as it is, I’m starting to wonder if it’s true.