Chapter Seven #2
I think he does; if his eyes are anything to go by, if they’re being wholly honest, then he does. And I… I kind of want to feel more of this. This warmth, this sensation of being complete. Even if it hurts.
“So, I heard that you’ve lived here your whole life. Why do you stay if you don’t like the people?” Elijah asks.
I watch him for a moment, a bit startled by the question. I feel transparent in front of him.
“Well,” I start, rubbing my hands over my jean-clad thighs anxiously, “I like the solitude of my property. And just because the locals are… a certain way toward me, doesn’t mean I’m giving it up. I don’t need to be liked.”
Elijah assesses me, seeming to consider my words for quite a while. And after a minute, he leans forward again and whispers, “You don’t need to be liked, or you’re used to feeling like you can survive without it?”
When I say nothing, when I just stare into those large, knowing eyes, Elijah offers me a soft smile.
And then he tells me, “You’re a lot easier to understand than everyone makes you out to be.”
“I…” Once again, I’m not sure what to say to that. Because he might be right. I’m used to being alone. I don’t know how to live any other way. But… do I need it? Do I need others in my life?
“I want to see more of your work,” Elijah suddenly says, cutting off my spiraling thoughts.
“Sorry, but I don’t have any on me. I don’t keep any professional shots on my phone.”
Elijah does not seem dissuaded by this.
“Then take me home.” As my eyes widen, he gives another small laugh. “Take me home and show me your work,” he clarifies.
“No—” I start. Only, as I stare at his face and those steady hands tapping the table, I can’t find a good enough reason to decline.
I kind of want to get him alone.
“Hm?” he questions.
“Okay. Follow me?” I offer.
Elijah’s eyes brighten once again, his back straightening as he nods. “Okay! Let me pay really quick.”
“Wait, I can—” but he’s already gone, ignoring me and skipping off to the bar to pay for our two beers and two shots.
As he returns to me, he grabs his coat and pulls it over his sweater. “You good to drive?”
This makes me laugh softly as I put my own jacket on, following him to the door. “Yeah, it takes a lot more than—”
“Eli!”
Just as I’m opening the door of the bar, a man sitting at one of the close-by booths calls for Elijah, who stops short.
He peers over at the man, and those soft hazel eyes seem to harden. “Hello, do I know you?”
The man smiles, standing to extend a hand to Elijah.
“I’m James Hendrick. I own Tabitha’s Place,” the man says, and Elijah seems to perk up at that.
“Ah! Nice to meet you, sir. Your chicken salad is very good.”
James laughs, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please, it’s nothing special. Would you like to sit and have a drink? Bennett is on his way from closing the diner, and he’d love to see you.”
Bennett? As in Bennett from high school? Are he and Elijah friends?
“Sorry,” Elijah starts, dipping his head politely, “but I’m currently on my way out. I’d love to catch up next time!”
James looks over Elijah’s shoulder to where I stand in front of the exit, his eyes narrowing slightly. As they move back to where Elijah stands, he smiles once again.
“Aw, come on! I’m sure your friend doesn’t mind if you meet him later. Bennett will be—”
“I just said,” Elijah interrupts, an edge to his voice that I’ve never heard before. His eyes have lost their warmth, his lips set in a thin line. “That I’m very busy. Next time, though. Good night.”
He turns on his heel then, those dead eyes igniting once again as they fall upon me.
“Everything okay?” I ask him, and he nods vigorously.
“Lead the way, big guy.”
“Big guy?” I laugh, following him into the cold night air. “Is that a jab, Eli?” The light, joking tilt of my tone seems to catch both of us off guard, and as he grins up at me, I can feel a twist of something hot and painful in my heart.
I want to feel it again.
I want to suffocate under it.
“No, no. But you must admit—you are built ridiculously big,” Elijah jokes right back, and his slender fingers wrap themselves around my bicep and squeeze. I have no time to think before I’m ripping myself out of his grip.
My skin where he touched feels hot, so fucking lit up. As if he’s burned me. As if that one press of his skin against mine through two layers of fabric was enough to scar me.
And Elijah doesn’t look much better, staring in shock at the palm of his hand. Those wide eyes find mine, and they’re asking me a question I cannot answer.
I have no idea what that was, Eli, I tell him without ever opening my mouth.
I think about this touch the whole twenty minutes it takes to drive to my house.
And as I’m hopping out of my truck, watching Elijah shut the door of his car, I decide to shove it away and brush it under the rug.
I can’t do anything about it now, and I don’t want to be weird the first time I have a guest other than Marissa at my house.
“Well,” I start awkwardly, unlocking the front door, “come in.”
I’m glad at this moment that I’m an organized guy. That I keep things clean and tidy. Otherwise, I’d be leading this hot Benjamin look-alike into total disaster.
“Thanks.”
I flip the lights on in the living room and the connecting kitchen—the only thing separating the two is an open bar with two stools for when you want to sit and eat somewhere other than on the couch.
The hallway directly ahead of us has the bathroom on the left and my darkroom on the right, with my bedroom at the very end. The back door sits on the far right side of the living room.
The wood accents and simple furnishings really give it a cabin feel, and I pride myself on the hanging frames. All of my own work is hung—different landscapes and animal shots.
Elijah wanders around the living room for a moment, and I watch him. I watch him and try not to break out in goosebumps imagining it being Benjamin. I imagined what it’d be like to have him in my actual space so many times, and now it really does feel like he is.
Which, of course, just makes me feel like a shit person for using an innocent person as a substitute for what I truly want.
“Do you have any liquor?” Elijah asks, turning those eyes onto me. He feels more… intense now. Almost as if as soon as he entered my space, he shed the skin of a rabbit in favor of that of a wolf.
“Yeah,” I say, heading into the kitchen to escape that piercing gaze. “I have whiskey.”
Elijah makes an approving noise in the back of his throat, coming to lean against the bar.
When I pour two shots and turn back to where he stands, I find his eyes tracing the lines of my shoulders and my waist shamelessly, just as he did in my doorway not long ago.
Something hot is burning within me, and I consider for a moment that bringing him home was a horrible idea.
“Here,” I mumble, setting the shot in front of him. We take them, and after one more (on his insistence), he sighs.
“I haven’t drank this much in one setting in so long,” he mutters, briefly disoriented before he shakes his head and sets his attention on me again. “Okay, Row. Show me those pictures of yours.”
Ignoring the sudden use of the nickname my family uses, I guide him to my darkroom. I have a few pictures hanging to dry on the line, but I guide him to my computer. I open the file that holds my most recent shots, the ones I have gotten most of the way through editing for that magazine in Texas.
“These are some shots I did recently. They’re for an agricultural magazine, so I went all over the place and took photos of farmland and the animals that occupy it,” I explain.
I can feel the heat of him against my back where I sit in my office chair. He’s leaning over my shoulder, one hand resting on the desk next to me. Warm breath tickles my ear, the smell of his soap invading my senses.
“These are incredible,” he says, leaning in just a bit closer. If he pushes any further, I’ll be able to feel the full length of his chest against my back. “I really like the one of the horse and the dog.”
“Yeah?” My voice comes out high and unsteady, my eyes glued to the screen in front of me. Like a teenage boy, I’m floundering.
“Yeah. There’s something sad about it. The horse can’t touch the dog without crushing him, and the dog can’t help but chase him anyway.”
I turn my head to look up at him, my heart beating erratically.
What the fuck?
Elijah feels my gaze and tilts his head to look down at me. We are far too close. I can taste the whiskey on his breath.
“What?” he asks.
“I…” But I don’t know what to say.
What I want to say is: you’re beautiful. Why is it that when you stand close enough, I get whiffs of citrus? How are you weaseling your way into my space? Do you remember me?
Do you remember me?
I startle, and Elijah leans back.
“Are you okay?” he questions.
“Yeah. Want another drink?” I’m out of my seat and out of the room a moment later, making two cocktails out of whiskey and Coke.
I’m trying to wrap my mind around the question, around how fucking right it feels on my tongue. But it doesn’t make sense.
If I had met Elijah before, I would have remembered it.
I find him admiring my camera as I return to the darkroom, fingers steady as he turns it over in his hands gently.
“This looks old,” he states, feeling me enter without looking up.
“It’s a Hasselblad,” I explain, watching him set it to the side before he takes his drink from me. I’m trying not to let our fingers brush. “It can take pictures digitally, but it also handles film. That’s why I like it so much.”
“Film… that’s what these are from?” He points to the hanging photos—personal shots of the woods out back.
“Yeah. This room doubles as a darkroom, where I develop the photos.”
Elijah whistles, and I notice that he’s not drinking from his cup. “Impressive.”
I watch him as he walks around, taking in my equipment and shooting me glances every few seconds. It’s odd to have someone here, let alone him. But I also kind of like it.
Once he grows tired of snooping, Elijah sets his drink on the closest empty surface and grabs my camera again. He approaches, only stopping a foot or two in front of me.
My heart is beating so loudly that I almost don’t hear him when he speaks.
“Take my picture.”
“S-sorry?” I stutter.
He tilts his head just slightly. “Take my picture and develop it.”
“But… I don’t take pictures of people,” I say, leaning further into the desk behind me, almost as if to escape him. But there is no escape.
Elijah watches me closely. “Why not?”
“Because it feels… too personal?” It comes out as a question, as if I’m unsure.
“Personal?” he pushes.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “This is my one thing. And when I start involving others, it…”
“Becomes theirs too?” Elijah asks, filling in the blanks. I’m staring at him—a piece of glass ready to shatter, completely transparent—and my hands are shaking.
He’s right on the money, and it’s a rule I’ve lived by my entire life. But fuck, if I don’t want to capture his hazel eyes on film.
“Exactly,” I choke out, and he grins.
“What if I told you that this thing of yours wouldn’t become mine,” he bargains, taking a step toward me and resting the camera against my chest, “but that a piece of me would become yours?”