Chapter Twenty-One
Elijah
Carrie pulls into the Waffle House parking lot, cutting the engine.
“Fuck! This headache is going to be the death of me,” she groans loudly.
“I told you not to drink so much. I think Jeff is a horrible influence on you,” I chastise.
Carrie glares at me, grabbing her purse from the backseat. “He’s my husband, Eli. Not my high school boyfriend.”
I can’t help but laugh as we exit the car, finding our way inside and into a booth by the back windows.
My sister and I used to come to Waffle House regularly when we were kids. It was our little sanctuary, and even if it’s a little run-down, we still find solace here together.
I place my order for a chocolate chip waffle and hashbrowns, and Carrie orders her patty melt.
“What time is your flight?” she asks once the waitress takes her leave.
“11 a.m. I’ll need to get to the airport around 9:30. Thanks for taking me, by the way.”
Carrie waves a hand dismissively. “I needed to get away from Jess. She’s insufferable after she drinks. The world revolves around her on a good day, so on a bad one? Fuck.”
I smirk at her complaint, mostly because she’s not wrong in the slightest, and a little because it’s amusing to watch their bickering when I get to run away from it after a day or two.
When I lived with them? Hell. A living hell.
“Yeah, she is a lot after she drinks,” I agree.
“Jeff asked me about Rowan last night,” Carrie says just as the waitress sets our food on the table.
“Huh?”
“Yep. He asked about the guy you went on that date with, so I told him you were serious about him. He seemed pretty excited for you.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You’d think he was the one going on dates with Rowan.”
Carrie laughs. “Jeff just loves you. Remember when I got stranded by that Motel 6 a year and a half ago, and he was at work, so you came and saved me? Ever since then, he’s had it in his head that you’re this amazing guy.”
“I was just doing what I was supposed to,” I deflect, taking a big piece of waffle and shoving it into my mouth.
“That’s what I said. But Jeff insisted that none of his siblings would have done it for him. He really thinks highly of you, even if you’re not super involved with anyone’s business.”
I don’t say anything to that, as I’m not sure how to take it. It feels like an insane amount of pressure to have Jeff like me so much. I wasn’t aware that he had expectations or opinions of me, and knowing so kind of weighs me down.
“Anyway,” Carrie continues. “What are you going to do when you get home? About Rowan, I mean.”
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly. “He’s called a few times since that night at my apartment. He messaged the day I flew here asking when I was coming back, but I never responded.”
She gives me a pointed look and says, “Well, that’s rude.”
I shrug. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“That you’re coming back today?”
I groan. “I mean, outside of that. If I respond to his one message, that opens a pathway for communication, and I’m not sure what I want to say to him.”
Carrie is silent after that, and we eat the rest of our food in peace. As the waitress drops off the check, I grab the yellowed piece of paper and stand. My sister follows me to the register.
“Paying together?” the waitress who took our order asks, and I give her a curt nod as she taps away at the old machine. “Say, are you from around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
“Uh,” I start, sending my sister a glance. She’s grinning. “Yeah. I grew up here. But I recently moved away.”
“Oh!” the woman says, her black hair swaying in its ponytail with every exaggerated movement. “That would explain it. I just started working here, so that’s probably why I haven’t seen you.”
“You just started working here, yet you asked me if I’m new?” I deadpan, and her eyes widen slightly.
“I… yeah, I guess that was silly, huh?”
“Very silly. Are you done with my card?” The waitress’s cheeks flush at my impassive, bored tone.
I can pick up on flirting from a mile away, and this girl looks like she’s fresh out of college. Not only that, but she’s a woman, so most definitely not my type.
“Yes, sorry! Um,” she flushes even further, biting away at her lower lip.
She is very pretty, which I can acknowledge. She most likely has never been rejected before.
Well, allow me.
“Um?” I ask, extending my hand for my debit card.
“I know you’re only visiting, but would you be interested in exchanging numbers or something? I know it’s sudden, but I think you’re very beautiful.”
I do admire her bravery; most people aren’t this forward with me.
“Listen—Amanda, is it?” I read the nametag on her shirt.
“Yes!” She beams.
“I’m not interested,” I say easily, and her face falls. “You’re not my type at all. And honestly, I’m kind of in a hurry, and you’re definitely holding me up. Are you going to hold my card hostage all day, or?”
Carrie elbows me roughly in the side, and I jolt as I glare down at her.
“Excuse him, he’s kind of an asshole, always has been. Eli is extra moody right now because his boyfriend is being weird,” my sister says in way of explanation.
Amanda’s eyes widen further at the word boyfriend, but I can see the sting of rejection fade into the disappointment of hitting on a gay man.
“Oh! I see. Well, you two have a wonderful day, thanks for stopping in!” Amanda hands me my debit card, and Carrie and I leave the Waffle House.
“Why are you always such a dick?” she asks, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve found that if you’re up front from the get-go, you won’t have to spend five extra minutes nursing their bruised ego. Why is it my job to baby some waitress I don’t know?”
Carrie sighs. “That’s someone’s sister, you know. Someone’s daughter or best friend.”
“I really don’t understand why you’re bitching at me right now.”
I watch the landscape as it zooms by, rolling my window down to enjoy the breeze. I’m surprised to find myself missing the chill of Fort Myers already.
Carrie says nothing else about the waitress, but soon she circles back to our previous conversation as if we never left it.
“You’ll figure everything out,” she says. “I have faith that once you’re back in North Dakota, the answers will come to you when they’re needed. You’re smart, Eli.”
“Thanks, Car.”
“Now,” she grins. “We have about an hour. Wanna hit the casino before you go?”
The plane ride back to North Dakota is aggressively long, but the drive from the airport to my apartment is only about an hour. The taxi fare is ridiculous—but what can I do? Call John for a ride?
It doesn’t make it any better that I lost a hundred dollars at the casino with Carrie, but I had a good time.
And now I’m dropping my carry-on next to the couch in my living room, listening to the settling of the walls around me. Home sweet home, or whatever it is people say after a trip away.
Sitting on the brown cushion, I stare at my phone screen. Time to delve into my emotional issues.
Am I running from this? Am I making excuses and hiding from Rowan so that he can’t hurt me?
This fucking ache in my chest hurts so damn bad, and I want to breathe it in until I can taste nothing else. I want it to disappear.
A part of me wants to hold onto this anger and this fear and never see him again. That way, I won’t be uncertain anymore; my life can go back to normal. I moved here to escape the exhausting environment I was in, not to create another.
But then there is the larger part of me that wants to believe every word Carrie threw at me, if only so that I can call Rowan up and see him standing before me. So I can hear his voice and feel him under my hands.
Is it that easy? Can I ignore this nagging feeling that something is being hidden from me and brush it all aside as some sort of self-preservation tactic?
I groan, opening my text messages before I can think better of it.
Elijah 6:51 p.m.
I’m home. Come over?
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Was this a mistake? Maybe. Will I see his face and immediately regret my decision, suddenly overcome with sadness and anger at what has transpired? Well, at least if that happens, I’ll know there is no need to keep debating an outcome.
It’ll be time to end things.
But what if I see him and nothing that mattered before matters anymore? What if I’m immediately transfixed by his face and his body, and his voice plucks all logical thoughts and actions from my mind?
There are too many uncertainties, too many terrifying, exciting things that can happen once Rowan Alexander is here in my apartment with me.
Will he touch me?
From the moment he steps through the threshold, how many seconds will it take for me to have him on his knees? I want to hear it: little angel. I want to feel it—his hands tracing every inch of me.
I want his explanation and his pleading. I will forgive him.
I’ve decided here and now, long before he’s ever arrived, that I will forgive him.
How dangerous it is, this thing that passes between two people.
It makes me sick; it turns me on. I want more of it, and I want to run.
Only, I can’t do anything when he does not respond to me. Rowan does not type, and he does not call. I would know—I spend every moment from the second I hit send watching our message stream.
What is he doing? Is Marissa still there? Is work that busy? I would imagine he’d be blowing up my phone, losing his mind that I’m finally communicating.
Did he… finally lose interest? I would. If someone ignored me and fled town after I pleaded for forgiveness at their door, I would lose interest, too.
Fuck. Did I royally fuck this up?
My anxiety peaks for the first time in ages, and I find myself breathing heavily. I haven’t felt this shaky in a long time.
I sink back into the couch cushion, resting my phone on the seat next to me.
I really thought he’d come running; I really thought it would all be mended tonight. That I’d have him in my arms, forgiving and forgetting one slow touch at a time.
Instead, I am lying in a grave of my own making while I drown under the weight of this ache.