17. Eli
— ? —
Eli
The pie is a mistake.
I know this the second I sit down at the folding table, paper plate in front of me, cherry filling gleaming under the festival lights. The nine-year-old next to me is cracking her knuckles like a prizefighter, and her grandmother is giving me a look that says I will end you, famous boy.
“You sure about this?” Az asks from the hay bale where she’s sitting with her kettle corn. She’s trying not to smile. Failing.
“Absolutely not,” I say. “This was a terrible idea. I’m going to lose to a child.”
“Her name is Madison. She’s won three years running.” Az nods toward the girl.
“Madison is a shark,” I mutter.
“Madison is nine.”
“Madison has dead eyes and the confidence of a dictator.”
Az laughs.
It’s the first real laugh I’ve gotten out of her in weeks, and it hits me somewhere soft, somewhere I’ve been protecting. I turn back to the table, settle my hands on either side of my plate, and make eye contact with Madison.
“May the best competitor win,” I say seriously.
Madison doesn’t blink. “You’re going down, Doorstep guy.”
The whistle blows.
I shove my face into the pie.
Here’s the thing about pie-eating contests: there’s no dignified way to do them.
You can’t be cool. You can’t be smooth. You just have to commit, fully and completely, to getting as much pie into your mouth as physically possible while cherry filling drips down your chin and crust gets lodged in your nostrils and everyone you’ve ever respected watches you humiliate yourself.
Madison is a machine. She’s doing some kind of vacuum technique I’ve never seen before, inhaling pie like it owes her money, and I’m falling behind fast. The crowd is cheering, for her, definitely not for me, and somewhere in the chaos I hear Az laughing again, that breathless sound she makes when something really gets her, and I think: worth it. Completely worth it.
I lose spectacularly.
Madison beats me by half a pie and accepts her trophy with the grace of a seasoned champion. I wipe cherry filling off my eyebrows and give her a solemn bow, which makes the crowd laugh, which makes Az laugh harder.
“That was pathetic,” she says when I make my way over to her hay bale. “Truly, genuinely pathetic.”
“I have pie in my ear.”
“I noticed.”
“The children of Ojai have humbled me.” I steal a piece of her kettle corn. “I accept my defeat with honor.”
She’s smiling. Actually smiling, not the tight polite thing she’s been giving me for days, but a real smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. I want to freeze this moment, live in it forever, but I know better than to push.
“There’s cherry in your hair,” she says.
“Obviously,” I say.
“And on your neck.”
“It’s a look.” I wipe at my jaw and miss.
“It’s disgusting.”
“I prefer rustic.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and hands me a napkin. Our fingers brush when I take it, and neither of us pulls away immediately.
The harvest fair is winding down around us, families packing up their craft projects and half-eaten corn dogs, the sun setting behind the mountains in shades of orange and purple. It’s the kind of evening that feels stolen, temporary, like it can’t possibly last.
“There’s karaoke in the beer tent,” I say.
Az raises an eyebrow. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t do karaoke.”
“I don’t do a lot of things. I’m branching out.”
“Eli.” She’s giving me that look, the one that says she can see right through me. “What are you doing?”
“Making a fool of myself.” I shrug. “Seemed to work with the pie.”
She looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. Then she shakes her head, a little helplessly, and gestures toward the tent.
“Fine. But I’m not participating.”
“I would never ask you to.”
The beer tent is crowded, twinkle lights strung from the support poles, a small stage set up in the corner with a karaoke machine that looks like it’s been in continuous use since 1987. I sign my name on the list and watch the host’s eyes go wide when he reads it.
“Elliot Jackson?” he says. “The Elliot Jackson?”
“Just Eli tonight. Got anything from the nineties?”
He does.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing on a rickety stage in front of thirty strangers with phones already out, cherry pie still in my hair, about to sing Shania Twain in the wrong key on purpose.
Az is sitting in the back with her hand over her mouth, and I can’t tell if she’s horrified or delighted.
The music starts.
I’ve spent fifteen years learning to sing properly, breath control, pitch, stage presence, all the technical stuff that turns natural talent into professional performance. I know how to work a crowd, how to hit my marks, how to make every note land exactly where it should.
Tonight, I throw all of that out the window.
I belt the opening lines off-key, deliberately flat, my voice cracking on the high notes, and the crowd starts laughing immediately. Not mean laughter, surprised laughter, delighted laughter, the kind you get when someone famous decides to stop being precious about themselves.
So I lean into it.
I’m doing dramatic hand gestures, pointing at random audience members during the chorus, dropping to my knees for the bridge like I’m in a power ballad music video from 1994.
The phones are definitely recording. The internet is definitely going to have opinions.
And across the tent, Az is laughing so hard she’s doubled over, one hand on her belly, the other wiping tears from her eyes.
Worth it.
So worth it.
When the song ends, I take an exaggerated bow, and someone in the back yells “ONE MORE!” but I shake my head and hop off the stage.
The crowd parts for me as I make my way back to Az, and I’m getting slaps on the back and comments like “didn’t know you had it in you, man” and “my wife’s gonna love this video. ”
“That,” Az says when I reach her, “was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you.” I bow, sweat dripping.
“I’m serious. You’re going to be on every gossip site by morning.”
“Probably.” I’m still grinning like an idiot.
“GRUMPIEST MAN ALIVE BEGS WIFE WITH SHANIA. That’s the headline.”
“I’d read that article.”
She’s still laughing, breathless with it, and the baby must be able to feel it because I can see her belly moving, little ripples across the fabric of her dress. I want to put my hand there, feel it for myself, but I don’t. I wait.
“Come on,” she says, pushing herself up from her seat. “Let’s get out of here before someone asks for an encore.”
The walk back to the truck is quiet, the fair sounds fading behind us, and Az doesn’t say much but she’s still smiling in the dark, this small private smile I used to get in the early days before everything got complicated.
The night air is cool against my cherry-stained skin, and for the first time in weeks, my chest unclenches.
“Hey,” I say when we reach the truck. “Before we go. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Her smile fades slightly. “Is there more about Cody?”
“The rental car. Brynn’s rental.” I lean against the truck bed, choosing my words carefully. “The deputy got the rental company’s statement in writing today. It’s on record.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing. “Okay.”
“And I’ve hired two more guys. Security. Dez vetted them personally.”
“When?”
“Today. They can be at the gate or at the house, whichever you want. Not next week. Tonight.” I meet her eyes, making sure she hears me. “This is your choice, Az. Your call. I wanted to talk to you before deciding where they go.”
She’s silent for a long moment, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the mountains in the distance. I can see her thinking, turning it over, all the implications and the logistics and the fear she’s probably trying not to feel.
“Thank you,” she says finally. “For telling me.”
“Always.”
“The gate.” She nods, once. “I want them at the gate.”
“Done.”
I pull out my phone, text Dez the confirmation, and pocket it again. When I look up, Az is watching me, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“You really made a fool of yourself tonight,” she says.
“I really did.” I can’t stop smiling.
“In front of thirty phones.”
“Probably more by now,” I admit.
“The internet is going to lose its mind.”
“Looking forward to it.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling again, and when I open the passenger door for her she climbs in without hesitation. I round the truck to the driver’s side, start the engine, pull out of the dirt lot and onto the dark country road.
The cab is quiet except for the hum of the engine, the windows cracked to let in the night air. Az is looking out at the stars, her profile soft in the dashboard light, and I keep my eyes on the road because if I look at her too long I’ll say something stupid.
We’re halfway home when she reaches over.
Her hand finds mine on the center console, fingers threading through mine, warm and deliberate. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say anything. Just holds on.
I forget how to breathe.
“That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says quietly.
I swallow. “You mentioned that.”
“You had pie in your ear,” she says, almost fond.
“Still do, probably.” I scrub at my ear.
“You sang Shania. Off-key. On purpose.”
“It felt right in the moment.”
Her thumb traces a small circle on the back of my hand. “Why?”
Because I’d do anything to hear you laugh.
Because I’ve been so careful, so measured, walking on eggshells for weeks, and tonight I just wanted to be the guy who made you smile.
Because you deserve someone who’ll humiliate himself at a harvest fair without thinking twice about it, and I need you to know I can be that person again.
“Because I love you,” I say. “And because I’m an idiot.”
She’s quiet.
Her hand doesn’t let go.
The farm appears over the next rise, porch lights glowing in the dark, and I pull up the long drive with my heart hammering against my ribs. Dez’s guys are already at the gate, two silhouettes in the shadows, and Az squeezes my hand slightly when she sees them.
I park in front of the house. Kill the engine.
We sit there for a moment, hands still linked, the silence stretching between us.
“I should go in,” she says.
“Okay.”
“Thank you for tonight.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.” She looks at me finally, really looks, and there’s a tangle in her eyes, hurt and hope and something else I can’t name. “I’m not ready to forgive you yet.”
“I know.”
“But that was…” She trails off, shaking her head. “That was really stupid.”
“My specialty.”
Her mouth tips toward a smile. She lets go of my hand slowly, opens the door, climbs out.
I watch her walk to the porch, one hand on her back, her dress swaying in the night breeze. She pauses at the door, looks back at me over her shoulder.
“The goat tried to eat my sweater again today,” she says.
“What?”
“The new goat. Lupe’s daughter brought him last month.” She’s smiling again, that small secret smile. “I named him Elliot. Because he’s stubborn and he won’t leave me alone.”
The door closes behind her before I can respond.
I sit in the dark truck for a long time, engine off, the image of her smile burning behind my eyes. There’s a goat named after me. She named a goat after me.
Somewhere in my chest, a seam gives way.