Chapter 23 Elliot #2
I hesitated on the porch. Just for a second.
My heart was beating so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs open.
My hands shook as I lifted them, knuckles hovering inches from the wood.
I suddenly became acutely aware of everything—how soaked I was, how ridiculous I must look, how raw and unguarded I felt.
If he doesn’t answer, something inside me whispered, I don’t know what I’ll do.
I knocked anyway. Once. Then again, harder. Footsteps sounded almost immediately on the other side. Fast. Uneven. The door opened.
Anthony stood there barefoot, hair mussed like he’d just run his hands through it too many times. His face went slack when he saw me—shock first, then something that looked a lot like fear.
“Elliot—”
I didn’t give him time to finish.
My body moved before my mind could catch up, stepping into his space, hands gripping the front of his hoodie like it was the only solid thing left in the world. The moment my fingers closed around fabric, my knees nearly gave out.
“I couldn’t—” My voice broke completely. “I couldn’t stay there.”
Anthony didn’t speak.
He didn’t ask questions.
He reached for me instinctively, one hand sliding between my shoulder blades, firm and grounding, the other bracing my hip as he pulled me fully inside and kicked the door shut behind us.
The sound of it closing was loud in the quiet house. Final.
I sagged into him, forehead pressed against his collarbone, rain dripping onto his chest. My whole body was shaking now. Violent, uncontrollable tremors that rattled my teeth and made my breath come in sharp, uneven pulls.
Anthony adjusted without thinking. He widened his stance, anchored himself, one arm wrapping around my back with steady pressure, the other coming up to cradle the base of my skull.
“Okay,” he murmured, low and even. “I’ve got you. Breathe with me.”
He inhaled deliberately, deep and slow, chest rising beneath my cheek. I tried to match it. Failed. Tried again.
His hand pressed more firmly between my shoulders. Not restraining, just present. A constant, reassuring weight. My nervous system latched onto it like it recognized something ancient and necessary.
“There you go,” he said quietly. “That’s it. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. I’m right here.”
My breath stuttered, then hitched, then—finally—followed his. In. Out. In. Out. The shaking didn’t stop right away, but it softened. Shifted. Became something survivable.
I clutched him harder, fingers curling into the back of his hoodie, burying my face against his chest like I could disappear there. His heart was beating fast too—I could feel it—but it was steady. Strong. A rhythm I could borrow until mine remembered what it was supposed to do.
“I hated it,” I whispered, words tearing out of me. “I hated being there without you.”
“I know,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No judgment.
We stood like that for a long moment. Neither of us moving, just breathing together in the entryway while rain tapped against the windows and the house slowly learned our shape.
Anthony shifted first, carefully. “You’re soaked,” he said gently. “Come on. Let’s get you warm.”
He didn’t let go when he said it. He just guided me down the hall with one hand still firm at my back, like he didn’t trust the floor to hold me on its own. When my knees wobbled again, his grip tightened automatically, steadying me without comment.
In the bathroom, steam bloomed as he turned on the faucet for the bath. The sound filled the space, drowning out the echo of everything else. He helped me peel off my wet jacket, my socks, movements unhurried and respectful, like this was something sacred instead of practical.
When I started shaking again—harder this time—he stilled me with a hand on my sternum.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Stay with me. Feel that?”
I nodded, throat too tight to speak.
“That’s your heart,” he continued. “It’s still going. You’re still here.”
The words sank in slowly, landing somewhere deep.
He helped me into the bath and lowered me down. Then stripped and folded his clothes, leaving them next to the sink before gesturing for me to move forward so he could slip in behind me.
The water sloshed over the sides as he sat down and pulled me back until I was cradled against his body. His arms wrapped around me like parentheses—holding, not trapping.
One hand rested over my sternum, warm and solid, the other curved around my waist, thumb tracing slow, absent arcs into my skin. The heat of the water softened my muscles, but it was his presence that finally let something unclench.
The heat helped. The sound of his breathing helped. His presence helped most of all. For the first time since he’d left that morning, my body stopped screaming.
I clung to him, breath evening out inch by inch, and let myself believe—just for now—that I didn’t have to face the world alone. That my nervous system had found its way home.
My head tipped back against his shoulder as my body gave in to gravity. Anthony’s lips brushed my temple—barely there. That gentle touch felt more intimate than anything else in the world.
“Do you want to talk about it, baby boy?” he murmured.
The words loosened something fragile.
A shudder ran through me as my father’s face rose up in my mind. The disgust etched deep into his expression, the way his gaze had raked over me like it was looking for faults to catalogue.
“He said—” My throat closed. I swallowed, my shoulders creeping up toward my ears. Anthony felt it immediately and tightened his arms—grounding pressure, a quiet stay. “He said he feels sick when he looks at me.”
Anthony didn’t speak. His chest expanded slowly against my back, his breathing deliberate—an anchor I could hook myself to.
“He said I remind him too much of my mom,” I continued, the words scraping on the way out. “That he only ever pretended to love me because she did. And now that she’s gone… there’s nothing left.”
My ribs pulled tight, breath going shallow. Anthony’s hand slid from my chest to my jaw, gentle fingers guiding my face up until I was looking at him.
“Turn around,” he said softly. Not an order. An invitation.
I shifted carefully, water sloshing as he helped maneuver me until I was straddling his legs, knees braced on either side of his hips. His hands stayed with me the whole time—steady, respectful—one settling at my lower back, the other cupping the nape of my neck.
Being face-to-face made it harder to hide. “He said I’m weak,” I whispered. “That falling for you proves it.”
Anthony’s eyes didn’t flinch. If anything, they softened—dark with something fierce and protective. “That’s not the true,” he said quietly. “That’s his grief curdled into cruelty.”
I shook my head, a bitter, broken motion. “He said he wishes it had been me when I jumped.” The words landed flat, stripped of tone by sheer exhaustion. “He said he wishes I’d died instead of her.”
Something inside me collapsed. My breath stuttered, then broke entirely as a sob tore out of me. Raw and uncontrolled. My hands fisted in his shoulders like I might fall apart if I didn’t hold on.
Anthony reacted instantly, pulling me closer until my forehead pressed into his, noses brushing. His hands splayed wide across my back, firm and grounding.
“No,” he said, voice low and unyielding. “No. That is not something you get to put inside yourself.”
I cried hard then—open, shaking sobs that came from a place long before language. Anthony stayed with me through all of it, breathing slow and deep, letting my body borrow his rhythm until mine remembered how to function.
When the sobs finally ebbed into ragged breaths, he rested his forehead against mine.
“When he said that,” Anthony asked gently, “what did it make you feel in your body?”
I closed my eyes. “Small,” I admitted. “Like I was a child again. Like I didn’t deserve to take up space. Like if I just disappeared, everyone would finally be able to breathe.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened for a moment before easing. “That’s an old wound talking,” he said. “One he helped carve. Not a reflection of who you are.”
I let out a weak, hollow laugh. “Feels pretty real.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why it hurts.”
He brushed his thumb along my spine, slow and grounding, until the tension in my shoulders eased a fraction.
“Can I suggest something?” he asked.
I nodded against his forehead.
“I think this might be a good time to call Nora,” he said carefully. “Not because you’re failing. Not because you’re too much. But because what he said tore open scars that were never allowed to heal.”
The idea made my chest tighten—not panic this time, but grief.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” I whispered.
Anthony pulled back just enough to look at me fully. “You are not a burden,” he said firmly. “You were neglected. There’s a difference.”
Something inside me settled, fragile but real. “Okay,” I whispered. “Tomorrow.”
He nodded. “We’ll do it together if you want.”
I leaned into him again, our foreheads touching, water cooling slowly around us. The storm hadn’t vanished. But it had stopped swallowing me whole. And I was still here. Still held.