Chapter 4
ELIJAH
I'm already halfway back out the door after grabbing my keys from Cody, fully prepared to escape the chaos of the football house with—Tina? Tiffany? Tracy?
...Something with a T, I think.
Honestly, I don't bother memorizing names. Names are just a courtesy, and even that feels optional. Names lead to breakfast, breakfast leads to feelings, and feelings lead to changing your relationship status on Facebook.
No thanks.
Hookups are supposed to stay simple. No emotions involved. No expectations.
We're here for one thing and one thing only... Sex. Then we go our separate ways before anyone starts asking questions I have no intention of answering.
That's the system.
It works.
Or it should.
But when I reach my parking spot, it's not Miss What's-Her-Face waiting for me. It's Satan herself, perched on my hood like some kind of demonic hood ornament. Samantha freaking Westbrook, all five-foot-nothing of her, somehow scaled mount my Chevy Silverado with those long legs of hers.
I drop my head and let out the kind of sigh that starts in my toes.
I knew tonight was too good to be true.
I thought—just once—I'd make it through a party without my plans getting derailed. Thought I'd finally break my personal dry spell. And yeah, maybe "dry spell" is dramatic, but when your hand has started feeling like your most reliable option, it's time to admit things have gone off the rails.
And yet.
Here we are.
I look back up at her, and she's smiling. That smug, knowing smile she wears like a badge of honor.
My right hand and I will be having another intimate evening together, courtesy of Samantha "Cockblock" Westbrook, who's officially earned herself a PhD in ruining my night. Again.
"Should I even ask what you did to scare her away?"
"Scare her away?" Sam clutches her hand to her chest in mock horror. "Me?" She blinks innocently. "Eli, you know me. I'm the nicest person in the world. I just walked up to her and asked her—very politely—to leave. I even said please."
My brow twitches. I squeeze my eyes shut because I already know there's no version of this conversation where I win. I drag a hand over my face, scratching at my eyebrow like that'll fix anything.
"Can you just get off my car, please?"
I click my key fob. The headlights blink and the locks chirp.
"Leaving already?" she asks, batting her lashes like she doesn't know exactly why.
"Well," I say flatly, "I was planning on leaving earlier with that girl. But since you ruined another perfectly good night for me, I'm leaving alone instead."
She brightens immediately. "That's totally fixable. I can leave with you instead."
My eyes go wide. "Wha—? No, you're not," I blurt, horrified.
Is she trying to make a proposition to have se... No. No. Absolutely not.
There is no universe where that's what she means. Right? And yet my brain, traitorous piece of shit that it is, immediately takes a hard left into that territory.
"Absolutely not!" I snap, louder than intended. "Are you out of your mind?"
She just stares at me, baffled. Brows pulled together. Mouth slightly open.
"What's so crazy about that?" she asks. "Aren't you going back to your dorm? I was gonna hitch a ride since that's where I'm going anyway."
"...Really?" I arch an eyebrow.
She nods. "I've got figure drawing tomorrow morning, and I left my sketchbook in Zachy's room. I kinda need it." She shrugs. "So yeah. Really."
I narrow my eyes at her, looking for the tell. The crack. Anything that says she's making it up. There's nothing.
If she's lying, she's gotten terrifyingly good at it.
And suddenly I want to punch myself directly in the face.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why did my brain immediately leap off a cliff into that conclusion? Am I broken? Am I secretly feral? Am I losing my damn mind?
Am I drunk?
No. I had one beer.
One.
That's not enough alcohol to justify my thoughts immediately swan-diving into the forbidden, off-limits, absolutely-never-gonna-happen category. The one labeled ZACH'S SISTER – DO NOT TOUCH – WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.
I clear my throat. Hard. Like I'm trying to cough up my dignity along with whatever short-circuited thought just hijacked my brain. It comes out rough and awkward.
Smooth, Deveraux. Real smooth.
Her cheeks are tinged pink, the color spreading across her skin like watercolor on paper. It reminds me of those sunsets that make you stop walking just to stare. The flush deepens as she looks at me, and that's when I catch her eyes for the first time tonight. They're gray like the ocean during a storm, catching the parking lot lights and something in my chest tightens involuntarily.
I look away quickly, annoyed at myself for even noticing, for the way my thoughts suddenly scatter like startled birds when she meets my gaze.
"So," she says, rocking on her heels. "Ride or no ride?"
"No," I say instantly. "Find another way. Call a friend. Call an Uber. Teleport. I don't care."
I wave her off and head for the driver's side.
"But Eli—oh."
She sways slightly. Just enough.
"I think I drank a little too much tonight," she says, "I'm kinda lightheaded."
I don't stop walking though.
"My friend had a couple drinks too," she continues. "So I don't think she should drive. Are you really gonna make me call an Uber? What if something bad happens? Would you be able to live with that? I mean... I am Zach's sister after all."
I stop from opening the car door and slowly, I turn around to face her.
She's looking at me with huge puppy eyes, lip trembling—the works. Damn her dramatic flair.
I'm at my absolute limit.
She knows it too.
"Fine," I grit out. "Come on. I'll drive you back to the Pond."
Sam squeals in delight. "Yes! I knew you had a conscience!"
"Climb down," I say. "So we can go."
She looks at the hood. Then at me. "Will you help me?"
"You climbed up there just fine. You should be able to come down no problem."
"Yeah, but it's high," she says earnestly. "And I might slip."
I close my eyes.
Count to five.
Resign myself to my fate.
I step in front of the hood and hold my arms out. "Come on."
She grins like Christmas came early and slides forward, hands landing on my shoulders. Then—of course—her arms loop around my neck, way more securely than necessary. She lowers one foot, then the other, nearly faceplanting, and I catch her at the waist.
I lift her down quickly, set her on her feet, and immediately step back like she's radioactive.
Sam hops into the passenger's side, grinning like she's just won the lottery—ears to ears.
Meanwhile, I get into the driver's seat and slam the door harder than needed.
Somehow, once again, this girl has completely outmaneuvered me.
I crank the engine, muttering, "Next time, you're Ubering."
She leans over. "Thanks, Eli. You're a hero."
I roll my eyes. "Save it."
*****
SAM
The car hums beneath us, a metal bubble of pure awkwardness floating through the night. Ten minutes. Ten whole minutes alone with Eli, and all I can think about is how the silence between us feels like its own living, breathing entity.
I fidget with the hem of my top, stealing glances at his profile illuminated by passing streetlights.
The tequila shots Ana practically forced down my throat earlier are doing their job, little liquid soldiers marching through my bloodstream, whispering terrible ideas into my brain. Like how this might be my only chance to get actual, real answers from the human equivalent of an emotional fortress sitting next to me.
God, his jawline should be illegal. It's so sharp it could probably cut glass. Or my dignity. Again.
The radio plays some indie song neither of us recognizes, too quiet to fill the void but too loud to ignore. I tap my fingers against my knee, counting seconds like they're precious gems. One, two, three...fifty-seven seconds of silence. It's practically a crime against humanity.
I physically cannot handle this. I'd rather listen to my ancient neighbor's dramatic retelling of her bunion surgery than endure another minute of this deafening nothing.
"Why do you hate me, Eli?" The words tumble out before my brain can catch them, fueled by two beers, three tequila shots, and ten years of unanswered questions.
Eli looks so surprised that his eyes briefly abandon the road to meet mine – those green hypnotic eyes that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. The moment passes as quickly as it came, and his attention snaps back to driving.
"I don't hate you," he says quickly, his voice tight like a guitar string about to snap. "Hate's... way too strong a word for whatever I feel towards you."
I chew on this non-answer like it's stale gum. "Then what do you feel toward me?"
He exhales, long and slow, rubbing the back of his neck like he's trying to massage out an answer. His fingers are long, elegant against his skin. I've spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about those hands.
"I'm not exactly sure," he finally admits. "Maybe I like you—"
My head snaps up so fast I'm surprised it doesn't detach from my body. My heart performs a gold medal-worthy gymnastic routine in my chest.
Is this happening?
Is Eli about to confess something that doesn't involve telling me to get lost?
"—don't get ahead of yourself," he cuts in, his voice firm but not unkind, reading my expression like it's written in neon. "And don't start thinking I mean that romantically, because I don't. I've told you this, Sam. A lot. For the last ten years. You just... don't listen."
And just like that, my heart stops mid-backflip and lands with a splat. I fold my arms across my chest, partly in defiance, partly to hold myself together. "Then what is it?"
"I like you because you're my best friend's little sister, which means—"
"Oh my God, stop." I clamp my hands over my ears so quickly I practically slap myself, squeezing my eyes shut. "Please don't say the little sister thing. I swear I might actually die if you say that. Like, spontaneously combust right here in your precious car. You'd be finding pieces of me for weeks."
There's a beat of silence, and then I hear it. A sound so rare I almost think I've hallucinated it. Eli chuckles. It's soft. Unguarded. Barely there—but it's real. Like seeing a shooting star or a New York taxi driver using their turn signal.
My eyes flutter open. My hands fall away from my ears as I stare at him like I'm witnessing a unicorn casually stroll through a Walmart. Everything slows. Because Elijah Deveraux does not laugh. Not at me. Not ever. His laugh is like finding a twenty-dollar bill in your jacket you haven't used in awhile – unexpected, brief, and weirdly thrilling.
"No. God, no," he says, shaking his head slightly. "That's not what I was going to say."
I swallow, trying not to look as thrown as I feel. "What then?"
"What I mean is—you're Zach's sister. So yeah, there's a part of me that cares about you. That doesn't want you getting hurt." His voice drops, becomes something heavier. "Especially by me."
The car stops at a red light, bathing his face in crimson. It suits him, I think. All his sharp angles and shadows painted red like a warning sign.
"If I hurt you, I don't just hurt you," he continues. "I'd hurt him too, and that would definitely put a strain on my friendship with your brother."
I stay quiet, which might be a first in our entire history of knowing each other. The light turns green, and we move forward again, just like this conversation that's heading somewhere I'm not sure I want to go.
"So what I'm really saying is—if you keep liking me, chasing me, hoping I'll wake up one day and feel the same way..." He pauses, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. "You're the one who's going to get hurt in the end. Because I don't do relationships, Sam. I don't fall in love. I don't believe in it. Love just isn't in the cards for me."
I study the profile of his face, the way his eyelashes cast tiny shadows on his cheeks. The absurd perfection of his nose. The unfairness of it all makes me want to scream.
"But what if tomorrow, it will?" I ask, because apparently, I enjoy emotional self-flagellation. "Or a year later, or in a few years? I can wait until you're ready."
He takes a turn, his hands sliding smoothly over the steering wheel. "You're probably right. Maybe in a few years time, I'd change my stance about commitment or that so-called love you've been throwing at me... but even so, you shouldn't wait."
"Why not?" The words come out smaller than I intended, like they've shrunk in the wash.
"Because it will never be you, Sam." His words land like individual punches. "I will never feel that about you."
Ouch.
I actually flinch, my body physically registering the hit before my mind can process it. This is what it must feel like to be gutted by someone using only their words.
Impressive, really. Horrific, but impressive.
"What? You can't say—"
"I can," he cuts me off, his voice unnervingly calm. "Because you've been pining over me, always expressing how much you love me all these years, but not once has my heart reacted to it, and I don't think it will at all. So I want you to forget about me, move on. Go date someone else, someone who can give you the affection you've been looking for because you won't find it with me."
I grit my teeth. The tequila that was making me brave earlier now just makes me reckless, my thoughts slipping out of my grasp like wet soap.
"That's where you're wrong, Eli," I say, turning more fully toward him. "Love is like a garden. It doesn't just appear overnight, fully grown and perfect. It needs tending. It needs patience. It needs someone willing to stick around when nothing's blooming yet. Right now, you've got this wall up—this concrete barrier where nothing gets in. But walls crack. They always do. And I think if I just keep showing up, keep trying, one day you'll realize that what we could have is worth letting someone in for."
I pause, breathless from my gardening metaphor, unreasonably proud of how poetic I'm being while half-drunk in a Chevy.
"Tend someone else's then," he says flatly, "because you'd only be waiting in vain." He takes another turn, bringing us closer to the dorm, closer to the end of this conversation. "Besides, what you're doing isn't love. It's selfishness."
"How so?"
"Because you keep shoving your feelings into my face for years even after I've told you over and over that I'll never love you back." His words are precise, clinical, like he's explaining a simple mathematical equation to a stubborn child.
I'm quiet for a moment, turning his words over in my mind like strange stones. The passing streetlights create a rhythm of light and shadow across his face, across my hands in my lap.
"Selfish?" I finally say, the word tasting strange on my tongue. "Yeah. Maybe it is. Because for me, love is inherently selfish."
I look out the window, at the blurred outlines of buildings and trees, feeling oddly calm now. Like I've finally reached some sort of clarity.
"People like to pretend love is this noble, selfless thing," I continue. "Like it's all sacrifice and letting go and doing what's best for the other person. That's a nice story. Makes everyone feel better about walking away. But that's not how it feels when you're the one carrying it."
I turn back to him, willing him to look at me, even for a second.
"Love is wanting. It's needing. It's waking up every day knowing exactly who you want, even when you're not supposed to. It's choosing someone even when they don't choose you back." My voice grows stronger with each word. "If that's selfish, then fine. I'll own it. Because loving you isn't about being generous. It's about the fact that you're the one I want. You're the one who feels like home to me. And asking me to stop loving you isn't asking for selflessness, it's asking me to erase myself. And I don't know how to do that. I don't even know if I want to."
The words hang between us, vibrating with a truth I hadn't fully recognized until I said it out loud. I feel strangely empowered, like I've finally articulated something I've been trying to say for years.
Eli's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. For a moment, I think I've finally reached him, finally made a dent in that perfect armor.
"You're only leading yourself to more heartbreak in the future, Sam," he says softly.
And just like that, I deflate. Because even after everything I've said, he's still trying to protect me—from himself, from my own feelings. And somehow, that hurts worse than any flat rejection.
We pull into the dormitory parking lot, the car settling into a space like we're settling into this stalemate. The engine quiets, and suddenly we're sitting in silence again, but it's different now—heavier, loaded with all the things we've said and all the things we never will.
I reach for the door handle, then pause. "You know what the really funny part is?" I ask, not looking at him. "The fact that you think I have a choice. Like I can just decide to stop feeling this way. Like I haven't tried."
I push the door open, the cool night air rushing in, a welcome relief against my heated skin.
"Maybe you're right," I say, stepping out of the car. "Maybe loving you is the most selfish thing I do. But it's also the most honest."
I close the door before he can respond, and walk toward the dorm building, my steps surprisingly steady given the alcohol and the emotional whiplash. Behind me, I hear his car door open and close, his footsteps following at a distance.
Always at a distance. Always out of reach. Always Eli.
And me? I'm always the idiot who loves him anyway.