Chapter 9
ELIJAH
After practice, I race to the showers—doubling my speed—because I've got dinner plans with my parents tonight.
Yes. Parents. Plural.
I haven't seen either of them in months, which isn't unusual.
We live in three different places. Mom and her new family are in Virginia, Dad and his wife are back in Naples, and I'm in Miami for school and hockey. I didn't even make it home to Naples over the summer because I was at training camp. So this dinner will be the first time I've seen both of them in a while.
You'd think that, as the child of divorced parents, I'd be thrilled at a family reunion—sitting together, sharing a fancy meal at some five-star restaurant, just like we used to ten years ago. But I'm not.
I might've thought that way once. Maybe twice. Back when I was younger and still stupid enough to believe effort fixed everything.
Not anymore.
Because every time they're in the same room, they bicker. Someone always says the wrong thing, and it blows up into an argument. It's like reliving my middle-school years: fight, fight, fight—nonstop.
So yeah—I am absolutely not looking forward to this dinner. Even if I do, annoyingly, miss them.
I already know that before the entrée even arrives, I'll be fantasizing about knocking myself out with a hammer just to wake up when it's all over.
I'm not even sure why I agreed in the first place.
Oh, right—Mom called during lunch, said she was in Miami on business and wanted to see me before heading back to Virginia. Then Dad called right before practice, saying he decided—last minute, of course—to drive down to check on me and catch up. They both used the same words. Miss you. Want to see you. Make up for lost time.
For two people who can't stand each other, they sure think alike.
They're only free tonight, and they gave me maybe a few hours' notice, never asking if I had plans. It's a classic—me rearranging my life to fit theirs. I told Dad Mom was in town and invited me to dinner. I half-expected him to back out. He didn't. Said he was fine with it. And Mom said the same thing when I told her. They even promised to be civil.
So here I am, getting ready for dinner, knowing full well that all I really want to do is lock myself in my room and call in sick.
I slide into the plush banquette beside my parents at La Tavola Felice, the glow of wrought-iron lanterns casting a honeyed light over the polished mahogany table. The air is fragrant with garlic, rosemary, and the low hum of conversation drifting from neighboring booths.
A crystal carafe of sparkling water glints beside an ivory-cloth bread basket, its folds soft and inviting.
Across from me is my mom, Jessica, who somehow still looks like she hasn't aged past her early thirties. Her blonde hair falls neatly over her shoulders, styled but not stiff, and she's wearing a pale-blue silk blouse that probably costs more than someone's monthly grocery budget.
Everything about her looks put-together without trying too hard—the kind of effortless polish that comes from living a life where money isn't something you worry about.
Being married to Charles Hamilton, the guy who owns half a dozen restaurants back in Virginia, tends to do that.
At the other end of the table is my dad, Elliot, settling into his chair like he belongs anywhere he sits. He's tall, built like me, broad through the shoulders, and still looks annoyingly solid for someone pushing forty.
His hair's gone mostly salt with just enough pepper left to pretend he's not aging, and there's an ease to him that makes it obvious he hasn't slowed down—whether that's a good thing or not depends on who you ask.
The waiter approaches our table with a practiced smile, a notepad in his hand
My mom barely skims the menu, her manicured fingers tapping lightly against the leather-bound cover. "I'll have the sea bass with the lemon beurre blanc," she announces, "That's still your signature preparation, isn't it?"
After the waiter's confirmation, she hands back the menu with a satisfied nod.
I linger over my own menu despite already knowing exactly what I want. "The ribeye for me," I finally say, meeting the waiter's eye. "Medium rare."
Dad doesn't even look up from the wine he's been contemplating since we sat down. "I'll have the same," he mutters, his tall frame hunched slightly over the table. Medium rare—the way he's ordered steak for as long as I can remember.
The waiter scribbles down our orders, tosses out a few side suggestions with the same practiced enthusiasm he's probably used a hundred times tonight. Mom swaps whatever comes standard for seasonal vegetables. I keep the potatoes. Dad mutters that he'll have the same as me.
As soon as the waiter disappears, my mother turns fully toward me, folding her hands together on the table. She wears that soft, motherly smile I recognize instantly—the one that looks warm at first glance but never quite reaches the crease beside her eye.
"I'm really sorry I haven't been able to visit as much as I wanted to," she says. "Things at the restaurant have been... hectic. And your stepdad and I are in the middle of planning a new branch here in town, which is actually why I'm in Miami right now." She lets out a small, almost sheepish laugh. "It was supposed to be Charles who came to check out the location, but something more urgent came up, so he sent me instead."
"Oh," I say, nodding. "That's... kind of a big move. Branching out of state."
"It is," she says quickly, like she's been waiting for that opening. Her posture straightens, and suddenly she's animated, hands lifting as she talks. "Virginia's been great for us, obviously, but Miami has so much potential. The foot traffic alone—especially near the waterfront—Charles thinks it could do incredibly well. He's been running numbers for weeks."
She keeps going, talking about zoning permits and timelines and how they're thinking of tweaking the menu just a bit to fit the area. Something about sourcing seafood locally. Something else about design concepts.
I nod when it feels appropriate. I hum out a few mm-hmms. I even ask, "So when are you thinking of opening?" even though I don't actually care about opening dates or menu adjustments.
She brightens at that, clearly encouraged. "If everything goes smoothly, early next year. We're still negotiating a lease, but—oh, Elijah, you should see the space. It's beautiful. High ceilings, lots of light."
"That's great," I say. And I mean it. Mostly. Or at least enough to sound convincing.
My father, meanwhile, lifts his wine glass, still more interested on swirling the burgundy liquid than actually looking at either of us. He treats it like something that deserves his full attention, like it might slip away if he doesn't keep watching it.
I notice. I always notice.
There's just no point saying anything. There never has been. Ten years later, he's still convinced he can stop whenever he wants—that one glass is always just one glass, that the problem everyone else sees is somehow invisible to him.
Earlier, I'd reminded him he could only have one drink tonight since he's driving back to Naples. To his credit, he agreed without arguing. Whether he actually sticks to that is another story. If he doesn't, I'll end up driving him myself—and that means Naples, then back to Miami, then dragging my ass to the team workout, then an eight a.m. class.
So yeah. Really hoping it doesn't come to that.
Mom notices me eyeing Dad' s glass. She gives a small, apologetic smile and sips her wine.
"Anyway," Mom says suddenly, cutting herself off with a small laugh. "Enough about restaurants. I'm sorry, darling—I got carried away. I'm just excited, that's all."
"It's alright, Mom," I say, offering a half-hearted smile.
"How are you, darling? I mean... really. I want to know how you've been lately."
I shrug, leaning back in my chair. "Same as usual. Classes. Practice." I hesitate, then add, "Busier than previous years, actually. It's my last year of college."
"Your last year huh?" She blinks, then lets out a soft gasp. "God, I can't believe I didn't even realize that."
She studies me for a second, head tilting, something thoughtful passing over her face before it shifts—subtle, but familiar. That teasing glint creeps in. The corner of her lips quirks upward.
"You're finishing college already, and yet you still haven't introduced us to a girlfriend."
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself.
"What is it?" she asks, brows knitting together. "What's so funny?"
Across the table, Dad finally looks up from his wine, mild curiosity flickering across his face.
"Nothing," I say. "I just—I haven't introduced anyone because there's no one to introduce, Mom. I don't date."
Mom looks like she's about to follow that up—her mouth parts slightly, another question already forming—but I'm saved by the bell.
Or, more accurately, saved by the waiter.
He' s balancing a large tray loaded with our orders, the aroma of garlic and herbs rising with the steam that curls off the plates like ghostly fingers beckoning us to eat. My steak is seared to perfection, the outside caramelized to a rich mahogany while the center promises to be the exact medium-rare I ordered. I can already taste the butter pooling at its edges.
Mom straightens in her seat, attention instantly shifting to the food. "Oh wow," she murmurs, clearly impressed.
Dad gives a short nod of approval like he's inspecting something that meets his standards. The waiter asks if we need anything else, refills water, then disappears again.
We dig into our food, savoring each bite in what turns out to be the most peaceful family dinner I've had in years. My parents are actually keeping their promise to be civil with each other. We' re halfway through our dinner and there hasn't been a single barbed comment between them.
The food's good. Really good. Mom makes small appreciative sounds every few bites, commenting on how fresh the fish tastes, how the vegetables are cooked perfectly. Dad focuses on his steak, cutting slow, deliberate slices, chewing thoughtfully like he's channeling all his energy into not saying the wrong thing.
It's surreal.
"So, how are your classes this semester? Still managing everything alright?" Dad finally speaks up.
"Yeah," I reply, wiping my mouth. "Busy, but manageable. Senior year is a heavier workload, but it's expected."
"Good. You've always handled pressure well. Just don't let things slide now that you're this close to the end."
"I won't," I say.
He takes a sip of wine, rolls the glass slightly between his fingers before setting it down again. "The reason I also wanted to see you is to talk to you about you coming back to Naples more often," he says. "You know—checking in at the gym."
I glance at him. "How's that going?"
He lets out a breath, the tired kind that comes from answering the same question too many times. "It's still a mess. There's more left to do than we expected. Corrine and I could really use an extra pair of hands."
Dad and Corrine—his new wife—bought a rundown fitness center last November, hoping to have it ready by January.
He exhales again, rubbing at his jaw. "We underestimated the work. Most of our budget went into the equipment, so hiring extra help wasn't really an option. We've been handling the renovation ourselves."
Mom listens quietly, chewing, eyes flicking between us but staying out of it.
"I'll try, Dad." I say carefully.
"How about you come visit this weekend?"
I scratch my brow, "I'm not sure if I can drive to Naples anytime soon. It's gonna be tough because the hockey season just started."
My words trail off and I regret it instantly.
I feel it before I see it—Dad's jaw tightening, the muscle in his cheek jumping. His expression darkens, not explosive, just... clouded. The way it always does when hockey enters the conversation.
For a brief moment, I brace myself. Old instincts kicking in. Waiting for the blowup.
But it doesn't come.
He takes another sip of wine. Sets the glass down more carefully this time.
"You spend too much of your time on hockey," he says finally, not looking at me. His knife keeps moving through the steak, sawing a little harder than necessary.
"It's just a sport, Elijah. It's not a future. Not something you should be building your life around like it owes you anything." His jaw tightens before he adds, "You should always make time for your family."
He finally looks up at me then, eyes hard. "Family should come first. Always. Not some game that doesn't care what it takes from you."
How ironic.
I keep my face neutral, but my grip tightens around my steak knife, knuckles whitening just a bit as I force myself to breathe through it. This one's on me. I should've known better than to bring up hockey around him.
"I'll see what I can do," I say carefully, keeping my tone even. "But I can't promise anything right now, Dad. My scholarship depends on me being there for the team, and I can't miss practices or—"
I stop myself before the sentence runs too far.
He should already understand this. He lived it once. But whatever love he had for the sport back then curdled into something bitter, something he refuses to look at without flinching.
"So I probably won't be able to help out until winter break," I finish.
He studies me for a second, then nods once. "Alright. That's fine, I guess."
And just like that, the conversation ends.
He goes back to his steak, chewing in silence, eyes fixed on his plate like he's said everything he's willing to say tonight. Mom resumes eating too, clearly relieved, and steers things safely elsewhere—talking about my 9- year- old half-brother Michael' s school, a new teacher he likes, his piano recital coming up in December.
"Oh—by the way, darling," she says, turning her attention back to me. "Before I forget. Charles and I are taking Michael to Switzerland for his birthday in November. There' s this pianist he's been dying to meet, and he happens to have a concert in Zurich."
She smiles, already halfway lost in the plan.
"That falls around Thanksgiving," she continues. "So what I'm saying is—"
Her eyes flick to Dad.
He's already looking at her, suspicion etched into his face like he knew this was coming the second she opened her mouth.
"Uh—" I start, instinctively.
"So what you're saying," Dad cuts in calmly, too calmly, "is you want our son to spend Thanksgiving with me this year? Even though it's your turn?"
Mom' s smile stretches thin across her face. "Well, yes," she says, her voice slipping into that careful tone she uses when asking for something she knows she shouldn't. "I know it's technically my year with Elijah for Thanksgiving, but Charles and I were hoping—just this once—we could switch things around."
"No." The word lands like a gavel.
"No? Why not?" Mom's voice rises, surprise flashing across her face. "It's just for this Thanksgiving, Elliot. Just this once."
Dad sets down his fork. "Well, just like you, Corrine and I have plans too. We're spending Thanksgiving with her family in Chicago."
Mom's face hardens. "Can't you just cancel it?"
"Like you're canceling yours? Oh wait, you're not."
"We already bought the tickets, Elliot."
"And I already promised her and her parents."
"He's your son!"
"Exactly. My son. When it's convenient for you."
I sink lower in my chair as they volley me back and forth like a tennis ball nobody wants to catch.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Mom asks.
Dad wipes his mouth with his napkin, then tosses it onto the table like he's done being polite. "You really want me to spell it out, Jessica?" he says, scoffing. "You think this is the first time you've pulled something like this?"
She stiffens. "That's not fair."
"Oh, it's completely fair," he fires back. "We had an arrangement, Jessica. We were supposed to alternate holidays. But when it's your turn, something comes up. Something always comes up. A trip. A last-minute plan. A 'we'll make it up next time.'"
He leans back in his chair, eyes hard. "You've been doing this for ten years. You always decide what works best for you, then expect me to adjust around it."
Mom's fingers tighten around her fork. She doesn't look at him at first. When she does, there's color creeping up her neck. "That's not true," she says, though her voice lacks conviction. "Things happen. Plans change."
"Plans change when it's convenient for you," he snaps. "You knew it was your turn. You still booked a trip out of the country. Didn't even think to include him."
Her mouth opens, then closes. She looks down at her plate, jaw tightening. For the first time tonight, she actually looks guilty.
"And now," Dad continues, not letting up, "you want me to drop everything because it suits you better if he's with me instead. Like my life just exists to fill in the gaps you leave."
Mom finally sets her utensils down slowly like she's afraid if she moves too fast she'll explode. She forces a polite smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm sorry if you feel that way," she says evenly. "That wasn't my intention."
He laughs, short and humorless. "You always say that."
She lifts her chin. "I'm not trying to start a fight, Elliot. I just thought—"
"You always just think," he cuts in. "And I'm the one who's supposed to bend. Not anymore."
So much for being civil. I definitely jinxed it.
God, I just want to disappear while these two tear into each other.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose as a dull throb starts to bloom behind my temples. I can already feel the migraine coming on, the kind that creeps in slow and settles deep, fed by raised voices and old resentment.
They keep arguing. Going in circles. Chicago. Switzerland. Plans stacked on top of plans.
Plans I'm not part of.
Because why would they include me? I'm the problem they pass back and forth, not the person they actually want there. Listening to them, you'd think Thanksgiving was a scheduling inconvenience instead of a family holiday—and I'm just the thing making it complicated.
So much for making your own kid feel wanted.
The irony is, there's no point in them fighting over it anyway. I don't want to spend the holiday with either of them. Thanksgiving's supposed to be about being grateful, about warmth and togetherness, about sitting around a table where you actually belong.
How the hell am I supposed to feel thankful when I'm stuck between two people who can't stand each other—and barely notice me unless I'm something to argue over?
I'd rather spend the day alone than pretend this is what family is supposed to look like.
And that thought hits harder than the headache ever could.
"You'd be doing me a huge favor if you agree, Elliot," Mom says.
Dad let out a short, bitter laugh.
"A favor?" He shakes his head with a laugh that scrapes against the air, drawing glances from the couple at the next table. "What makes you think I want to do you a favor? Are you serious right now?"
His eyes turn cold, mouth curling. "After you cheated on me ten years ago—with that husband of yours—you expect me to bend over backwards and do you favors?"
His laugh barks out again, too loud this time. A few more heads turn. Someone goes quiet mid-sentence nearby.
Mom's face goes bright red, anger and humiliation flooding her cheeks all at once. She grips the edge of the table.
"Elliot," she hisses through clenched teeth. "This is not the place to talk about that. And for God's sake, that was ten years ago."
I slam my palms down on the table so hard the silverware rattles, plates clinking, glasses trembling. The sound cuts through the restaurant like a gunshot.
Both of them flinch.
Their heads snap toward me, eyes wide, stunned like they've just remembered I'm actually here.
I push my chair back and stand. The legs scrape loudly against the floor, drawing even more attention. I don't care anymore.
"Darling—" Mom starts, panic flashing across her face. "Where are you going?"
"Leaving," I say flatly.
"Elijah, sit back down," Dad says, voice firm, like he still gets to give me orders.
"What for? To listen to the two of you tear each other apart like it's still my job to sit here and absorb it?"
They both stare at me now.
"I've already done that half my life and I'm not doing it again. Not tonight. Not ever."
A tight laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. I drag a hand through my hair, frustration buzzing under my skin, my pulse loud in my ears. "I actually thought—stupidly—that we could have one peaceful dinner. One. We haven't seen each other in months. And for a second there, I believed it."
My gaze drops to the table, then lifts back to them. "But you never miss a chance to disappoint me."
Mom's eyes fill as her tears pooling fast. "I—I'm sorry, darling," she whispers. "I didn't mean for it to turn into this."
Dad opens his mouth. "Elijah, mind your manners—"
"Mind my manners?" I repeat incredulously. "You're the ones making a scene. You're the ones dragging up ten-year-old shit in the middle of a restaurant because you can't stand being in the same room without starting a fight."
I rake a hand through my hair again and tilt my head back, staring up at the ceiling like I'm trying to hold myself together by sheer force.
"You know what the real problem is?" I say. "This whole argument never needed to happen."
Mom blinks. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I say, forcing the words out "you're both acting like I'm still twelve. Like there's some court calendar we all have to follow, like my life still gets shuffled around based on whose turn it is."
I glance from her to Dad. "I'm not a kid anymore. And if either of you had actually asked me what I wanted instead of fighting, this wouldn't even be a conversation."
The room seems to stall.
"If you had," I continue, my voice level despite the fire in my chest, "I would've told you not to change a damn thing. Go to Switzerland. Go to Chicago. Go wherever the hell you want. I already made plans with friends anyway."
It's a lie.
I have exactly zero Thanksgiving plans. But I'd rather camp out in my empty dorm room, maybe order pizza with whatever teammates get stranded on campus too.
"So you can stop tearing each other apart over me like I'm some prize nobody actually wants to claim."
Mom' s face crumples, her lips parting in shock. Dad goes rigid, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitch in his cheek. They're paralyzed, afraid anything they say now will only prove my point.
"See?" I say quietly. "Problem solved. There wouldn't have been one if either of you ever cared to ask what I wanted."
I have to swallow past the knot in my throat.
"But you never do."
The silence between us thickens, choking the air from my lungs. I step back, snatch my jacket from the chair.
"Anyway, thank you for the wonderful dinner." I say, the words sharp with sarcasm. "It was great catching up."
I turn and walk away before either of them can say my name.