Chapter 15
SAM
I've been painting out on the patio all afternoon, the canvas propped up near the pool while the sun hangs warm and lazy overhead. At some point, I set my brush down and lean back in my chair, flexing my stiff fingers. The water's right there, glinting under the light, calm and inviting.
The weather's too perfect to ignore.
So I change and slip into the pool instead.
The water closes over my skin, cool but not cold. I push off the wall and start swimming, steady strokes back and forth. Twenty laps. Maybe twenty-five. I lose count somewhere in the middle, which is kind of the point. Swimming makes everything quiet for a while.
I'm about to flip for another lap when the sliding glass door scrapes open. Eli, with his perpetual scowl and a pack of cigarettes clutched in one hand, steps onto the patio.
Well, hello there, Mr. Sunshine.
I pause, treading water in the deep end, watching as he settles his lanky frame onto one of the cushioned loungers. He hasn't noticed me yet, too busy tapping out a cigarette with the focus of a bomb technician. His hair is still mussed from sleep, and there's a crease mark on his left cheek from the pillow. It's annoyingly endearing.
"Afternoon, sleeping beauty," I call out, splashing a bit for emphasis. "Or should I say sleeping grumpy?"
Eli's head jerks up, those eyes—which really should be illegal in at least forty-seven states—narrowing as they find me. The surprise on his face quickly morphs into that neutral mask he wears so well. The one that says: I'm acknowledging your existence, but don't push it.
"Sam." He nods, lighting his cigarette with a silver lighter that flashes in the diffused afternoon light.
I swim to the edge closest to him, resting my arms on the concrete lip. "What's your name?"
He exhales a stream of smoke and gives me a look that could wither a cactus. "Seriously?"
"Do you know where you are?" I continue, fighting to keep my face serious.
"Christ," he mutters.
"What year is it? Who's the president? How many fingers am I holding up?" I lift three fingers from the pool edge, water dripping down my arm.
He glares at me through a haze of cigarette smoke. "I'm fine, Sam. You don't need to ask me those ridiculous questions. I wouldn't be walking around the house if I was still groggy or disoriented from hitting my head."
I giggle, and the sound seems to annoy him even more, which only makes it funnier. My laugh echoes across the water, bouncing off the high garden walls.
"What?" he snaps.
"Nothing." I shrug, water droplets cascading off my shoulders. "I'm supposed to ask every two hours. Just following instructions. You know me, I'm obedient like that."
The word "obedient" causes his eyebrow to lift a fraction. We both know it's about the last word anyone would use to describe me. A small smile—the kind that's fighting not to exist—tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Obedient," he repeats, taking another drag. "Right. And I'm a synchronized swimmer."
"You know, I'd pay good money to see that." I push off from the wall, floating on my back. "Elijah Deveraux in a nose clip and waterproof mascara, making little heart shapes with his legs."
"Shut up, Sam."
But there's no real bite to it. Not like before. Progress, ladies and gentlemen. We have progress.
I flip over and dive under, the world going quiet and blue. When I surface on the other side of the pool, Eli has put on his sunglasses—those expensive aviators that make him look like a broody off-duty cop.
I do another lap, aware that he's watching me even through the dark lenses. I pretend not to notice, but secretly catalog every shift of his body, every tilt of his head. The smoke from his cigarette curls upward in thin gray ribbons, and I wrinkle my nose at the smell when the breeze carries it my way.
I hate cigarette smoke. Hate it with the passion of a thousand burning suns. But here's the thing about desire: it makes you stupid. It makes you willing to tolerate the intolerable. So what if I have to breathe in some carcinogens? I'd probably inhale tear gas if it meant being closed to Eli for an hour.
And that, folks, is how you know you're in trouble.
I push through another two laps, my shoulders screaming in that good-pain way, before hauling myself toward the steps. My fingertips have gone all wrinkly.
Water cascades off me as I emerge, and I swear I can feel the exact moment Eli's attention shifts. His cigarette freezes midway to his mouth, and though he's pretending to contemplate the clouds, I know better. I know he’s staring at me.
A tiny thrill runs through me. I'm wearing my favorite red bikini—the one that transforms my decidedly average chest into something worth a second glance and makes my ass look like it deserves its own Instagram account. What can I say? A girl's gotta work with what she's got.
So maybe I add a little extra swing to my hips en route to the towels. Perhaps I flip my hair with slightly more drama than strictly necessary. And I might stretch my arms over my head in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with post-swim muscle tension and everything to do with showing off the goods.
When I turn, Eli's eyes dart away so fast I nearly laugh out loud. If I called him on it, he'd just get all huffy and defensive—like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar. And honestly? This weird truce between us feels too nice to ruin.
"How's the head?" I ask casually, patting myself dry with a fluffy white towel.
He grunts, tapping ash into a small ceramic dish on the side table. "Still attached."
"Wow, such detail. You should write medical textbooks." I wrap the towel around my waist and drop onto the lounger next to his. "Seriously though, headache?"
"Tolerable."
"Dizziness?"
"No."
"Nausea?"
He sighs loudly. "Sam."
"What? I'm being concerned. It's what normal humans do when someone they know gets concussion." I lean back on my elbows. "Did you get a good nap at least?"
Eli takes a final drag of his cigarette before crushing it in the dish. "Yes."
"A conversational virtuoso, ladies and gentlemen," I announce to an imaginary audience. "Marvel at his expansive vocabulary and willingness to engage!"
That earns me a side-eye, visible even through the sunglasses. "What do you want me to say? That I dreamed of unicorns and rainbow puppies?"
"Well, that would be more interesting than your current monosyllabic performance." I adjust my position, stretching my legs out and wiggling my toes. "But I'll settle for 'the nap was refreshing' or 'I no longer feel like someone is using my brain for kickboxing practice.'"
"The nap was refreshing," he parrots flatly. "I no longer feel like someone is using my brain for kickboxing practice."
I grin at him. "See? Was that so hard?"
"Excruciating."
But there's that almost-smile again, hovering at the corners of his mouth like a shy visitor.
We lapse into silence, both of us tilting our faces toward the sky. It's not particularly sunny—more of a gauzy, diffused light filtering through high clouds—but it's warm enough to be comfortable. A light breeze stirs the palm fronds overhead, creating a gentle rustling soundtrack.
"You know," I say after a while, "you're not supposed to swim for at least two weeks after a concussion."
"I wasn't planning to," he replies, sounding mildly surprised that I'd think he would.
"Good. Because I'd have to play lifeguard, and this bikini is not made for heroic rescues. Everything would fall out." I gesture vaguely at my chest. "It would be a whole situation."
I'm rewarded with a soft snort that might actually be a laugh. Holy shit. Mark the calendar. Alert the media. Eli has demonstrated a sense of humor. Next thing you know, pigs will fly and politicians will start telling the truth.
"Besides," I continue, "I'm not certified in water rescues. My saving-people skills are limited to calling 911 and perhaps some enthusiastic cheering from the sidelines."
"I appreciate the warning." His voice has lost some of its edge.
We fall back into silence, but it's different now—comfortable, almost companionable. The breeze plays with strands of my wet hair, cooling my sun-warmed skin. I close my eyes, savoring the moment. Eli reaches for another cigarette but seems to reconsider, his hand dropping back to his side.
"The smoke bothers you," he says. It's not a question.
I open one eye to look at him. "What makes you say that?"
"You scrunch your nose every time the wind blows it your way."
Huh. So he's been watching me as closely as I've been watching him. Interesting.
I could lie, but what's the point? "Yeah, it's not my favorite. But it's fine. Your lungs, your choice."
He nods, and the pack of cigarettes disappears into his pocket. Just like that.
We sit in silence for a few more minutes, neither of us acknowledging what just happened. But something has shifted, something small but significant. Like when you're putting together a puzzle and finally connect two pieces you've been trying to fit for hours.
Evening shadows stretch across the living room as the wall clock ticks methodically forward, each second punctuated by the impatient tap-tap-tap of Eli's fingers against the coffee table. He's been sighing every three minutes—I've been counting—each exhale more dramatic than the last.
The sports commentators on TV drone on about statistics that apparently matter to someone, somewhere, but certainly not to us right now. The RU's game doesn't start for another hour, and I can practically see boredom radiating off him like heat waves from summer asphalt.
"Your face is going to freeze like that," I say, nudging his knee with my foot.
He blinks at me. "Like what?"
"Like someone replaced your personality with a DMV waiting room." I pull my legs up under me on the armchair. "We need to do something before you expire from ennui right here on your couch."
"Ennui?" One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Someone's been reading the word-of-the-day calendar."
"Someone's been avoiding the point." I scan the room for options and spot a deck of cards on the bookshelf. "How about poker?"
Eli follows my gaze and immediately shakes his head. "No way. You hate losing."
The laugh that bursts out of me is genuine. "Are we talking about me, or are you looking in a mirror right now?" I stand up and grab the cards, already shuffling them with dramatic flair. "But if you're afraid of losing to a tiny girl like me, I completely understand. Your fragile ego probably couldn't handle it."
His eyes narrow, and I know I've got him. Men are so predictable it should be studied by science. Poke their pride with a stick and watch them jump.
"Deal the cards," he says, sliding to the edge of the couch.
I settle back down, cross-legged on the armchair, and deal with a flick of my wrist that would make Vegas dealers jealous. "Five-card draw? Deuces wild?"
"Standard rules," Eli says, organizing his hand with methodical precision. He always does this—treats casual games like military operations. It's both annoying and adorable, which pretty much sums up most things about him.
"Ante up," I say, tossing a pretzel into the center of the coffee table. We're using snacks as currency because who needs real money when you've got a coffee table full of junk food? Besides, it's just us, and the stakes are low—unless you count the bragging rights, which are priceless.
Eli matches my pretzel and raises me a potato chip. His poker face needs work—his right eyebrow twitches when he's bluffing. It's a tell I discovered three summers ago and have kept to myself like buried treasure.
"Call." I toss in a chip. "How many cards?"
"Two." He discards with surgical precision.
I deal him his cards and take three for myself. The new cards slide into my hand like they've found their rightful home—a pair of queens to match the one I was already holding. Three queens. Not bad for a tiny girl.
Eli studies his cards like they're written in ancient hieroglyphics that might reveal the secrets of the universe if he just stares hard enough. His eyebrow gives a telltale jump.
"I'll bet... this entire bag of Cheetos," he says, pushing the orange bag forward with misplaced confidence.
"That's a bold move for someone whose eyebrow is doing the cha-cha." I match his Cheetos and raise him a package of Oreos. "Let's see 'em, counselor."
He lays down two pairs—tens and sevens—with the flourish of someone who thinks they've already won.
"Impressive," I say, nodding seriously. Then I fan out my three queens and a pair of threes. "But not impressive enough."
His face falls comically. "How do you—"
"Because I'm that good." I gather the cards and shuffle again. "Another round? Or is that enough humiliation for one evening?"
"Deal," he growls, his competitive spirit clearly wounded but not defeated.
Twenty minutes later, Eli has lost his Cheetos, Oreos, the last Mountain Dew, and, most tragically, his dignity. The pile of snacks on my side of the coffee table has grown to the size of a small convenience store.
"Royal flush," I say, displaying my cards with the smug satisfaction of a cat who's found an unattended plate of tuna.
Eli stares at the cards, then at me, then back at the cards. "You're cheating. You have to be."
"I'm not cheating," I say, offended by the accusation but also secretly delighted at how riled up he's getting. "I'm just better than you at this particular activity. It's okay to admit that."
"Another round," he demands, glaring at the cards like they've personally betrayed him.
"Are you sure?" I ask, batting my eyelashes innocently. "I've already taken most of your snack hoard. What's left to wager? Your firstborn child?"
"Very funny. Just deal the cards."
"Your funeral," I sing-song, shuffling with unnecessary flair.
The background noise of the sports channel fills the silence as I deal another hand.
This time, my hand is garbage—a hodgepodge of unrelated cards that couldn't form a decent hand if their papery lives depended on it. I keep my face neutral, channeling my inner statue.
Eli, on the other hand, is practically vibrating with excitement. Either he's developed a new and elaborate tell, or he's actually got something good this time.
"Three cards," I say, discarding my junk.
"I'm good," he replies, which means he's either got an incredible hand or he's bluffing so hard he might strain something.
The replacement cards I draw are no better. I've got a king high, which might as well be a white flag in poker terms.
"I'll bet..." I pause for dramatic effect, "these sour cream and onion chips."
Eli's smile widens. "I'll see your chips and raise you everything you've won tonight."
Oh, he's confident. Too confident. My instinct says fold, but my pride refuses to surrender so easily.
"Call," I say, pushing my snack mountain forward.
He slaps down his cards with the triumph of a general winning a decisive battle. "Four of a kind. Kings."
I stare at his hand, then down at my pathetic king high. "Well, hell."
"Language," he chides mockingly, pulling the snacks toward him. "Do you still want to play, or are you afraid of losing to a big boy like me?"
I narrow my eyes. "Deal the cards, wise guy."
The next few rounds are a blur of shuffling, betting, and increasingly ridiculous trash talk. We're evenly matched now, each of us with a respectable pile of winnings. The Ridgewater Warrior's game is about to start, but we're too deep in our poker battle to care.
"Full house," Eli says, revealing his cards with a flourish that would make a magician jealous.
I slam down my straight flush and wiggle my eyebrows. "Read 'em and weep, counselor."
"That's—" he begins, but is cut off by the blaring of the TV as the game finally kicks off.
We both turn to watch the opening plays, our poker rivalry temporarily forgotten. The cards sit abandoned on the coffee table as we settle in to watch the game, Eli sprawled on the couch and me curled up in the armchair.
The game's actually solid—tight score through the first two periods, a couple filthy passes from the second line, and only minimal referee stupidity, which honestly feels like a miracle. Ridgewater's moving the puck clean, cycling hard, forecheck relentless. I pretend not to notice how Eli subtly leans forward every time one of his teammates touches the ice, jaw tightening like he could will them into better positioning from our couch.
By halftime, we're still trading the spoils of our poker war—chips, cookies, whatever's within reach—without bothering to remember who technically won what.
"Okay," Eli mutters when RU's power play unit sets up beautifully and buries another goal. "That was actually clean."
"You mean the passing sequence or my ruthless poker domination?" I ask, stretching my arms over my head as the intermission report starts rambling.
He side-eyes me. "Don't get ahead of yourself."
The third period wraps with Ridgewater up by seven—absolute demolition mode—and the final buzzer echoes through the speakers.
"Not bad," Eli says as the final whistle blows with Rutgers up by seven.
"The game or my poker skills?" I ask, stretching my arms above my head.
"Both," he admits grudgingly.
Once the post-game analysis starts looping the same highlights for the tenth time, I slip upstairs to Zach's room and grab the sleeping bag in his closet. No way am I folding myself like a pretzel on that armchair again.
As I head back downstairs, something catches my eye—a small white corner peeking out from under the accent table by the stairs. At first glance, it looks like trash, a scrap of paper that missed the garbage can. But something about it makes me pause.
I shift the sleeping bag to one arm and crouch down, fishing out what turns out to be a small photograph. It's worn to the point of falling apart, creased and refolded so many times that the image is starting to fade along the fold lines. I turn it over in my hands carefully, afraid it might disintegrate at my touch.
It's a family photo—mother, father, and a small boy standing between them. The faces are hard to make out through the wear and tear, but there's something familiar about the child's smile. I squint, bringing it closer to my face, and that's when I realize—it's Eli. A much younger Eli, maybe seven or eight, with a gap-toothed grin and the same unruly hair he still fights with every morning.
I head back to the living room, where Eli has already made himself comfortable on the couch, arms folded behind his head.
"Found something that might belong to you," I say, holding out the photo.
"Where did you find this?"
"Under the accent table by the stairs. It was just peeking out."
"I've been looking everywhere for it," he says, more to himself than to me. His shoulders slump in what can only be described as pure relief. "I thought I'd lost it."
The emotion in his voice makes something in my chest tighten. I've known Eli for years, watched him rant about his absentee parents with fire in his eyes. But the way he's looking at this tattered photo tells a completely different story.
I quietly set up the sleeping bag on the floor, giving him space with whatever he's feeling. The synthetic fabric makes a swishing sound as I unfold it, filling the silence that's fallen between us.
"It's the only photo I have left," he says finally, his voice so soft I almost miss it. "Of us as a complete family."
I look up at him, not sure if I should respond or just listen. His eyes are still fixed on the photo, thumb rubbing gently over the faded faces.
"My dad burned the rest after Mom remarried," he continues. "One night, after too many drinks, he just... gathered them all up and made a bonfire in the backyard. I saved this one because I had it in my wallet."
"I'm sorry," I say, because what else can you say to something like that?
Eli shrugs, but it's a heavy gesture, weighted with years of complicated feelings. "I've thought about throwing it away a million times. It's falling apart anyway." He turns the photo over in his hands. "Sometimes I look at it and feel nothing but anger. Sometimes I can't even remember what it felt like to be that kid."
I settle into my sleeping bag, curling on my side to face him. "But you kept it."
"Yeah." He nods slowly. "Because it's the only thing I have left that proves we were real once. That we were happy, even if it was just for the length of a camera flash." His voice catches slightly. "That I had parents who loved me, at least at some point."
The vulnerability in his admission feels like a rare gift, something fragile and precious that I'm not entirely sure how to hold. Eli doesn't do emotional confessions. He doesn't talk about his parents beyond sarcastic comments and bitter jokes.
"Thank you for finding it," he says, carefully tucking the photo into his wallet. "I would have torn the house apart tomorrow looking for it."
"You're welcome."
Eli switches off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for the soft blue glow of the digital clock on the cable box.
"Goodnight, Sam," he says into the darkness.
"Goodnight," I reply, pulling the sleeping bag up to my chin. "And just so you know, I totally let you win that last hand of poker."
His laugh is soft but genuine. "Sure you did."
"I did. It's called strategy."
"It's called losing gracefully."
"In your dreams, counselor."
The banter feels like a return to solid ground after treading in deeper waters. As silence falls again, I close my eyes, thinking about the photo and the little boy with the gap-toothed smile who grew up to be the man on the couch beside me—complicated, frustrating, and carrying more than I'd realized.