Chapter 30
ELIJAH
The miles stretch endlessly on I-75, and my knuckles have gone white against the steering wheel. Two hours of driving with Sam's voice playing on repeat in my head. "Just one day, Eli. That's all I'm asking." Her words crawl under my skin like an itch I can't scratch.
I crank up the volume on my playlist, hoping the bass-heavy beats will drown out the echo of her proposition, but it's useless. Even Kendrick can't compete with the memory of Sam standing there, her face lit up by that stubborn determination I've been running from for the past decade.
One fucking day. Pretending we're a couple. Like it's some kind of game.
I switch lanes to pass a semi, pressing the accelerator harder than necessary. The first hour of this drive becomes a mental checklist of all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Pro: It would make her happy, and I owe her at least that much after yelling at her at my birthday party.
Con: It would blur the boundaries I've spent years maintaining.
Pro: It's just one day. Twenty-four hours at most. I've survived worse.
Con: Giving her hope when there's no future is cruel, and I'm not looking to add "heartless asshole" to my resume.
Pro: I'd get to touch her again, to feel that live current that sets every nerve ending on fire the moment she brushes against me.
I shake my head violently, ejecting that thought. That's not a pro. That's precisely the problem.
The highway stretches ahead, sun glinting off the asphalt like warnings.
The thing is, I know exactly where this leads. I watched my parents' marriage implode in spectacular fashion. Ten years old, hiding at the top of the stairs while mom hurled accusations and dad hurled furniture. The sound of shattering glass still visits my dreams sometimes.
Two people who once couldn't keep their hands off each other, reduced to snarling strangers who couldn't stand to breathe the same air.
No fucking thank you.
By the time Miami appears on the horizon, I've worked myself into a definite decision. I'll text her a simple, clean "no."
No explanations needed. It's better this way—keeping her at arm's length is a kindness she doesn't understand yet.
The hockey house comes into view, and a few minutes later, I park my truck in the usual spot, grab my duffel from the back seat, and trudge up the steps.
My room is exactly as I left it—bed made tight enough to bounce a puck off, textbooks lined neatly on the desk I rarely use, gear cleaned and packed in its place in the corner. I drop onto the bed, pull out my phone, and open my messages. Sam's last text stares back at me from few hours ago.
SAM
I'll wait for your answer tonight.
I start typing: No.
My thumb hovers over the send button. One word, two letters. Simple. Direct. Problem solved.
But I don't press send.
I delete the text, throw my phone onto the pillow, and stare at the ceiling. An hour passes. I pick up my phone, type the message again. Still can't hit send.
"Fuck this," I mutter, rolling over and burying my face in the pillow. Maybe I just need to sleep on it. Clear head in the morning, clean break. That's the plan.
Except when I close my eyes, all I see is Sam.
I picture Sam here with me, her hair fanned out against these sheets, her eyes half-lidded. My fingers itch to touch her, to trace the delicate line of her collarbone, to feel the hammering of her pulse beneath her skin as I kiss my way down her throat. The scent of her lavender shampoo clings to the air, and I can already taste her on my tongue—that spot just below her ear that makes her gasp when I graze it with my teeth.
I'd take my goddamn time with her. Worship her body like it's my fucking religion. The soft curve of her waist, the heat of her skin as goosebumps rise under my fingertips. I'd map every fucking inch of her—every sigh, every moan, every tremble when my lips finally reach that sweet, slick spot between her thighs.
My cock throbs in my jeans, hard and aching, straining against the fabric like it's trying to escape. I press the heel of my hand against it, groaning at the fucking relief and the torture all at once.
Christ. This is pathetic.
I’m here, sprawled out like a desperate teenager, jerking off to fantasies of my best friend's little sister like some fucking degenerate.
But I can't stop.
Sam's voice echoes in my head—low, breathy, pleading—saying my name like it’s the only word she knows. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me in place as I thrust into her, her nails raking down my back as she comes undone beneath me.
''Fuck,'' I groan, surrendering to my urges.
I strip off my clothes, leaving a trail of fabric from the bed to the bathroom. The shower's cold at first, but I don't give a fuck.
Under the spray, I grip my cock tight, my fist moving slow, deliberate, just the way I’d imagine Sam's hand would feel. Her fingers—soft, warm, fucking perfect—wrapping around me, her thumb swiping over the tip as I groan her name.
I picture her mouth on mine, her tongue sliding against my own, tasting me like she's fucking addicted. My lips trail down her body, kissing every inch of her—the pulse point at her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, the swell of her fucking perfect breasts. Her breath hitches when I take her nipple into my mouth, sucking gently until she's squirming beneath me.
My mouth moves down her stomach, her hips, until I’m right there—between her legs. Her scent is fucking intoxicating, sweet and musky and her. I bury my face in her pussy, tongue sliding through her folds, tasting her as she arches into me, moaning my name like a fucking prayer.
I stroke faster, imagining her clit against my tongue, her hands tangled in my hair, her thighs trembling as she comes undone around me.
''Sam,'' I groan, my balls tightening, my cock pulsing in my hand as I come hard, ropes of cum splattering against the shower wall.
The water washes it away, but it can't wash away the shame. This has become a ritual now—think about Sam, get hard, handle it, repeat. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's better than the alternative.
Better than giving in and risking everything.
The post-orgasm clarity hits as I'm toweling off.
I'll tell her no. It's the only answer that makes sense. One day playing pretend would only make it harder for both of us to go back to reality.
I wrap the towel around my waist and head back to my room, water dripping from my hair onto my shoulders and down my back. I need clean clothes and maybe a beer or three to dull this persistent ache in my chest that feels uncomfortably like longing.
As I open my closet, searching for my most worn-in hoodie, my eyes catch on something tucked in the corner. It's a large rectangle wrapped in navy blue paper with a silver ribbon tied in a surprisingly elegant bow.
It's Sam's gift. The one she left in my room at my birthday celebration three weeks ago, right before I screamed at her and thrown her out of my room.
The package has sat in my closet, untouched, a reminder of everything I'm trying not to feel.
I stare at it for a long time, water pooling at my feet. Then, moved by something I can't name, I reach for it. The package is heavier than I expected, solid. I set it on my bed and carefully untie the ribbon, then slide my finger under the taped edges of the paper.
What I see steals my breath. It's a painting, professionally framed in simple black.
But it's what's inside the frame that makes my chest constrict.
It's my family—mom, dad, and seven-year-old me, smiling in front of our old house in Naples. The same image as the worn, creased photo I've carried in my wallet. The photo that's been folded and unfolded so many times that the creases have begun to tear, the colors fading, my father's face becoming increasingly blurry with each passing year.
Except in this version, everything is vivid. Clear.
My father's eyes—my eyes—are the exact shade of green I remember. My mother's smile is perfect, capturing that slight crooked quality I'd almost forgotten. And little me, grinning with a missing front tooth, looking happier than I remember ever feeling.
Sam painted this. She'd only seen it once but she'd remembered every detail, every color, and somehow made it more real than the original.
There's a small card taped to the corner of the frame. I open it with shaking fingers.
Happy Birthday, Eli.
I wasn't sure what to get you this year, and I know you're not really into big gestures — especially when it's from me. But I really wanted to give you something that actually meant a lot to you.
I've only seen that family picture once, but I tried to get the details as accurately as I could from memory. I really hope you like it.
I hope it feels close enough to the real thing.
And I hope... maybe... you'll hang it in your room. That way you can look at it whenever you want without worrying about it getting bent, falling apart, or getting lost.
I know how much that picture means to you, even if you pretend it doesn't.
So... happy birthday.
I hope this makes you smile. Even just a little.
— Sam XO
I have to sit down.
The towel is still damp against my skin, but I barely notice. My fingers trace the brushstrokes that form my father's smile, the careful detail of my mother's favorite earrings—little silver stars I'd completely forgotten about until seeing them here.
Something thick and uncomfortable climbs up my throat, like I've swallowed a mouthful of grit. A pressure builds behind my eyes, hot and insistent, threatening to spill over. I swallow hard enough that my ears pop, but the feeling doesn't subside—it just sinks deeper, lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.
This is why Sam is dangerous.
Because she sees me—really sees me—in ways no one else bothers to. Because she takes the broken, fading parts of me and hands them back whole.
I clear my throat roughly and set the painting carefully on my desk. Then I grab my phone and reopen our message thread. The half-written rejection stares back at me, cursor blinking like a challenge.
I delete it and type something new:
ME
Let's go on a date this Sunday.
My thumb hovers over the send button again, but this time, I press it before I can change my mind. The message whooshes away, and I'm left staring at the screen, a strange mix of dread and anticipation churning in my gut.
My eyes drift back to the painting. To the happy family that no longer exists except in this perfect, preserved moment.
To the small piece of myself Sam has given back to me.
It's just one day, I tell myself.
I can survive one day of pretending, of letting myself imagine a version of life who isn't afraid of relationships, who doesn't flinch at the word love, who doesn't see Sam's love for me as something that will eventually ruin me.
I owe her that much.
My phone buzzes in my hand, her reply lighting up the screen:
SAM
I'll send you the location where we can meet up. Good night. XO
Sunday. Four days away. Ninety-six hours to prepare myself for the inevitable disaster of letting Sam close enough to shatter whatever remains of my carefully constructed walls.
Then I set the phone down and turn back to the painting. Carefully, I hang it on the empty wall across from my bed, where it will be the first thing I see when I wake up and the last thing I see before sleep.
One day with Sam.
What's the worst that could happen?
The question hangs in the air, unanswered. But looking at the painted smile of my seven-year-old self—trusting, open, unafraid—I already know.