Chapter 10 #2
“Okay,” I say, staring at the board. “You have a gift. Eli. And that’s not a compliment, it’s a diagnosis.”
He doesn’t say thanks as he sets up the board again.
We play three more times. I lose three more times. By the third game, I’m pretty sure he’s letting me last longer just to be polite.
The afternoon goes like that. We play. We watch a documentary about deep-sea fish that he chooses with authority. We make popcorn. He doesn’t open the Lego box, but he carries it back downstairs at one point and sets it on the coffee table near where Jonah usually sits, and I count that as a win.
By the time the sun starts to go down, I’ve thought about Mel exactly forty-seven times.
Eli and I watch Jonah’s game until bedtime. It’s the middle of the third period, and Trout are down by a point.
Bedtime is a negotiation.
“Three stories.” Eli holds up three fingers.
“Two.”
“Three.”
“You have your first day of school tomorrow.” I pat his hand. “Two and a half. The third one has to be short.”
“Three. And two night-lights.”
“Two night-lights, fine.” Why not? It’s not my electric bill?
“And the closet door open six inches.”
“Six inches?”
“Not five. Not seven. Six.”
“Eli, I don’t have a ruler.”
He gets a ruler.
I do every single thing on the list. Three stories.
Two night-lights, one in the outlet by the door and one shaped like a crescent moon on the dresser.
The closet door open exactly six inches, measured.
He lies still under the covers, Flash on the pillow next to him, and I sit on the edge of the bed and watch his eyes get heavy the way kids’ eyes do, in stages, like he’s powering down.
When his breathing evens out, I sit there a minute longer, because I can, because nobody’s making me leave, because the hole inside me wants to.
I tiptoe out and nearly walk straight into Jonah at the bottom of the stairs.
He looks worse than he did this morning, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. A duffel hangs over his shoulder. His hair is wet from a rink shower. His eyes are the eyes of a man who’s been hit by the second wave of trucks.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi.”
We migrate to the kitchen where we can talk. I pour him a glass of water as he sits at the counter and just sort of falls forward onto his elbows.
“We lost by a goal. And they put me on leave,” he says into his hands.
“I’ve been pulled out of the next eight games.
To get my home situation right and—” He waves vaguely.
“Conditioning. The new role. Defense isn’t muscle memory yet.
Coach was harsher and used mostly swear words, but that’s what he said. ”
“That’s good, though. Right? The leave?”
“Yeah.” He laughs, but there’s nothing in it. “It’s good. It‘s also the first time in my career I’ve been put on leave for something other than a suspension.”
“I think that’s a good thing, Jonah. And you needed leave.”
“I know.”
I lean closer. “Eli destroyed me at chess.”
His head comes up. “What?”
“Four games. He won all four. He was being polite by the fourth one.”
“He plays chess?”
“He owns chess. Also, he made mac and cheese from scratch, with a roux, and he corrected me on the milk temperature.”
“With a what?”
“A roux, Holt. Keep up.”
A laugh bursts out of him, and it’s loud in the quiet kitchen, and it heats up my skin in a way that I’m going to absolutely not deal with right now—or ever.
“He wanted three stories,” I say. “Two night-lights. The closet open six inches, exactly, measured with a ruler.”
“Six?”
“Not five. Not seven.”
“Did you do it?”
“Of course.”
He studies me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m serious.”
I quirk a brow. “I know you are. That’s why I’m telling you don’t.”
I almost bring up Mel—the words are right on my tongue. Hey, by the way, a big station in a big city offered me a real job, and I have seventy-two hours… actually, only about sixty left to decide.
His phone rings.
He looks at the screen, and his whole face collapses, then braces. “Ms. Hernandez.”
He answers. He listens. He doesn’t say much. “Yes.” “I understand.” “Yes, of course.” “Tomorrow.” His free hand finds the edge of the counter and stays there, gripping. After he hangs up, he doesn’t move.
“What?”
“Emergency meeting tomorrow. Judge’s chambers. Nine a.m.”
“Emergency about what?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Jonah.”
“She wouldn’t say, Zoe. She just said it’s scheduled, and I need to be there.”
The kitchen does a slow tilt—the kind that happens when your brain refuses to catch up.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s probably procedural. They have to do these check-ins.”
He’s lying to me and himself. He knows it, and I know it.
“Sure. It’ll be fine.” I very much want it to be fine, but I have no actual idea whether it will be.
I reach across the counter and put my hand on his wrist before I think about it.
“Listen to me. None of this matters. Not the emergency meeting, not the hockey leave, not what the internet is saying, not what tomorrow is. The only thing that matters is that you’re showing up.
That’s it. That’s the whole job. And you’re doing it.
You bought a Death Star. You have everything lined up for his first day of school tomorrow.
You made this entire house ready for him. You’re doing it.”
His lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything.
I can’t help myself. I hug him, and he hugs me back, pulling me close. I really, really, really like how his body fits with mine, but I’m not going to think about that. This is just a comfort hug.
That lingers as he rubs my back, and I really, really like that too.
I pull him tighter.
We linger longer.
Finally, I pull away because there are limits, and I need to set them. “It’ll work out,” I say. “Because that’s what’s best for Eli. And the universe occasionally gets one right.”
“Occasionally.”
“I said what I said.”
He turns his wrist under my hand, like he’s going to hold mine back.
I’m definitely not bringing up the Seattle offer right now. “Get some sleep,” I tell him, standing. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I climb the stairs to my bedroom, close the door, and sit on the edge of the bed in the dark.
Mel Cho. Seattle.
A judge’s chambers at nine a.m. tomorrow, with a man who didn’t sleep last night and will definitely not sleep tonight either. A nine-year-old asleep down the hall with a closet door propped open at exactly six inches.
I lie back. The pillow smells like Jonah’s detergent.
I hear Jonah moving around somewhere downstairs, then the click of a light, then nothing.
I can feel it, I can feel my heart becoming invested in something that will never be mine.
Jonah made that very clear when I made him agree to not fall for me.
Two stones, sitting in my chest, side by side. I can feel both of them. I can’t put either of them down.
I close my eyes anyway.