8. Elijah
CHAPTER 8
Elijah
I stepped out of Nathan and Rebecca’s house, the crisp evening air nipping at my cheeks. It had been a relatively warm November, but it was still fall in Indiana. Ahead of me, my nephews zoomed down the sidewalk on their scooters, their laughter echoing through the quiet neighborhood. I couldn’t help but grin, even as a twinge of anxiety hit my gut. Keeping up with those three was like trying to wrangle caffeinated squirrels. Carla and I had quickly discovered that exhausting them was the most reliable method of ensuring they didn’t completely destroy the house–or each other.
“They’re going to sleep well tonight,” Carla commented beside me, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“If they don’t, at least we will,” I quipped, stealing a glance at her. The fading sunlight caught in her dark hair.
“You’re good with them.” Her casual words had my steps faltering.
“Careful, Putters. That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.” Equally suspicious was the way my chest swelled with something like pride at her words.
I was rewarded with a shy smile, her face turning away from mine and back toward the boys, racing ahead of us.
“I should probably be honored, right? You’re the expert, being a teacher and all that. I don’t remember that being your plan… back then.” What an eloquent way to reference our disastrous past. “What made you decide to pursue teaching?”
Her eyes light up, and I’m struck by how beautiful she looks when she’s passionate about something. “Well, once I realized that being a professional cheerleader wasn’t likely to work out…” She flashed a crooked smile, rolling her eyes as though laughing at her former self. Then, her voice warmed with enthusiasm. “I’ve always loved working with kids, and there’s something magical about seeing that moment when a concept finally clicks for a student. When I was a senior, I job shadowed Mrs. Lowell for a day. I thought I knew what a teacher did, but I only knew part of the story.”
Mrs. Lowell had already been ancient when we were in elementary school. “Didn’t she retire when we were in school?”
Carla nodded. “The summer after we graduated. But she still cared just as much as she always had that semester I shadowed her. It was pretty inspiring.”
I was hanging on her every word. This was a far cry from the Carla I remembered from high school – still fiery and determined, but with a newfound depth that was even more captivating.
“Plus,” she added with a mischievous grin, “I get to be the cool adult who knows all the latest TikTok dances.”
I laughed, picturing Carla busting moves in front of a classroom of wide-eyed kids. “Now that I’d pay to see. Maybe professional cheerleader isn’t too big of a stretch.”
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the hint of a smile.
How different things might have been if my dad hadn’t freaked out all those years ago. Would Carla and I be walking our own kids to the park instead of my brother’s?
I pushed the thought away. No use dwelling on what-ifs, especially with the family feud still simmering beneath the surface. Instead, I focused on keeping an eye on the boys ahead, their scooters weaving dangerously close to each other.
“So,” I said, desperate to keep the conversation going, “got any embarrassing student stories to share? I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
Carla arched an eyebrow. “Nice try, but teacher-student confidentiality is sacred. Unlike certain firefighters I know who love to brag about their heroic rescues.”
“Hey, saving cats from trees is serious business,” I protested, clutching my chest in mock offense. “I can’t help it if Mrs. Solomon wants to tell the story to everyone in town.”
She laughed, the sound warming me more than any fire ever could. And just like that, I was reminded of why keeping my distance from Carla Putnam had always been so difficult.
The crisp autumn air nipped at my cheeks as we strolled down the leaf-strewn sidewalk. With each step, leaves crunched beneath our feet, releasing that distinct earthy scent, triggering memories of bonfires and high school football games.
I was transported back to our high school days, sneaking glances at Carla across the classroom while pretending to pay attention to calculus.
“You really love it, don’t you?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Teaching, I mean.”
Carla sighed wistfully. “It’s... amazing, Eli. Watching a kid finally grasp a concept they’ve been struggling with, seeing their confidence grow day by day. It’s like... like being part of something bigger than yourself, you know?”
I nodded, understanding all too well. It sounded like the same pride I got after a call, knowing I made a difference. But there was something different about the way Carla described it, a warmth and passion that was uniquely her.
“There was this one student last year,” she continued, her voice soft but filled with pride. “He was so shy, could barely look anyone in the eye. But by the end of the year, he was leading class discussions, helping other kids. That kind of transformation... that’s why I do this.”
Her face lit up as she talked about her students. I’d never really seen this side of Carla before, and I was struck with a twinge of regret for all the years we’d spent avoiding each other.
“Sounds like you’re making quite the impact,” I said, meaning every word. “Those kids are lucky to have you.”
She glanced at me, a hint of surprise in her eyes. “Thanks, Eli. That... means a lot.”
For a moment, we were both silent, the only sound the laughter of the boys ahead and the whisper of the wind through the trees. We were so close, it would be easy to reach out and take her hand. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets and focused on the path ahead, trying to ignore the way my heart raced every time she smiled.
The Carla I knew in high school was vivacious and fun. She cared about school and being popular. She was kind and far too smart to be with me. Nevertheless, my seventeen-year-old self was terribly convinced that she was perfect.
That girl was still there, but she was also someone strong, passionate, with a depth that was undeniably intriguing. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: I’d missed out on watching her become this incredible person.
“You’ve really grown,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I mean, not like, physically grown. Well, you have, but—“ I stumbled over my words, as if I’d been body snatched by an awkward teenager. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re an impressive woman.”
She raised an eyebrow at me, a mix of amusement and skepticism on her face. “Impressive, huh? High praise from the town hero.”
I winced internally at her words. If she only knew how far from a hero I felt most days. “I’m serious,” I insisted. “The way you talk about your students, your dedication... it’s admirable.”
A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. What I wouldn’t give to see it more often. “Well, thanks. You’re not so bad yourself, Eli. When you’re not being a complete pain, that is.”
I chuckled, but there was a heaviness in my chest. How different would things be if I hadn’t pushed her away all those years ago? If I’d been brave enough to stand up to my dad?
A gust of wind whipped through the trees, and Carla shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Without thinking, I shrugged off my jacket and held it out to her. “Here, take this.”
She looked at the jacket, then at me, surprise evident in her eyes. “Oh, I couldn’t—“
“Come on, Putters. I’m not gonna let you freeze out here. What kind of gentleman would that make me?”
She snorted. “Since when are you a gentleman?”
“Ouch.” I placed a hand over my heart in mock hurt. Entirely imaginary. Definitely not offended that she considered me a… What did she consider me?
“What’s the opposite of a gentleman?” I pondered out loud.
Her hand flew to her mouth to cover a sharp laugh. “What?”
“Well, if I’m not a gentleman, what am I? A cad?”
She tapped her chin with a finger, and my eyes caught on the red polished fingernail. “A boor, perhaps?”
“A bore? Surely not. I’m far too interesting to be a bore.”
I held out the jacket again, and this time Carla hesitated only briefly before reaching for it. Our fingers brushed as she took it, and I swore a jolt of electricity shot through me. It was ridiculous how such a small touch could affect me, but I couldn’t deny the way my heart started racing.
“A boor, ” she corrected, drawing out the word like she was savoring it. The jacket swallowed her petite frame, and I couldn’t help but think how adorable she looked in the oversize garment.
“You know, rude, uncultured, eats with his mouth open. That kind of thing.”
I smirked, slipping my hands into my pockets as the chill nipped at my now jacketless arms. “Well, I do chew with my mouth closed, so maybe we can strike that one off the list.”
She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Fine. Not a boor. But definitely not a gentleman either. What about… a rake?”
My grin faltered for a fraction of a second before I leaned into it, keeping the edges sharp. “A rake, huh? Charming, dangerous, irresistible? I mean, I’ll take it.”
“Rakes aren’t exactly known for their good intentions,” she pointed out, her eyes gleaming with challenge. “It’s more like charming, dangerous, irresponsible .”
“Semantics.” I waved her off like it didn’t sting more than I cared to admit. “Besides, you’re still standing here warm and toasty while I am jacket-free, freezing to death. Dangerous? Sure. But irresponsible? Case closed.”
“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been carefully weighing my escape routes,” she teased, but the faint blush in her cheeks betrayed her. Probably the cold. Definitely the cold.
I leaned a little closer, letting my voice drop conspiratorially. “You don’t want to run. Admit it. Rakes are way more interesting than gentlemen.”
Her laugh was immediate and bright, breaking through the frost in the air. “I’ll give you interesting. But if you’re a rake, what does that make me? The lowly, unsuspecting governess who falls for your questionable charms?”
“Sounds about right.” I gave her a wink, but the word lowly lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable. My father might see her as beneath us, but truthfully, she was far superior. “Except you’re way too smart for that.”
“Oh, absolutely.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not falling for anything.”
That made two of us. Not falling into anything.
“Which brings us back to square one,” I said with mock seriousness. “If not a rake or a boor or a cad, then what? A clown?”
That did it. She doubled over with laughter, clutching her sides. “Oh no. You can’t put that out there. You’re one-hundred-percent a clown.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, holding up my hands as if I’d just been accused of something truly heinous. “Clowns are terrifying. And not in the charming, dangerous way. More like the nightmare fuel way.”
She wiped at her eyes, still giggling. “What’s the difference?”
“Seriously? Seriously? ” I leaned back, feigning shock. “Have you seen my shoes? Perfectly normal size. No squeaky noses here, Putters.”
“No, but you do have the jokes. And the inability to take anything seriously.” Her smile softened, and so did her voice. “You’re kind of clown-adjacent, whether you like it or not.”
“Adjacent, huh?” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. “I can work with that. Adjacent leaves room for improvement.”
“Oh? Is that what we’re doing here? Improving you?” Her lips quirked up, but there was a flicker of something warmer behind her teasing.
“Hey, you’re the one trying to pin a label on me,” I shot back, cocking an eyebrow. “Rake, clown, boor—it’s exhausting trying to live up to your expectations.”
“I never said they were high expectations.”
The words hit like a punchline, sharp and precise. But the look she gave me—half-challenging, half-inviting—kept me from retreating behind the wall I’d perfected.
I flashed her a grin that I didn’t quite feel. “That’s probably wise of you,” I said, a self-deprecating joke drawing an end to the exchange.
The moment passed, but her laughter lingered in the air, softer now, like an echo that refused to fade. I should’ve shrugged it off—the teasing, the labels, the way she didn’t quite let me take myself too seriously. That’s what I was good at, after all. Laugh it off, throw in a joke, deflect before anyone could get close enough to see the cracks. But Carla? She had a knack for getting past the jokes, for poking at the places I didn’t want to acknowledge, even to myself.
And blast it all, I cared. More than I should. Her opinion shouldn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. But when she looked at me, I felt this stupid, aching need to prove something. To be something more than the clown, the rake, the guy who didn’t take anything seriously. I hated how much I wanted her to see me differently—how much I wanted her to see me at all. It wasn’t just about the labels she tossed at me like darts; it was about the warmth behind her words, the flicker of understanding in her eyes when she wasn’t trying to make me laugh. That scared me more than any joke ever could. Because if she was right—if I was more than the masks I wore—what did that make me? And worse, what would she think if she ever saw the man underneath?
Our loop around the block completed, we arrived back at Nathan and Rebecca’s house a minute after the boys. A whirlwind of activity hit us as soon as we stepped through the door. The boys are bouncing off the walls, still hyped up from their scooter adventure.
“Alright, munchkins,” I announced, clapping my hands. “Who’s ready for the world’s most epic bedtime routine?”
Carla shot me an amused look.
I put on my best game show host voice. “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the Wells-Putnam Bedtime Extravaganza!”
To my surprise, Carla jumped right in. “First event: The Lightning-Fast Tooth Brushing Challenge!”
We tag-teamed the boys through brushing, pajamas, and a quick bedtime story. It was chaotic, but there was a strange comfort in the mayhem. It felt natural, working with Carla, the five of us like some kind of... family.
Whoa. Pump the brakes, Wells.
After we finally got the boys settled, I collapsed dramatically onto the couch. “Wake me up when Rebecca and Nathan get home.” Never mind that it would still be six more days.
Carla chuckled, patting my leg. “Still think you’re hot stuff, Mr. Firefighter?”
Me, hot? No. Except where her hand was resting on my calf. That was scorching.
“I’ll take a four-alarm fire over bedtime any day,” I joked, but there’s a part of me that wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t mean it.