10. Elijah
CHAPTER 10
Elijah
I paused at the threshold of Room 302, my hand hovering over the door handle. The antiseptic smell of the hospital corridor burned my nostrils, reminding me of countless emergency runs. But this time, I wasn’t here to deliver a stranger. I was here to face my father.
Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and pushed open the door. The sight of Dad propped up in bed hit me like a punch to the gut. He looked better than he had a couple days ago, but that wasn’t saying much. His skin was still ashen against the crisp white sheets, and the usual larger-than-life presence I associated with Harold Wells had shrunken considerably.
But as his eyes met mine, I saw that familiar stubborn glint. Some things never changed.
“Hey, old man,” I said, plastering on my best easy-going grin. “Looks like they’re treating you pretty well in here.”
Papa’s eyebrows furrowed, but I caught the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Eli. They let just anyone in here?”
As I settled into the chair, I couldn’t help but think how surreal this was. The great Harold Wells, looking so... mortal. It was like seeing Superman laid low by kryptonite. I’d spent so much of my life trying to measure up to this man, and now here he was, looking frail and vulnerable.
But those eyes – those eyes were the same as always. Watching me, assessing me, waiting to see if I’d finally do something to make him proud. I’d have thought he would have learned not to hold his breath.
I cleared my throat, pushing away the heavy thoughts. “So, how’s the food here? Up to your gourmet standards?”
Dad snorted. “If by ‘gourmet’ you mean ‘bland mush,’ then sure. I’d kill for one of your mother’s pot roasts right about now.”
“I’ll sneak you in some contraband next time.” I winked, but my heart wasn’t in the joke. There was an elephant in the room, and its name was Carla Putnam. But after the last several days, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I needed to understand.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself. “Listen, Dad... there’s something I wanted to ask you about.” I paused, searching for the right words. “This whole thing with the Putnams... don’t you think it’s time to let it go?”
The change was instant. Dad’s face hardened, his jaw clenching tight. “There’s nothing to discuss about that family,” he said, his voice flat and cold.
I leaned forward, frustration bubbling up inside me. “Come on. It’s been years. Whatever happened between you and Jim Putnam—“
“I said, there’s nothing to discuss,” Dad cut me off, his eyes flashing with a familiar stubbornness. He turned his head away, staring out the window.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. This was going about as well as I’d expected. But I couldn’t just let it go. Not when Carla’s smile haunted my dreams, not when the thought of her made my heart race like I was facing down a five-alarm fire.
“Dad, please,” I tried again, my voice softer this time. “I’m not asking for details. I just... I need to understand.”
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I watched his profile, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his fingers twisted the thin hospital blanket. My mind raced, searching for the right words to break through his defenses.
“Look,” I said, leaning in closer, “I know this isn’t easy to talk about. But don’t you think it’s time? I mean, we’re not getting any younger here.” I attempted a chuckle, but it fell flat. “And let’s face it, Dad, your ticker’s given us all a scare. Don’t you want to clear the air before—“
“Before what?” Dad snapped, his eyes finally meeting mine. “Before I kick the bucket? Is that what you’re saying, Eli?”
I winced. “No, that’s not— I just meant—“
“I know exactly what you meant,” he growled. “And let me tell you something. What happened between me and Jim Putnam doesn’t concern you or anyone else in this town.”
I felt my own temper rising, matching his. “Doesn’t concern me? Dad, it’s affected our whole family for years! And now—“ I cut myself off, Carla’s face flashing in my mind.
His eyes narrowed. “And now what? This isn’t about some misguided crush on that Putnam girl, is it?”
My cheeks burned. “It’s not a crush,” I muttered, feeling like a teenager again. “Carla and I... we have a connection. And maybe if we could just move past this ridiculous feud—“
“Ridiculous?” Dad’s voice was low and dangerous. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I stood up, pacing the small room. “That’s the point. You won’t even tell me why I’m supposed to hate them.” My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—frustration with Dad’s stubbornness, longing for Carla, and the ever-present desire to make my father proud.
How could I choose between my family and the woman who made my heart race? The thought of angering Dad twisted my gut, but the idea of letting Carla slip away again was equally painful.
The silence that fell between us was thick enough to cut with a knife. I stared out the window, watching a flock of birds swoop past, wishing I could fly away from this whole mess. My shoulders sagged, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on me.
I let my guard drop. “Dad,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper, “I just want to understand.”
Dad’s gruff voice cut through the air like a thunderclap, showing his ire despite his weakened state. “The Putnams are nothing but trouble, Eli. Always have been, always will be. Jim Putnam is a snake in the grass, a chip off the old block, and that girl of his is cut from the same cloth. And I want you to keep her away from those boys.”
I whirled around, frustration and determination warring inside me. “You don’t even know her! Carla’s not—“
“Elijah Joseph Wells,” Mom’s voice rang out from the doorway, startling us both. “I could hear you two hollering halfway down the hall. What on earth is going on in here?”
I glanced at Dad, seeing the fire in his eyes dim slightly at Mama’s presence. He cleared his throat. “Nothing, dear. Just a little father-son chat.”
“Some chat,” I muttered, but I felt my own anger deflating.
Mom bustled into the room, her no-nonsense energy filling the space. “Well, whatever it is, it stops now. Harold, you need your rest, and Eli, don’t you have to get home to the boys?”
I nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape. “Yeah, I should get going.”
As I moved toward the door, Dad’s voice stopped me. “Eli,” he said, his tone still hard, “don’t push me on this. Some things are better left in the past.”
I didn’t turn around. “Bye, Dad. Get some rest.”
I stepped out into the hallway, my mind spinning like a tornado. Carla’s face flashed before my eyes, her dark hair framing that mischievous smile I couldn’t seem to shake. What a mess. Here I was, thirty years old, feeling like a teenager sneaking around behind my old man’s back.
I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes for a beat. What if getting involved with Carla would only lead to heartache? But then I remembered the warmth of her hand in mine, the spark in her eyes when we talked. It felt real. More real than anything I’d felt in years.
One thing was for sure – I wasn’t ready to give up on Carla without a fight. I’d just have to make my father understand somehow.
The fridge cast a faint glow across the dark kitchen as I stood there, debating whether midnight pickles were a craving or a cry for help. I’d been up for hours, despite my exhaustion, reliving every conversation, every interaction. No matter how tired I was, I couldn’t shut them off. Regret, guilt, confusion—they all swirled together, like I was trapped in a loop of my own making.
I needed something, anything, to stop the noise in my head. Something simple, something stupid like pickles. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. It was me, trying to hold onto control in a situation that felt like it was slipping through my fingers. Torturing myself with the mistakes of my past and the shackles of the present.
I couldn’t move forward with Carla, not with my father’s disapproval. But every conversation with her made it harder to stay in this strange limbo. He was coming home tomorrow, and our conversation at the hospital earlier had been a disaster.
Deciding it was too late to try and philosophize my way through the mess in my mind, I reached up for the top shelf, my movements automatic, and began rummaging around.
“Midnight snack raid?”
I turned to find Carla leaning against the doorway, looking adorably rumpled in oversized pajamas that slid off one shoulder. Her hair was a mess, dark strands tumbling loose around her face, and a faint crease from her pillow marred her cheek. She was entirely too close, entirely too comfortable. As though my chaotic thoughts had summoned a vision to torment me further.
“Guilty as charged,” I admitted, holding up a jar of pickles as if that explained everything. “Care to join me in my delinquency?”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a tug at the corner of her lips as she slid onto a stool at the kitchen island. “You and your weird pickle obsession. I swear, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Oh, I’ve changed,” I say, trying to keep the lightness in my tone. “I can reach the top shelf now, for starters.”
Carla snorted, a sound that should be unflattering but somehow wasn’t. “Congratulations. What other incredible feats have you mastered?”
I hesitated, the air between us shifting as I weighed my next words. “I’d like to think I’ve learned a thing or two about mistakes. The hardest part isn’t making them—it’s living with the knowledge that you didn’t have to.”
I clenched my jaw, mentally scolding myself for taking the conversation there. It’d been casual, meaningless midnight chatter. But I just had to go and say something deeper. As though anyone expected deep thoughts from me.
Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she simply looked at me. The room felt smaller, the dim light casting her face in soft shadows. The sound of her breathing, slow and steady, felt loud in the quiet.
She reached out and snagged a pickle from my plate, her fingers brushing mine in the briefest, electric touch that I tried not to let affect me. Finally, she spoke, her voice gentle but firm. “You can’t undo the past, Eli. But you can learn from it. I think that’s all any of us can do.”
I blinked, taken aback by the simplicity of her words, the calmness in her tone. It was the kind of truth I didn’t want to hear but needed. She wasn’t offering sympathy, just honesty.
I could feel the weight of her gaze still lingering on me, but instead of the usual distance between us, there was something different—something fragile. Maybe even hopeful.
I let out a quiet breath, my fingers tightening around the jar. “Guess I’ve still got a lot to learn then.”
Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile but something close. “We all do.”
And just like that, the moment passed. She took another bite of the pickle, as if we hadn’t just crossed some unspoken line.
But I felt it, deep in my chest. I’d let her see a little beyond the rake or the clown, and she hadn’t laughed in my face or belittled my experience. She’d understood. And that was even more dangerous than the swath of bare shoulder playing peekaboo behind the tendrils of her hair as I watched her head back to the bedroom. I settled onto the couch, my mind finally calming enough to doze off.
I woke with a start, heart pounding. The darkness outside was still thick, but the first hints of light were starting to creep through the windows. The shriek echoed through the house—sharp, high-pitched, and full of terror. Carla.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I shot off the couch, adrenaline flooding my veins as my instincts kicked in. The sound of my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor echoed in the quiet house, every step a blur of urgency. I passed the empty bedroom, a knot tightening in my gut. She wasn’t there.
I skidded to a halt in front of the master bathroom door, my fist already raised, pounding against the wood.
“Carla!” My voice was rough with panic. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”
The scream had quieted. Outside, the world was still half-dark, as though it, too, was holding its breath. The silence of the house was deafening, broken only by the frantic pulse of my heart and the faint, eerie hum of the coming dawn.
My mind raced through a dozen worst-case scenarios. Did someone break in? Was she hurt? The protective surge I felt caught me off guard, but I pushed the realization aside, focusing on the immediate crisis.
“I’m coming in!” I shouted, ready to break down the door if necessary.
Just as I was about to throw my shoulder against it, the door flew open. Carla stood there, dripping wet and clutching a towel around herself. Her eyes were wide, cheeks flushed.
“Eli! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, breathless.
I blinked, confusion replacing my panic. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, droplets of water flying from her dark hair. “No, no. It’s just... in the shower. I may have overreacted a bit. But in my defense, that spider could take down a small child.”
Relief washed over me, quickly followed by embarrassment at my dramatic response to her distress. I tried to steady my breath. “Do you want me to take a look?” I offered, but part of me prayed she’d already smashed it. I hated spiders.
“Would you? That’d be great,” Carla said, stepping back to let me into the room.
Blast. Okay, I could do this. I was a firefighter, for crying out loud. I walked into burning buildings. I could handle a spider. I briefly considered putting my gear on, and it was just out in my truck. But that would be ridiculous.
I followed her into the bathroom, but everything about the space felt too close. The scent of her shampoo lingered in the steamy air. Carla pulled back the shower curtain, and I froze. Her proximity was overwhelming, every inch of the small space suddenly charged with something neither of us was willing to acknowledge.
Our eyes met, and for a second, the room felt like it shrunk even further. I forgot to breathe. The tension between us was so thick, it practically crackled.
I swallowed hard, the knot in my throat stubborn, and forced myself to look at the spider instead of her. She wasn’t making it easy, though. My heart squeezed with something else I couldn’t quite place. Desire? Maybe. But I refused to go there, to admit what this was. I should have stepped back, given her space, but my body refused to cooperate.
She pointed to the ceiling, and I jumped at the sight of the spider in the corner. It was the size of my watch. Of course, it was.
I searched for a weapon, my pulse spiking. Nothing. I darted into Nathan’s closet, grabbing a shoe as if it was going to save me from the impending doom of a eight-legged monster.
I took a deep breath, grabbing a wad of toilet paper to dispose of the nightmare. I could do this. I could. In one of the last conversations I had with Nathan, he kept going on about slaying dragons for his wife. Maybe this counted.
After a moment of terror, when I thought it might escape, I tossed the evidence of the gruesome murder into the trash can. I ran a hand over my rumpled hair and turned to look at Carla, sure to keep my eyes firmly focused on her eyes. “All set.”
Carla tightened her grip on her towel, eyes searching mine. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“No problem. All part of the service, ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes at my attempt at humor, but her lips twitched with the hint of a smile. It was enough to undo me. I should leave, but the pull of her presence is a heavy weight, keeping me rooted to the spot.
The air between us was thick with unspoken words, with every glance lingering just a fraction too long. As I turned to leave, I couldn’t help but wonder how much longer we could keep pretending there was nothing between us.
I forced myself to move, but stopped in the doorway, my hand resting on the frame. I didn’t look at her. “Hey, Carla?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to wake the whole house next time, okay? Some of us need our beauty sleep.”
She laughed, the sound warming me more than any shower could. It shouldn’t affect me this much, but it did. “Get out of here, Wells.”
As I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it, eyes shuttered. Living this close to Carla was going to be the death of me. But what a way to go.