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"I'm sorry they are putting you in the middle of this," he surprised me by saying, giving my knee a little squeeze.
I ducked my head, looking for the determination I needed to go through with it to the end.
"They were, ah, upset, Eli," I said, raising my gaze. "All of them."
"I know they're mad that--"
"No, they were crying," I cut him off. "Fee said she decided to put me in the middle because when Hunt came home yesterday, he was upset. And she had only ever seen him choked up twice before. She wanted to see if there was any way that..." I trailed off, suddenly a little queasy at having to go on.
His guards were back.
His eyes were blank.
"Any way that what?"
I swallowed hard. "That I could convince you to come to Thanksgiving. They said," I powered through when he went to open his mouth, "that your mother has been getting worse every holiday that passes, and they thought that this would, you know, make it all better."
Pulling the Mom-card was cruel, I knew.
But they were the facts.
And maybe he had been trying to hide from them, trying to convince himself that they were better without him, but he could only live so long with the wool over his eyes.
If I had to be the one to pull it off, and deal with the consequences of that, at least he wouldn't be blind anymore. Like that or not.
"They need to move o--"
"But they're not," I cut him off. "They're not," I repeated, voice softer. "They're not. And they're hurting. And they will never accept this, Eli. They love you. Of course they want you around."
"You don't..."
"I know," I agreed, nodding. "I know I don't understand fully. I get that. And I know that I'm just some chick that..."
"Don't," he cut me off, voice slicing through the air. "Don't finish that sentence."
My head ducked, not sure how to take that. "I told them I would mention it," I said, head lifting. "I told them I couldn't make any promises, but I said I would bring it up."
"This was why you were so tense," he concluded, watching me with a look I couldn't quite interpret.
"I didn't want to ruin dinner," I admitted.
"You thought I would get pissed," he concluded, taking his hand off my knee to rake it down the scruff on his face.
"I was really looking forward to dinner," I admitted, shrugging my shoulders, shaking my head at myself. It was silly, but true.
"We'll have to try this again on a day my sisters-in-law don't ambush you."
My head lifted, surprised, sure he was going to be resentful.
"I won't say it won't happen again. This being a thing," he said, waving a hand between us, "and them knowing that means they can use you. And I'm sorry about that. But I don't want that to fuck this up either."
This being a thing.
I wasn't sure what 'a thing' meant in his mind, but in mine, it meant something more than sex. Right? That seemed like a logical conclusion.
Or maybe that was just my heart speaking.
Peyton was right.
I wasn't just infatuated with him, with the amazing sex.
I was taking the few first tentative steps into love.
That was why I was so worked up all day, why there felt like there was something lodged in my throat when I tried to eat a very nice dinner.
I was falling for him, plain and simple.
And while it was, technically new, we had been corresponding for five years. I felt I knew him as well as I did most of my friends. It wasn't as new as it seemed. Just the physical aspect was new. The mental and emotional part had been going on for a good, long time. I suspected, for the both of us.
"I don't want anything to fuck this up either," I agreed, from, well, the bottom of my heart, damnit.
"So we aren't letting shit like this get between us."
It wasn't exactly a question, but I answered anyway. "Nope," I agreed.
"We're gonna let it drop for now, yeah?" he asked, tapping his chest again.
And, well, I pretty much flew at him.
"Yeah," I agreed.
Then we dropped it.TWELVEEliWe let it drop, like I said to, for over a week.
The next morning, we had woken up to Peyton in the kitchen in full-on 1950s gear with a full skirt, a frilly waist apron, heels, her hair pulled up into some intricate up-do, and her makeup done flawlessly. She had a giant metal bowl on her hip, mixing something as the smell of sizzling bacon made my stomach grumble.
"What is this, June Cleaver?" Autumn asked, reaching up to try to pat down her hair.
"Whatever do you mean, dear?" she asked, sugar sweet. "I always get up at six AM to get ready for my day so I can get to my womanly duties."
