Every hitch in Eli’s breathing stabs into me.
I scratch behind Widget’s ears, focusing on the lively little chihuahua to distract from Eli’s pain. I pet him enough to make him roll over and show his belly with a playful whine, and releasea breath of a laugh as it makes him roll off my lap and onto the floor. Widget shakes himself and rolls over again, belly exposed.
My brief laugh is followed by silence. I lean forward to rub Widget’s belly, listening carefully. “It’s all right,” Mom says, in a more normal voice.
Widget’s tail swishes like a pendulum on the floor, and his mouth hangs open. “You look ridiculous,” I tell him.
His tail thumps.
“Be extra cute like this for Eli the rest of the day,” I whisper to him. “He needs us right now.”
“I always need you.”
I jump. Widget startles and rolls to his feet.
Eli stands just behind me, leaning against the section of the wall that sticks out to create the illusion of rooms between the entrance hallway and the kitchen. His eyes are red and his voice is still unsteady, but the agony that had floored me before is gone.
I launch to my feet and throw my arms around him anyway.
His fingers nest in my shirt, nose pressing against my neck. I feel the rapid beating of his heart through my palm on his back. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t either. Mom doesn’t come into the kitchen, probably trying to give us a moment. We just hold each other tightly, until his grip on my shirt loosens and his heart has settled to a normal beat.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask once he pulls back.
He lightly presses his lips to mine. “Not yet,” he says. “My family ruined the first part of our Thanksgiving feast. I won’t let them ruin the second. Think we can have dessert soon?”
“Is that a real question? You go tell the others we need sweets. I’ll get the plates everyone left on the table.”
“I can help with that.”
I push him forward. “Go tell the others you want dessert, Eli.”
He casts a soft smile over his shoulder, and my heart does a flip. “Okay.”
FIVE
ELI
I didn’t eat as much as I’d intended for the main course. I was too stressed to eat more than the initial plate I took.
I make up for it with dessert. Mrs. Benson made a chocolate pie, a pumpkin pie, and an apple-raspberry pie. I eat a good piece of each, with ice cream, and after the last one, set my spoon on my plate with a sigh.
“You ate all your food?” Hugh asks, gesturing to my plate. He gives me a thumbs up. “Great job!”
I chuckle. Janet ruffles Hugh’s hair. “He’s been saying great job for just about everything, lately. This is one toddler phase I like.”
“You like it because he says great job when you watch a movie,” Jack says.
Janet raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t like being validated for watching TV and eating food?”
“Fair point.”
I look at Mrs. Benson, who’s leaning back in her chair with a distinctively mothering smile at her children. Even with the mess earlier, I’m feeling . . . good, right now. For the moment, I feel . . . light. “Mrs. Benson, your food makes everything better.”
She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
“You’ll want to come over tomorrow for lunch and dinner,” Janet says. “Mom makes her famous Thanksgiving hash, and the best turkey soup you’ll ever have.”
“The soup’s always better after a night in the fridge,” Mrs. Benson says, cheeks turning pink.
