“They don’t need to come, but I thought you might want to invite them,” Mom says, looking at Eli again. She puts a hand on Eli’s knee. “Thanksgiving is a time for family.”
“You’re the only real family I have,” Eli mumbles.
Mom’s hand spasms. I see the flicker of fury on her face, as she bites back words she won’t say in front of Eli. I also see the twitch in her arms, as she represses the urge to hug him. I know she needs to say something before she gives in and does that. “I’d like to meet them,” she says in a harder voice than usual. “Would you invite them, Eli?”
He looks at her with something sad and maybe a little longing in his eyes. “I don’t think they’ll come.”
“But they’ll have the offer.”
Some of the rigidity in his shoulders slips out of him with a low breath. “All right.”
Mom’s restraint crumbles and she wraps him in a full hug. Eli leans into her embrace, letting his head rest on her shoulder. Mom may not be saying it, but I know she’s doing this for him more than for her. She wants to force them to see that they should treasure him, like she knew the first day she met him. I get it.
I also worry she has no idea just how much this might hurt Eli.
She holds him for a long moment, as I halfheartedly grab a different car and push it into Hugh’s line of them, and that fluttering worry in my stomach stills. Maybe she knows exactly how much it can hurt Eli—and is determined to help him heal.
“Didn’t you want to shower before work?” Eli asks, pulling my attention back.
“You heading home?”
As unreadable as he can be, I’m pretty sure I see the conflicting instincts in his eyes: one, to retreat and be alone, the other to stay with those he knows love him.
“I’ll stay and play with Hugh, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll make up some sandwiches for lunch,” Mom says.
She moves to the kitchen, Widget racing ahead when he sees where she’s going. Eli sits on the play mat near us. “Can I play with a car, Hugh?”
Hugh’s eyes dart up and he nods, and holds out an orange one. “Here.”
“Can I be there?” I ask in a low voice.
Eli shifts the car around in his hand. “You really want to?”
“For him, and for the phone call with them.”
His eyes flick to mine. “That’ll be good. Tomorrow.”
I stand and head to my room to get a change of clothes before hopping into the shower, unable to keep the slight smile from my face. His expression is still hard to read at times. His voice, though—that beautiful, raw, vinyl voice—crackles with emotion. I heard the nervousness in it, just now. I also heard the gratitude. It’s how I know he really does want me there, even if he never would have asked me to be.
I’ll be by his side through all of it.
I can’t stop teasingEli about our Chemistry project. We need to take a traditional feast food (McG didn’t specify Thanksgiving, but we all know it’s what he was thinking) and do a write-up of its chemical make-up. I let Eli choose our food.
“Rolls are, surprise surprise, mostly starch,” I say, as we work on it Sunday morning.
“Your point?” Eli asks, leaning over the textbook at my kitchen table.
“You chose the most basic option.”
“I like rolls.”
I pick up my orange juice, shaking my head. “They’re so simple!”
“I’m a simple guy. I know what I like. Rolls. Soccer. Music. You.”
He doesn’t look away from the textbook as he says it, so matter-of-fact that I almost choke on my juice. At my spluttering, he does look up.
