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CHAPTERFOURTEEN
The drive to Eli’s parents’ house is short—they live in the area. Anyone who’s anybody must live in the most expensive part of LA.
Our car passes through a gated entrance. The house, or rather the mansion given the size of the place that greets us, is a white U-shaped beauty, its huge bay windows and the wraparound balconies adorning the top taking my breath away. It’s certainly a beautiful house. I want to comment on it but bite my tongue. This must be the thousandth time I’ve been here, so why would I comment on how beautiful it is now?
But without thinking, I gasp out load at the beauty.
“What’s the matter?” Eli probes, sitting next to me, his posture as stiff as a board.
Nervously, I swallow, unable to figure out how to answer. In the end, I decide to be honest. “I don’t know. I guess… this is the first time I’m taking in just how beautiful this house really is.”
Surprise lifts his expression before sadness coats his face. “It might be beautiful on the outside,” he replies softly, his eyes fixed squarely on his childhood home.
I wait for him to explain further, but then my door is pulled open by Craig. I keep my gaze fixed on Eli as he is more important. I want so much for him to open up… let me in.
Eli, realizing I’m not moving, averts his gaze from the house and then turns it back on me. I implore him with my eyes to speak, but instead, he swallows down whatever emotion he may be feeling, clears his throat and says, “We better not keep them waiting.”
A slight burn forms in my throat as I watch him getting out of the car. I may have lost my memories and completely forgotten who I am, but something in my gut yells that this isn’t the man I know. The man I perceive to know is happy, confident, and has that certain twinkle in his eye that gives away the mischievous nature he possesses with pride. This man, however, I yearn to know. He’s the human part to that perception I have. The man behind a mask. A man who hurts and cuts just as deeply as anyone else. I want to take out those parts, heal them before putting them back again. As a loving wife, how have I let this go on? Where has my moral compass been all these years? I am married to a wonderful man, and yet I have neglected him, rejected him, betrayed him, and worst of all… forgotten him.
Not wanting to keep Eli waiting, I place one foot in front of the other outside of the car and I’m about to lift myself up when Eli’s hand is placed in front of me. I glance up, offering him a soft smile, one I’m surprised to say works. His rigid posture slackens, and the deep lines marring his face immediately fade when he smiles back. My heart rate soars, my pulse skippity-skip-skipping through my veins. Heat radiates in my cheeks, no doubt pinkening them as my mouth parts, letting out a much-needed breath. Yes, this man literally takes it away with just one smile. Just one tiny little smile.
His warm, calloused hand engulfs my tiny, delicate fingers, helping me up to my feet. I thank him before the car door quickly shuts with a load thump. Together, facing the house, Eli’s posture tightens again, his jaw slightly twitching. He steps forward towards the large stone staircase leading up to the entrance, so I quickly follow suit. I clasp my hand tightly around his, momentarily halting his pace. He glances down at me, so I smile again.
“I’m with you, buddy,”I say to him in my head, and just like that he relaxes again as we’re ascending those huge steps before the double doors.
As if someone has been waiting all this time for us to get to the doors, they swing open, revealing an elderly gentleman in a black three-piece suit, his expression stoic and unfriendly.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Prescott, Ms. Banks.”
I open my mouth to mention that I’m Mrs. Prescott, until I realize that for some reason, I never took on his name. I guess that’s just what stars do.
“Afternoon, Mr. Elkon,” Eli responds with just as much of an authoritative tone. His hand clamps even tighter around mine, making my nerves kick up a notch. Coming to meet your husband’s family for dinner should never, ever fill a person with this much anxiety.
I swallow hard and gaze at Eli. His blue suit aids in perfectly bringing out the color of his sparkling green eyes and fits his slender but muscular physique like a second skin. His striking jaw, and smooth, flawless hairline maintain his dark locks like a work of art. He’s every bit the Hollywood hotshot that he’s been made to be, and boy does he carry it well. Inside, however, I know to be different. Inside is where it matters the most.
“Eli, so happy to see you, darling,” a woman’s voice sings, making me flit my gaze from Eli to the lady I assume is his mother. With long black hair, amazing green eyes, and a fitted green dress, this woman could be a catwalk model. She barely looks above the age of forty, yet the motherly tone in her voice is what gives it away.
With only eyes for her son, the lady comes in for a kiss, both their smiles bright for one another. However, once she glances my way, her smile drops, her tone filled with disdain.
“Kendra,” she simply adds, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.
Yep. She hates me.
I’m guessing at this point I have a long queue as far as the not-liking-me department is concerned. Mrs. Prescott, it seems, is at the front of the line.
Her distaste only seems to deepen once she notices my hand still firmly clasped with Eli’s, yet I can’t help noting the element of surprise. It was only a very fleeting moment, but there nonetheless.
“Brady cooked your favorite, darling,” Mrs. Prescott says to Eli as she slips her arm through his.
It occurs to me that I have no idea what his favorite food is, which both alarms and depresses me. So many questions to ask that I should already know the answers to.
I watch Eli as he gingerly holds his mother’s arm, squinting at him to concentrate on what his favorite food could possibly be and yet, I still come up empty.
I seriously am the worst wife.
“I can smell the macaroni and cheese from here. I will have to thank Brady later.”
Macaroni and cheese. Hmm… nope, would never have guessed.
