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Isa was independent, strong, and self-aware. She didn’t whine or guilt him. She didn’t overload him with pressure. She was there, present in the moment like he was.
So why the questions?
Because she wanted more. He saw it when he’d held her to him in the bathtub and explored the depths of her dark, honest eyes. He’d never evaluated a relationship before. He’d never wondered “what next?” But when it came to Isa, that’s exactly what he’d been doing. And “what next?” went beyond dinner plans or getting a soft whimper of satisfaction to exit her lush mouth. This morning in the shower he’d had a passing thought about how the holidays were rapidly approaching.
Would Isa come with him to Thanksgiving dinner? Or spend Christmas morning at his dad’s house?
He wasn’t sure. After all they’d shared in a short time—the way she’d opened to him and him to her—shouldn’t he know?
He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his sunglasses, his heart thudding and his mind racing. It’s like he had fucking PTSD where relationships were concerned. Thinking about someone being around for always and forever was like remembering that dazed, ear-ringing moment when he was on the ground after too close a call with a grenade.
No. That wasn’t true.
The grenade had been a different daze altogether—a moment he’d rewound in his head over and over and had tried to rewrite, had tried to make sense of. Whenever he rewound memories of Isa, it wasn’t to rewrite their reality, only savor it—to replay her smile or the way she sighed his name.
You want to do right by her, dumbass.
The thought in Eli’s head came in the form of his late friend Benji’s voice. Eli snapped out of his deep thoughts to find himself at the corner of Lightwood and Sandstone—near Benji’s former residence.
“All in,” Eli said aloud. He turned right on Sandstone and drove up the neat, tree-lined street. Chicago was cool and crisp as autumn settled over the city, but the sun was bright and bold, damn near blinding as he tried to make out the numbers on the street.
Finally he saw the house. Number 502. And here he sat, no announcement, no warning.
Before his courage failed him, he parked along the curb and climbed out of his car. Michelle Hough, Benji’s widow, was inside. She walked past the wide kitchen window, pot in hand—cooking dinner.
He debated calling, and for a second, leaving, but a stronger force propelled him forward. As he walked up the steps that cut into the grass, he spotted a high chair and came to a stunned halt. A baby girl sat in it and Eli smiled in spite of himself when she lifted her chubby hand into the air. At the funeral, there wasn’t a baby or a baby bump hinting that Michelle was expecting.
Maybe she was babysitting?
Months had passed and Michelle had refused to talk to him. Perhaps he’d deserved that for approaching her with nothing more than a veiled excuse of wanting her blessing to post Benji’s photo. He should’ve told her the truth. That he wanted her forgiveness over all else.
On the porch, he wiped his hands down his slacks and knocked—three sharp raps.
The door swung aside a moment later and Michelle’s mouth dropped open. Her blond hair was tied back in a short ponytail, her blue eyes wide.
“Elijah.”
“Hi, Michelle.”
“I didn’t expect company.” She fidgeted, first with the dishtowel in her hand before running that same hand over her ponytail to smooth it.
“I didn’t expect to visit. I was in the neighborhood and I decided to try you.”
“Oh.”
The breeze blew the flowers on a potted mum at his feet. What the hell was he doing here? But before he could excuse himself and chicken out yet again, Michelle spoke.
“Do you want…dinner?” Her face pinched like she wasn’t sure she should invite him in.
“That’s not necessary.” He wouldn’t force her to endure his presence. She’d been through enough.
A soft coo in the background drew her attention and when she faced Eli again, she no longer appeared to doubt her invitation.
“You know what? Let me rephrase,” Michelle said with a smile. “Eli. You’re staying for dinner.”
***
Dinner was macaroni and cheese, chicken cutlets—which he politely declined—and steamed broccoli. Michelle and Eli sat at the table, glasses of milk in front of them. They ate and caught up on the mundane while her attention was focused on her daughter. That’s how Michelle had introduced her.
