Truce?: Hating Elijah Monroe

by Amelia Kingston

  My dad is already behind the wheel. He has cue cards in his hands, rehearsing his vows. He’s too cute. I take a deep breath and remind myself that his happiness is worth it.

  By the time we arrive, the church is hectic with people rushing around everywhere. I hide in the corner and wait for Becky, the wedding planner, to tell me my cue. Elijah is around here somewhere, but I haven’t seen him since our spat this morning. I’m lost staring up at one of the giant stained glass windows when a tap on my shoulder makes me jump and I let out a startled yip. I turn to see Becky and Elijah just behind her, snickering. I cross my arms and glare at him.

  “It’s time. Here we go,” Becky says, gesturing for me to go stand next to Elijah.

  I’m a bridesmaid. He’s a groomsman. Beverly thought it’d be oh-so-adorable if we walked down the aisle together. I managed to avoid taking his arm at the rehearsal. In fact, other than the brush of our shoulders earlier, I’ve managed to avoid all physical contact with Elijah so far. That’s about to change.

  I stare at the arm I’ll be taking, starting at his broad shoulder and tracing down to where his hand disappears into his pocket. I wonder what it will be like to touch him, not just brush against him as I make a grand exit. His hand emerges from the safe haven of his pocket and reaches out to me. I look up at him, surprised. The allure of his touch has me moving toward him before I realize it.

  I slide my hand into his, looking at our fingers interlocking. A thrill dances in my heart, but it isn’t like brushing his shoulder. This is slower and warmer. Heat radiates from our connected hands, sliding up my arm, across my chest, and down to my toes. My hand fits perfectly in his. Puzzle pieces fitting together.

  “Go.” I hear Becky shout behind me. “Harper. Elijah. It’s time. Go!” she hisses at us. Elijah doesn't miss a beat. He wraps my arm around his and starts down the aisle.

  Everyone’s eyes snap to us. A chorus of “ooohs” and “aaahs” fill my ears. It’s a small town, but everyone in it is piled in this church right now. The attention makes me nervous and I trip over my own feet. Elijah’s grip on my arm tightens as he pulls me to him. I sneak a peek at him and catch a reassuring smile. Somehow, this feels right. My anxiety melts away. Connected to him, I feel safe and grounded. I’m disappointed when he lets me go. It was nice being on Elijah’s arm.

  Standing opposite him at the altar, I smile imagining my wedding day. My cheeks catch fire and I shake my head, throwing out the idea. I focus on my dad, beaming with joy as he watches Beverly comes up the aisle. This is about the happy ending he deserves.

  Eight years ago…

  Running late and still in my PJs, I slide open the door to my closet and consider my options. My eyes dart between the plaid skirts and white polo shirts I used to wear at my private school in San Francisco to the wide selection of jeans and T-shirts usually reserved for weekends. Public school in Weaverton is an adjustment. I throw on an orange San Francisco Giants shirt and some shorts before I head downstairs.

  “You look very nice this morning, Harper.” Beverly’s sing-song voice fills the kitchen. She’s a morning person. I hate mornings and morning people. “Do you want eggs or pancakes? Or, would you rather have cereal like Conan the Barbarian over there?”

  She gestures to Elijah sitting at the kitchen table. He’s hunched over a bowl of something that looks chocolaty and delicious, spooning it into his mouth like it’s his last meal. A drip of milk trails down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand. It should disgust me, but on Elijah it’s savagely sexy.

  Our eyes meet and I feel the pull. Still. After a month of living with him, seeing him every day, it’s as strong as ever. Every time I look into his eyes I’m drawn to him. I hate it. I avoid eye contact as much as possible. In fact, I avoid him as much as possible. Too bad today he’s my ride to school.

  “Harmph. Figures,” he croaks, nodding to my T-shirt. Elijah’s default mood is brooding. Beverly should have named him Eeyore. When he stands up and drops his bowl in the sink, I see what he’s upset about this time. He’s wearing a Dodgers jersey. Gross. Like I needed more reason to hate him. A Dodgers fan? Under the same roof? Blasphemy.

  “Pancakes would be great,” I answer Beverly, ignoring Elijah. I’d be happy with cereal, but I’m not admitting I have something in common with the dirty Dodgers fan.

  “Great. I’ll whip some up real quick.”

  “No time. We’re going to be late,” Elijah chimes in. I turn and glare at him. No one asked his opinion.

  “Oh, well. Tomorrow then,” Beverly adds, disappointed not to play Susie Homemaker this morning.

  “Sure,” I tell her as I grab a banana and follow Elijah out the door.

  “If her highness gets out of bed before noon maybe…” he says under his breath.

  “Hey!” I snap.

  He keeps walking.

  “What’s your problem?” I demand, being forced to stalk after him.

  He walks around to the driver’s side of the car and leans on the hood. I cross my arms and stare at him from the passenger's side.

  “Right now? A spoiled Giants fan that I’ve been saddled with babysitting all day.”

  “First of all”—I wag a finger at him—“I am not spoiled—”

  “Whatever you say, Flapjack.”

  “Secondly, the Dodgers suck.”

  “Says a Giants fan.”

  “We were first in the Division last year. Remind me where the Dodgers finished? Oh, that’s right. Below .500.”

  He scoffs, but doesn’t contest the facts.

  “Third, you’re my ride, but believe me the second we’re at school, I’m getting as far away from your grumpy Eeyore ass as possible.” I lean in across the roof of the car, like I have a secret to tell him. In a fake whisper I add, “Not sure if you know this, but you’re kind of a dick.” To my surprise he bites his bottom lip to fight back a smile. It is adorable. It makes me hate him more. He has no right to be that irresistible. “How about we agree, to make this ride as bearable as possible, we each pretend the other isn't here? We’re not friends. We don’t need to talk. Like, ever.”

  “Sounds great,” he says as he opens the car door. “Short Stack,” he adds as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

  God, I hate him.

  Being the new girl sucks. I’m not saying I was super popular at my old school, but I had friends. I was on both the volleyball and softball teams. I don’t know anyone at Weaverton High except for Elijah. I look out across the brightly-colored plastic tables littering the large cafeteria and swallow down the anxiety. I grab the tray with my soggy pizza and step into the fray.

  There are a couple nearly full tables, only one or two empty chairs. Not going to try and squeeze in there. In the back corner there are a few empty tables. I debate sitting at one of them, but being the only one at a table makes you seem like the kid who doesn’t shower. I opt for a table with a guy and a girl chatting. I have biology with the girl. Her name is Charlene.

  She is wearing jeans and a loose long cardigan over a Kings of Leon T-shirt. A loopy silver necklace dips down below the table, almost to her waist. Her platinum blond hair is pulled up into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She looks trendy, but relaxed. The guy is in a snug dark blue vest over a crisp white button-down shirt. His dark brown hair is perfectly styled and his face is freshly shaven. They belong in Weaverton about as much as I do.

  “Mind if I sit here?” I ask. They look up at me, then turn to each other, seeming to have a silent debate. “I just transferred from San Francisco,” I add to explain crashing their lunch.

  They both give me a little shrug and the guy says, “Sure. Pull up a bench.”

  “Thanks. I’m Harper. Harper Delaney.”

  “Marcus. Charlene,” the guy says, pointing first to himself and then to the girl who gives me a quick wave. “What brings you to our little slice of Americana?”

  “Love, I guess.” I don’t mean to be cryptic, but it’s true. An image of Elijah pops unw
elcomed into my mind. I meant my dad and Beverly. Urgh. Betrayed by my own thoughts.

  “Oh? Do tell.” Marcus titters.

  “My dad met a woman online. They dated for six months, long-distance. And then decided to get married. So, here I am.”

  “Hold the phone. Your dad dragged you from fabulous San Francisco to here for some online hookup? That blows!” Marcus’ mouth drops open. I can’t help but smile.

  “Yep. That about sums it up.” I shrug. I take a bite of my limp pizza and wash it down with a swig of Coke.

  “I think it’s romantic,” Charlene adds in a soft voice with a sappy smile.

  “You have to tell me.” Marcus leans in, his low voice full of hushed excitement. “Is Frisco as amazing as I think it is? Is it everything a devastatingly handsome yet tragically single young gay man can hope for?” He pouts his lips, waiting for me to say something, like my answer will change the course of his life.

  “First of all, no one who lives there will ever call it Frisco. And, as I am neither gay nor a man, I can’t say for sure. But it is pretty amazing.” Holding Marcus and Charlene’s rapt attention, I consider my audience and add, “There’s always some type of film festival going on. Name a type of food and we have it. Walking up Lombard Street might kill you, but the farmers’ market at the top is to die for, so it works out. There are trendy boutiques on every corner and gay bars as far as the eye can see.”

  They both stare at me, starry-eyed and smiling. Looks like I just made my first friends in Weaverton.

  I have my last class of the day with Marcus. We’re chatting as he walks me outside. I haven’t seen Elijah at all today. I can only hope he remembers he’s my ride home.

  I spot him across the parking lot, sitting on the trunk of his car, laughing with three other jock-looking guys. All of them are good looking, maybe the hottest guys in school. Still, I can’t stop staring at Elijah.

  He’s leaning back on his hands, the stupid Dodgers jersey stretched tight against his muscular chest. He looks like a king holding court, a broad smile on his lips as he presides over his subjects. I’ve never seen this side of him. The carefree happy side. He always seems so moody. I’ve never even seen him smile. I’ve never seen him when he didn’t know I was watching.

  His hair is styled messy, gelled back just a tiny bit to keep it out of his eyes. Those eyes. They usually look like emeralds, but in the afternoon sunlight, they’re more of a sea green. Breathtaking. Literally, my breath catches in my throat and I stop dead in my tracks.

  Marcus stops mid-sentence—not that I was paying attention anyway—and asks, “What’s up?”

  “That’s my ride.” I point over to Elijah and his band of cohorts.

  “No freaking way,” he replies. “Eli Monroe. The Eli Monroe is your ride home?”

  “The Eli Monroe?” I can’t hold back a snicker. “Yeah. Unless there’s more than one. Why?” I ask, not understanding.

  “He basically runs this place. Him and the other horsemen.”

  “Horsemen?”

  “The four of them: Jacob Miller, Liam Davis, Noah Wilson, and Elijah Monroe. They’re the four horsemen. Jake is Conquest, a total player. Liam is War because he loves drama. Noah is Death, the quiet and broody one. And Eli is Famine because he always leaves you starving for more.”

  “Cute,” I deadpan. Elijah is part of the four horsemen. That makes sense. He’s the harbinger of my doom. Terrifying, yet alluring. Tempting, but off-limits. Giving in to him would mean the end of days. Not to be too dramatic or anything.

  “You’re dating the ring leader. You’re like high school royalty.” Marcus looks at me with amazed reverence.

  “Oh, God no. We’re not dating,” I’m quick to correct him. “His mom is the one my dad moved us here to marry.”

  “Mrs. Monroe? Seriously?” he asks, unconvinced. I nod. “That’s insane. I never thought she’d get remarried after what happened.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  Marcus glances over at Elijah and lowers his voice. “Eli’s dad was like her high school sweetheart. Prom king and queen. Real storybook stuff. She was a school teacher, he was a fireman. The town adored them. Then, he just up and died. Brain aneurysm or something. Here one day, gone the next.” He snaps his fingers, adding, “Just like that.”

  “That’s awful,” I whisper. I press my hands into my chest, trying to ease the ache.

  Marcus grabs my forearm and leans just inches from me to add, “That’s not even the worst part. She was pregnant with Eli when it happened. Had to raise him all by herself.”

  My eyes search for Elijah. He isn’t smiling anymore. He’s watching me. His eyes capture mine and Marcus’ voice grows distant. I’m not listening. I’m falling. Elijah is across the parking lot, but the space feels like nothing as his gaze bores into me. There’s a scowl on his face. I must be what put it there. The realization breaks my heart.

  In that moment, any sympathy his past was stirring in my heart dies.

  I don’t care.

  I hate him.

  I cross my arms and stare at him. He hops off the car, crosses his arms, and stares right back.

  “Let’s go, Short Stack,” he calls out, glancing between me and Marcus. All three of his friends turn to look at me too. My cheeks catch fire at the nickname and the sudden attention. They’re standing in a line now, shoulder to shoulder. The four horsemen.

  I turn to Marcus. “I guess that’s my cue.”

  “Give me your phone.” Marcus waves his hand at me and I hand it over without question. He clicks a few buttons and hands it back. “There. Now you have my number. If you send me a pic of Eli in his boxers—or out of them—I promise to be your GBFF!” He gives me a wink as I take my phone back.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I tell him, knowing if I ever see Eli in his boxers—or out of them—the last thing on my mind will be taking a picture for Marcus.

  I make my way over to Elijah slowly, so he knows I’m coming because I want to, not because he commanded it.

  “Short Stack?” his friend asks. I’m not explaining that stupid nickname. I’m not even going to acknowledge it. The closer I get, the more this guy’s look turns into a leer. He’s hot, but it’s obnoxious. I stare him down, letting him know I don’t appreciate the gesture.

  “Sounds delicious,” the guy adds when I’m in front of the foursome.

  Elijah slaps his shoulder. “Jake, that’s my stepsister, you asshole.”

  “Sorry,” Jake says with a laugh, not sorry at all. His nickname suits him, Conquest.

  The one Marcus pointed out as Liam adds, “I’ve always thought breakfast was the best meal of the day.” He isn’t looking at me. He’s grinning at Elijah, who squares his shoulders and shoves him in return.

  “What’s your problem? Can’t take a joke?” Liam growls. The fourth horseman, Noah, steps between them. Noah shakes his head at Elijah before pulling Liam away.

  “Let’s go,” Elijah says to no one in particular, but he’s talking to me.

  We climb into the car and Elijah cranks the stereo, playing Weaverton’s only non-country radio station. I close my eyes and listen to the lyrics of Rihanna’s “We Found Love” flooding out of the speakers. We’re almost home and haven’t said a word, both happy to adhere to the no talking agreement. Elijah is the first to break it as he puts the car into park and turns off the engine.

  “Those guys are going to hit on you.” He’s staring out the windshield, not looking at me. The steering wheel squeals under his tight grip. “They don’t like you. They’re just doing it to piss me off.”

  “Ooookay,” I reply, confused where that came from.

  “I’m just saying, don’t take any of their bullshit seriously. They’re not interested in you.”

  “I get it. They’re out of my league. Are we done here?” I ask, annoyed. You’re out of my league. Message received. I put my hand on the door handle, ready to get the hell out of this car.

  “I’m trying
to help.” His voice is softer. He turns to look at me.

  “Gee. Aren't you sweet? Thanks.”

  “Whatever,” he says with a huff as he climbs out of the car and walks up the drive to the house, leaving me behind.

  I’ve never wanted my driver’s license so bad

  Now…

  “You look lovely, Harper,” Beverly tells me.

  My long brown hair is still damp from the shower I took after work. I pulled it into a loose braid over my shoulder to keep it out of the way when I put on a splash of makeup. I threw on the summer dress I bought a few years ago from a vintage booth when Alisha dragged me to the Treasure Fest outdoor market. The thin straps and low neckline show off a classy amount of skin. With pink flowers on the flowing white cotton and a bow that ties around my waist, it’s more feminine than most of my outfits. Beverly went through all the trouble of making dinner for the four of us. The least I could do was freshen up a bit.

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of a fan of that schoolmarm look you had earlier,” Elijah chides from somewhere in the living room. Excitement and anxiety shoot up my spine as I ignore him. I hate when he catches me off-guard.

  “Told you, Beverly. He starts it,” I scold. She wags a disapproving finger at Elijah, who is now right behind me. The air crackles between us.

  “Me? What’d I do? That was a compliment.” Elijah gives a light tug on my braid and I slap his hand away. He steps around me, his shoulder colliding with mine too forcefully to be accidental.

  “You wouldn’t know how to compliment a woman if your life depended on it.”

  He takes Beverly’s hand in his and gives her a quick twirl. The apron around her waist flares.

  “Mom, you look as beautiful as the sunset. As fresh as a summer breeze.”