Truce?: Hating Elijah Monroe

by Amelia Kingston

  Beverly wraps Elijah up in a tight hug.

  I mouth “momma’s boy” and Elijah gives me a wink over her shoulder. I shake my head, exasperated with him in the first two minutes.

  “You’re such a charmer,” Beverly coos. Elijah’s smile is too bright.

  “An angel in plaid. I’m sure he drives all those other firemen wild,” I quip.

  At six thirty on the dot the four of us are all settled around the dining room table for my first “family dinner” in years. The mouth-watering aroma of Beverly’s spaghetti fills the air. San Francisco may have some of the best restaurants in the world, but there’s something about a home-cooked meal that no amount of Michelin stars can replace.

  “Where are you going to be teaching in the fall?” my dad asks, passing the dinner rolls.

  Beverly, Elijah, and my dad are all looking at me expectantly. I swallow, grab a roll, and smile. “I’ve got a few different options.”

  “In San Francisco?” Elijah stares at his plate, pushing a meatball around in circles.

  “Mostly.”

  “What about here?” Beverly chimes in. “Mrs. Blake retired last year.”

  Mrs. Blake did retire last year after about half a millennium of teaching third grade. And I did apply for her job, purely as a last resort. Staying here is my backup, backup, backup plan. I won’t jinx my future by even admitting it out loud.

  “Alisha and I are planning on sharing an apartment in the Bay Area.” I dodge Beverly’s question.

  “Too good for Weaverton Elementary?” Elijah accuses.

  “I never said that.” I look over at Beverly’s hurt expression. She taught second grade at Weaverton Elementary for most of her life before retiring a few years back. She’s half the reason I decided to be a school teacher to begin with. “I’m not a small town kind of person.”

  “So you’re not too good for the school, just too good for the whole damn town?”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean—”

  I raise my voice, speaking over my dad as he tries to defend me. “I didn’t say that. Stop putting words in my mouth.”

  “But it’s true, isn’t it? You think you’re too good for us.” Elijah raises his voice to meet mine.

  “Excuse me for having ambition. Some of us want more out of our lives than to be the big fish in a small pond.”

  “Some of us don’t need to swim upstream just to prove we can.”

  “Hope you enjoy your mediocrity then.”

  “Have fun with your delusions of grandeur.”

  “That’s enough.” My dad slaps his hand down on the table. “I’d hoped you two had outgrown this petty rivalry.”

  I put my hands in my lap and slouch forward, ashamed.

  “Sorry, Rick.”

  “Sorry, Dad.” Elijah and I both apologize.

  The four of us eat the rest of our dinner in silence.

  “I think the two of you can clean up since you managed to ruin our first family dinner in years,” Dad admonishes us as he stands. “I’m going to enjoy a glass of wine with my wife on the back porch.” Dad wraps Beverly’s arm around his as he guides her outside.

  I narrow my eyes at Elijah after they’ve gone.

  “Thanks for that.”

  “Right, it’s all my fault. Like always.”

  “You started it.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. Telling Beverly I think I’m too good for her school. You always have to prove you’re the perfect son by making me look like a jerk.”

  “That’s not…I wasn’t…” Elijah sighs. “You know what? Fine. That’s exactly what I was doing. I wanted you to look bad. I’m sorry. Can we clean up now?”

  Elijah clears his plate and Beverly’s, carrying them into the kitchen. I grab mine and my dad’s before following him.

  “Wait. Did you actually apologize?” I’m stunned.

  “Yep.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes, Harper. To you.”

  “Why?”

  Elijah chuckles. “Because we’re too old for this shit, don’t you think?”

  I shrug my shoulders in dumbfounded bewilderment. He holds out his hand and I give him the dirty plate. He sets it in the sink and holds out his hand again. I give him the other plate. He puts it in the sink. He holds his hand out a third time and I stare at it.

  “Your hand, Short Stack. Give me your hand.”

  I place my hand in his gingerly, ready to jerk it back at the first sign of a trap. He gives it a firm squeeze and a quick shake.

  “Truce?” he asks.

  “Truce?” I answer, unsure.

  “Truce,” he confirms.

  I give his hand a squeeze back, dropping it before he can tell my palm is getting sweaty from the simple contact. My foolishly optimistic heart pitter-patters in my chest, hoping this is the start of something new. My head knows it’s just another one of our temporary reprieves.

  “You wash, I’ll dry.”

  We take our time with the dishes, working in companionable silence. I love this quiet beside him. Moments like these, nestled in our fragile truce, are some of the best of my life.

  Eight years ago…

  Dad has been crazy busy this month trying to make sure his Silicon Valley clients don’t leave him for someone local. He has to put in twice the effort with his current clients and then try to build business locally too. He’s under a lot of stress. I don’t want to add to it, but I miss him. Beverly is sweet and she’s trying to make me feel at home, but she isn’t my dad.

  It was her idea to schedule this daddy-daughter date, penciling in some dedicated time for the two of us to go play catch and hit a few balls around. I thought it was lame at the time. I’ve never had to set an appointment to see my dad before. Sitting here on Tuesday night, mitt in hand, I’m stupid excited. I can’t wait to hang out with him.

  I’m also happy to be getting out of the house. I used to be able to walk to everything, but living in suburbia has definitely put a stop to that. I’d rather cut my arm off with a rusty saw than ask Elijah for a ride. Even if I had my driver’s license or the urge to walk a few miles, there isn’t much to do besides wander around the mall or go to the movies. Neither are much fun when you’re alone and broke.

  When we pull up to the baseball diamond I’m practically giddy. I do a cartwheel for the first time in years across the beautiful green outfield. I take a long, deep breath, feeling calm for the first time in weeks. Then, I see him walking toward us.

  At first I think it’s an illusion. A waking nightmare. Elijah is coming to ruin my day. Not Elijah. Eeyore. Even across the field I can see he’s moody and sulking. What. The. Hell. My head snaps to my dad, the unspoken betrayal carved into my every feature.

  “Look, kiddo. I’m so sorry,” he pleads. “I had a last-minute job come up. A major client. I really can’t let it pass me by. But you were so excited earlier. I didn’t have the heart to cancel on you. I thought maybe you and Elijah could play a little instead.”

  I try not to cry, telling myself it isn’t a big deal.

  “Yeah. I get it.” My voice is choked with emotion as Dad pulls me in for a hug.

  “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  “Mmmmhmmmm,” I reply, unable to find the words.

  I turn away when Elijah gets close, making sure my nemesis doesn’t see my weakness. At least I’m out of the house, even if it is to dance with the devil.

  “Thanks for coming by, Eli.” My dad holds his hand out and Elijah shakes it.

  “No problem, Rick. I can always use a little more practice,” Elijah replies happily. Such a kiss ass. You’d never guess from his tone this is just as much of a torture for him as it is for me. I’m sure the second my dad is gone, Elijah will be too. All he cares about is looking like the good stepson.

  “I think you two will have fun together. I know the adjustment has been a lot for both of you.” That’s an understatement. Dad isn’t under the same illusion as Beverly. He
knows Elijah and I hate each other, although he has no idea why.

  My dad looks back and forth between Elijah and me. He’s second-guessing his brilliant idea to leave us unsupervised. We’re standing opposite of each other, tense and staring, like boxers preparing to spar.

  “You know it means a lot to Beverly and me that you two are trying to make this work.” My dad puts a hand on each of our shoulders. Elijah gives him a charming smile. He’s beautifully devious.

  Not to be outdone with my own father, I sweetly add, “Of course, Dad. I’m sure Elijah and I are going to be best friends in no time.” I give them both a fake smile. Elijah loses his composure and has to cover his laugh with a cough. Score one to Harper.

  “That’s great, sweetie. I better get going.” Dad looks between us again, still hesitant. Elijah and I each give him a quick nod. We’re both committed to the pretense.

  “Good luck,” I call out to him as he heads off the field.

  “You too,” he calls back with a half-smile.

  I watch as he drives off, taking my joy with him. I finally turn back to Elijah, who has dropped his gear bag and pulled out his mitt and a ball.

  “Figured we’d just toss the ball around for a bit to get warmed up.”

  “You can drop the act. He’s gone.” I cross my arms and scowl at Elijah.

  “What act?” he asks, his face stoic. He could win an Oscar for his portrayal of guy-who-actually-gives-a-shit.

  “The perfect stepson act. We both know you want to be here about as much as you want to get a root canal.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “You tell me, Short Stack. You seem to know everything about me.”

  “Ugh! Don’t call me that.”

  The ends of his beautiful mouth curl up in the hint of a smirk. Why am I staring at his lips?

  “We’re here. Do you want to play or not?” Elijah holds his hands out, one gloved, one not, as if he’s offering two options. Stay or go. Play or fight. Love or hate. “Truce?”

  I eye him curiously, trying to figure out his angle. This has to be some kind of trick. He’s trying to bait me into saying I want to play so he can say he’s too busy or too popular or too good for me.

  “What’s in it for you?” I demand.

  Elijah drops his hands and lets out a deep sigh.

  “Like I told Rick, practice. It’s just a game, Harper.”

  It’s the first time he’s used my name. I love the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. His eyes ensnare mine and I feel the pull. The urge to be closer to him, to touch him, churns deep in my stomach. My heart beats faster. My breath comes quicker. He’s four feet away, not even in arm’s reach, and I feel overwhelmed. Smothered.

  “Fine. Truce. Let’s play.” I turn away, running from him. From the pull.

  We play catch in silence for about twenty minutes. It’s bizarre. He’s like a different person. He’s not Eeyore. Or Famine. He’s just Elijah. He laughs and teases me about keeping him on his toes when a throw gets away from me.

  “Pop flies?” he asks just as my arm starts to get tired.

  I nod and he grabs an aluminum bat out of his bag.

  “Catch or hit?” he asks. I bite my lip, wondering if this is a test. His soft smile makes me drop my guard.

  “Catch,” I answer and head out to second base. He hits pop fly after pop fly and the afternoon ticks by. We swap places, me hitting, him catching. It’s easy. Natural. Hell, it’s even fun. We keep playing until the sun starts fading. Even then, I don’t want to go home. I don’t want the day to end. It’s been one of the best days I’ve had since I moved here. And it was with Elijah.

  We pile the gear into his car and set off back home.

  “Can you take Maple Street?” I risk asking.

  “Why? It’s longer.”

  I shrug and stare out the window. “I think it’s pretty.”

  Maple Street, so named for the giant maple trees that line both sides, is my favorite place in Weaverton. In the dusk light, the deep red and orange leaves blend into the sunset and coat the car in a warm glow. It’s like stepping into a dream. A painting come to life. Elijah doesn’t say a word as he makes the right onto Maple and slows down to a crawl.

  A few miles later he pulls into our driveway and turns off the engine. Neither of us moves to get out. As soon as we do, the truce is over. We’re not Elijah and Harper anymore. We’re Eeyore and Short Stack. I hate hating him.

  “Today was…” I turn to look at him, expecting to see a smug jerk. I don’t. He looks sad. “Fun.”

  He clasps his hand over his heart. “Did you, Harper Delaney, just admit to having fun with me?” He gasps. I can’t help myself. I smile at him.

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m sure it was a fluke.”

  “Undoubtedly. I’m notoriously unfun. Ask anyone.”

  A scoff is my only response.

  “Well, next time you’re in the mood for a fluke, let me know.”

  His deep green eyes catch mine, tugging at my heart. He must see everything. How I really feel about him. I grab wildly for the door handle, jump out, and bolt up the driveway without saying another word.

  Now…

  Cardiopulmonary resuscitation, or CPR, is an emergency procedure performed on an individual who is unresponsive and not breathing. It involves both chest compressions—that's the cardio—and artificial breath—that's the pulmonary. See, I'm good. I don't need to waste my Saturday in a stuffy public recs building that smells like old pool toys.

  I’m sitting with a bunch of teenagers looking to get their lifeguard qualifications and Boy Scouts trying to earn merit badges. And Athena. Lest I forget Athena. Since we aren’t at school she’s in her more “casual” attire, booty shorts and a low cut tank top. She looks like she just came from the beach, which would be impressive considering the nearest beach is over an hour away. The Boy Scouts are struggling to covertly rearrange their khaki shorts.

  “Such a bummer we have to waste a Saturday in school,” she huffs as she plops down in the ancient metal folding chair beside me. Her shorts ride up high on her thighs. Classy girl.

  “Yep,” I reply, hoping my curt answer will dissuade her from continuing to talk to me. It doesn’t.

  “I was out until three last night.” She giggles. “I almost didn’t make it. I might still be a little drunk.” She holds out her thumb and index finger, pinching them close together and peaking at me through the gap with the only eye she has open.

  Great. Is it too late for me to go sit with the Boy Scouts?

  “Morning, everyone. Sorry I’m late. We had a little mix-up with the regular instructor,” a man’s voice calls from the back of the room.

  A jolt shoots up my body and I jump out of my chair like it’s electrified. I turn toward the too familiar voice, my eyes confirming what my ears have already told me. Elijah’s eyes catch mine and he doesn’t seem surprised to see me. In fact, quite the opposite. He’s trying to rein in a wicked grin. Damn him. I cross my arms and scowl, my body’s programmed response to Elijah Monroe’s presence.

  He’s dressed from head to toe in dark blue, just like when he came to my school. Cargo pants and a cotton T-shirt never looked so good. I’m not the only one who notices.

  “Yummy,” Athena growls, still in her seat next to me.

  The whole room has turned to look at the two of us facing off. I’m a tower of defiant fury. Elijah clasps his hands in front of him and waits. I don’t back down. I stare at him, silently accusing him of interfering in my life. First he shows up at my school, now he shows up at my class. He’s messing with my livelihood and that’s not fair.

  “If you’ll all take your seats, please,” he says to the room, but I’m the only one standing.

  I take a deep breath and blow it out through my nose quickly like a bull about to charge. I drag my chair along the floor to make as much noise as I can before sitting down again.

  “That’s your friend, right? Fr
om before, at the school?” Athena leans in to ask.

  “He’s not my friend.” I stare straight ahead, glaring at Elijah and willing him to spontaneously combust.

  “Oh. So, he’s like...available?”

  “Yours for the taking.” I manage to keep a straight face when I add, “Make sure you talk to him about model trains. He is crazy into all that stuff. Has a conductor’s outfit and everything.”

  “Maybe today won’t be such a waste after all.” Athena perks up. Elijah is now the subject of her undivided attention. “Toot. Toot.”

  I fake a coughing fit to hide the laugh that slips out. Athena gives me a hard slap on the back and offers me her water.

  “Let’s start with some quick introductions. Tell me your first name, why you’re here, and what you hope to get out of this class.” Elijah leans against the table in front of us, looking cool as can be.

  We go around the room, everyone giving similarly boring answers.

  “I’m Tommy. I need this class to finish my emergency preparedness badge.”

  “I’m Jonathan. I’m a lifeguard at the rec center. We have to take CPR every summer in case, you know, someone drowns.”

  “I’m Athena. I’m a teacher’s aide at Weaverton Elementary this summer, so I’m here to learn CPR to keep the kiddos safe. Plus, I’m hoping maybe I’ll make some new special friends too.” She gives Elijah a little wave, wiggling the tips of her fingers as she bats her eyes. He ignores her to the best of his ability.

  “And finally…” Elijah turns to me with a smile. “Who do we have here?”

  “Harper. Teaching at Weaverton Elementary for the summer. Just here for the certificate.”

  “No interest in special friends?” He looks at me like there’s no one else in the room. My heartbeat kicks up a notch.

  “None.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Elijah takes the class through a handful of slides about how to check if someone is breathing, how many chest compressions you do compared to how many breaths, and all that sort of stuff. He’s remarkably professional. As much as it pains me to say it, he’d make a good teacher.

  “Now for the practical demonstration. I need a volunteer.” Half the hands in the class shoot up, including Athena’s. “How about you, Harper?”