“Harper! Please come in.” She hops up from her seat and wraps me up in a big hug. She smells like a grandmother, that familiar mix of Bengay and peppermint.
It’s not the most professional start to an interview, but I’ve known her for years. All the teachers here are like my extended family. They see me as Beverly’s daughter and in a way theirs too. Small towns are like that.
She’s wearing khaki pants and a plaid cardigan sweater over her faded polo even though it’s the middle of summer. She has about two dozen variations of those sweaters. They’re her trademark. My favorite one has hundreds of cats floating around on it like polka dots. The best part, the cats are all wearing bowties. Epic. She only wears it for special occasions like assembly days. Her hair is up in a messy bun, kept in place by a trusty number two pencil.
She pulls away, but holds my hands in hers. “How have you been, dear? I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to catch up with you since you’ve been back.”
“I’m great. Thank you. Did you have any questions about my application?” I try to remind this lovely woman that we are here for an official purpose.
She chuckles with a, “Oh no. You’re more than qualified. We’d love to have you here. You know that.” She lets go of my hands and gestures to the seat next to her desk. I pull out the creaky wooden chair that’s older than I am and sit down. Instead of heading back around her desk, she takes the other seat next to me for a chat. “The position is yours if you want it. But, from what I understand, you have your eyes set on other places.”
Word sure gets around. No reason to deny it now. “It’s true. I’m hoping to get back to San Francisco. I love the area. It’s home.” I regret my words instantly. I search Mrs. Davis’ face for disappointment or offense on behalf of her town, but there isn’t any. Instead, gives me a sly smile.
“Home?” she questions.
“Well, I grew up there. Until we moved here, it was home.”
She tilts her head and crinkles her nose. She studies me like I would one of my student’s papers, trying to decipher the crayon scribbles into real words.
By way of explanation, I add, “There’s always something to do. Somewhere new to explore.”
“I’m not a big city person. Guess I’ve always preferred community over excitement.” She perks up and claps her hands in front of her, “Have you heard the Art Council is putting on a film festival next month?” Enthusiasm dances in her old eyes.
I smile and nod. By Art Council, she means a group of Weaverton retirees with too much time on their hands whose cultural breadth doesn’t expand beyond those velvet wall posters. By film festival she means the library is going to play a selection of old black and white movies. The height of Weaverton culture, microwave popcorn and folding chairs.
“I wish we could get you to stay. This town could use more young people like you.” She taps me on the knee, giving a gentle squeeze before she stands up and adds, “But, if your heart is calling you to San Francisco, that’s where you should go.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, standing up, happy to end the world’s weirdest job interview.
“Promise you’ll keep in touch after this summer?” Mrs. Davis hums in my ear as she pulls me in for another hug. “You know we all adore you here.”
“I promise.”
I turn and head out of the office, trying to figure out what just happened. I got the job, if I want it. But what was all that about my heart calling me to San Francisco?
San Francisco is a place with opportunities and adventure. It’s the better job. The better city. It’s where I want to be. As for my heart, that has nothing to do with it. My heart has no business calling for anything. It’s a traitor that’s only ever wanted one thing.
Eight years ago…
My dad and Beverly are taking a mini-vacation this weekend. They’re still in the honeymoon phase. It’s the middle of the night and I’m home alone. Purely out of an overabundance of caution, I sit on the couch at two in the morning, clutching a baseball bat because I heard some rustling in the bushes out front about five hours ago. Every light in the house is on and I’ve got a flashlight within arm’s reach. It’s important to be prepared.
I know this is going to make me sound like a five-year-old, but I might be a little afraid of the dark. Not the darkness itself per se, more the axe murdering serial killers that lurk within it.
When I was about seven, my mom was going through an I-want-to-pretend-to-be-a-mother phase. My dad agreed to a sleepover at her new place in town. I was so excited I had my bag packed four days early. Mom picked me up three hours late, dropped me off at her nearly empty new apartment, and told me she had to run a quick errand. I didn’t realize there wasn’t any power in the house until the sun set an hour later.
I sat there in the dark for hours, frozen in fear listening to the strange voices and creaking noises filtering in through the thin walls. When Mom finally came home with boxes of Chinese food, she lit a few candles and laughed at me for sitting in the dark. I’ve hated being alone at night ever since.
I’ve been waiting for Elijah to come home so I could ask him to investigate. Horror movies have taught me he is less likely to be the target of a serial killer than the girl home alone on a Friday night. Plus, if he dies I’d be okay with that. Beverly would be upset for a bit, but in the long run I think we’d all be better off. Two birds, one stone.
The only problem is that Elijah hasn’t come home yet. Not sure what I expected. He’s a high school god, it’s a Friday night, and there are no parents to enforce a curfew. I don’t even want to think what—or who—he and his stupid horsemen are getting into.
I’m starting to nod off, my head bobbing, when I hear the front door open. I jump off the couch, adrenaline coursing through my body, sleep a distant memory. I swing the baseball bat toward the door, my heart pounding.
“What the fuck!” Elijah shouts, upset at almost being brained Walking Dead style in his own living room.
“You scared the shit out of me!” I shout back, zero apology in my voice.
“I live here.”
“So?” I still have the bat pointed at him, debating taking another swing.
“So you can put the damn bat down.”
I lower my weapon. We’re both breathing heavy, a little off-kilter.
His hand makes a circular gesture. “What’s with all the lights?”
“I heard a noise.”
“A noise?”
“A rustling noise. Outside.”
With a concerned frown he asks, “When?” His eyebrows pinch together in displeasure. He goes to the bay window and peeks out into the dark front yard.
“A few hours ago.”
“A few…” he lets out a puff of air, looks at me, and starts laughing. Hard. I can’t help but laugh with him. I am ridiculous.
“I might’ve gotten a little carried away,” I confess. “I’m not a huge fan of being home alone at night.”
“So I gathered.” He gives me an easy smile.
It’s the first time he’s ever smiled at me. He’s laughed at me plenty, but he’s never smiled at me. With me. I could almost forget that he hates me. And I hate him.
“Your swing could use some work,” he adds playfully.
Is he flirting with me? Not possible. He’s criticizing me, reminding me I can never do anything right.
“It was meant to crack a skull, not hit a curveball,” I quip.
“Oh, well. Perfect form then.” It really feels like he’s flirting with me. He crosses the room and stands directly in front of me. “Shall we?”
My head tilts to the side, confused.
“Investigate this rustling. I’m tired as shit and ready to get to bed,” he adds, turning back to the front door. I follow him, bat perched on my shoulder.
“You got me covered?” he turns to ask just before he steps out into the front yard.
Choking up on the bat, I answer, “I’ve got you.”
He does a full lap of th
e house, me quick on his heels. Unsurprisingly, we don’t find anything. No claw marks or blood trails. No evidence of a serial killer of any kind. I follow him back into the house and watch him lock the deadbolt. I stand behind him, becoming more and more aware of how childish I’m being. Still, I feel so much calmer having him here with me.
“Feel better?” he asks.
I give him a nod. I bite my lip to keep from asking him to do a lap of the house with me next.
“You want to search inside the house too, don’t you?”
I cringe at my own childishness, but nod again anyway.
“Come on then.” He grabs my hand and drags me around the house, room by room, conducting a thorough search.
He checks the garage, the hall closet, the refrigerator—to grab half a leftover sandwich—the shower, all the places where nightmares are born. As we finish searching each room, he turns out the light, the house getting darker as we continue.
My room is the last in the house to search. I stand in the doorway as he searches my closet.
“Oh God!” he shouts, horrified. “A Barry Bonds jersey?” He pulls one of my Giants shirts out of the closet with mock shock. I laugh.
“I got that pre-asterisk, for the record.”
“Noted.” He hangs the shirt back up and closes the closet door.
He turns and points to the bed. I shrug, feeling stupid for wanting him to check under it for monsters, but not enough to have him not check. He mimics choking up on the bat and swinging. I take my head-smashing stance and give him a nod. He smiles back and gives me a thumbs-up. It sets off a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. I like this version of him. He is sweet and patient. Playful.
He kneels next to the bed, makes the sign of the cross on his chest, takes a dramatic deep breath, and lifts up the pink lace bed skirt. My heart stops. He sits back up, lets out a relieved sigh, and wipes the imaginary sweat from his brow. He is adorable. I giggle and relax, letting the bat slide off my shoulder. He smiles. My heart flutters.
He waves me over to him, pulling the covers back as I approach. I hand him the bat and he lets out a deep chuckle. I climb into bed and pull the flower-covered comforter up to my neck.
He leans the bat against the soft pink wall, joking, “Really blends with the decor. Louisville slugger doesn’t come in pink?”
A groan is my only reply. I roll over to watch him, trying to really see him. I’ve seen Eeyore and Famine. I hate both of them and they hate me. But the guy standing in front of me is something else. He is just Elijah. The guy who played catch with me and drove me down Maple Street at sunset. This is the Elijah I can’t help but be in love with.
He clicks off my bedside lamp and my hand reaches out to hold his. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I just wanted to touch him. I’m thankful for the darkness now. That he can’t see the desire on my face.
He gives my hand a squeeze and stands there in the darkness, letting me hold him. We don’t say a word. I give the gentlest tug on his arm, pulling him down to the bed next to me. He sits down on the edge. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I don’t look at him. I’m focused on our intertwined fingers. I scoot back in bed. He kicks off his shoes and lies down on top of the covers.
We fall asleep next to each other, our clasped hands the only part of us touching. When I wake up in the morning Elijah is gone.
Now…
“What’s with the suitcases?” I ask Dad through a mouthful of cake. I must’ve gained five pounds in the two months since I’ve been back. Beverly knows how to bake. Bless that woman.
“We’re heading to the coast for the weekend. Didn’t I tell you?” Dad swipes some frosting off the back of my slice. I gasp in outrage and smack away his hand.
“Get your own.” I eye their bags by the door. A familiar sense of dread swims in my stomach.
“It’s just two nights,” Dad reassures me.
I put on a brave face and tease, “I thought you guys would never leave. It’s going to be awesome having the whole house to myself.”
“I baked a double batch of chocolate chip for you,” Beverly sings as she descends the stairs like a debutante on her way to the ball.
“Cake and cookies. Sounds like I’m set,” I chirp with fake enthusiasm.
I follow them out to the car, cake plate still in hand. I hover as Dad loads the suitcases in the trunk.
He wraps me in a tight hug and whispers, “We’re only a phone call away.”
You’d think it was my first time home alone. I’m twenty-four, not seven. I watch their car as they drive off, hoping the whole time to see smoke rising from the hood. Car trouble? Too bad. Trip canceled? So sad.
They turn the corner and are gone. I pivot and stare up at the giant, empty house. It’s my home, familiar and warm. Right now it feels like a death trap. I steel myself and march back up the front steps. It’s where the cake is after all.
I’m a few hours into my stream and binge, the single girl version of Netflix and chill, when I hear the front door creak open. I pop up off the couch and take a fighting stance. I’ve got my cell phone in one hand and my baseball bat in the other. Bring it on, serial killer, I’m ready.
“You look ridiculous,” Elijah calls from the entryway. “Guess I should be thankful you didn’t take a swing at me this time.”
“You scared the crap out of me. Again.” I throw the bat over my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? You don’t live here.”
He drops his duffle bag and stalks toward me. “I’m crashing for the weekend. Thought it’d be nice to give Marcus and Liam some space.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Beverly isn’t here.”
“I know.” He steps into the living room and squares himself with me. A standoff.
I stand a bit taller, twirling the bat on my shoulder. “My dad isn’t either.” I won’t back down. I hate him all the time, but I absolutely loathe him in this room. The scene of the crime. The great rejection of 2011.
“I know.”
“It’s just me.”
“I know.”
I tilt my head to the side and shrug my shoulders, asking, “Then, why the hell are you here?”
“I told you. Giving Marcus and Liam—”
“Some space. Yeah, that’s bullshit. Since when do you care? And besides, what about my privacy?”
In two long strides Elijah is across the room and stepping into my personal space. His chest is inches from mine. I get a hint of his familiar body wash. He smells like pine and temptation.
He leans down into me. His mouth is positioned just above mine as he murmurs, “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Elijah Monroe is going to kiss me in his mother’s living room. Where we met. Where I fell in love with him. Where I vowed to hate him forever. My heart tries to beat right out of my chest. I close my eyes and wait for the delicious feel of his lips on mine, a sensation I’ve been craving for half a lifetime.
I’m waiting for nothing.
Elijah tugs the bat off my shoulder but not out of my hands. Sliding up to the handle, his hand finds mine. Our fingers brush in the lightest of torturing touches. My eyes spring open to find him peering down at me. I lean in, falling into him. Falling for him.
“You aren’t a big fan of”—his eyes drop to my lips—“space.” His voice is almost a whisper. His breath is warm and minty. That intimate surge of electricity courses through me. I hate the way my body responds to him, even after all these years.
“That’s what you think?” I snap, louder than I need to be.
He’s close enough our chests brush together with every heavy breath.“That’s what I know.”
“Know?” I scoff, but don’t pull away. “Since when do you know anything about me?”
He smirks. His eyes find mine. They are filled with the familiar devious glint that shakes my resolve to hate him forever. Just a little. “Short Stack, I know everything about you.”
“Know thy enemy?”
“You’re not my ene
my, Harper.” He sighs, dropping the bat and stepping back. “And I wish you’d stop trying to make me yours.”
Like that, the moment is broken. He examines me for the millionth time, same as when we first met. I know I still don’t pass his test when he shakes his head and stalks over to the kitchen. I follow right behind, drawn to him against my will and my better judgment.
He shoves one of Beverly’s delicious cookies into his mouth and I screech, “Those are mine.”
“All two dozen?”
“Yes,” I declare without shame. Okay, maybe a twinge of shame.
Through a mouthful of my cookies, he retorts, “They aren’t even your favorites.” Crumbs tumble down to the front of his shirt and chocolate is smeared in the corner of his mouth. He looks like a little kid caught in the cookie jar. It shouldn’t be adorable, but on Elijah, of course it is.
I cross my arms and cock an eyebrow. “Oh? Then what is, Mr. Know-it-all?”
His eyes lock on mine. They shine with smugness. I keep my face stoic when he opens the fridge. I don’t react when he pulls out the cake. But when he forks a bite straight off the platter I lose it.
“Cut a slice like a normal human being, you Neanderthal.”
“Why bother? I’m going to eat the whole thing. Might as well conserve the dishes.”
I eye my beloved cake, every forkful a stab to my heart. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” he challenges as he shoves another massive bite in his sexy mouth. I lick my lips. Elijah Monroe and devil’s food cake, the two most delicious things in the world combined to bring me to my knees.
“Fine. It’s my favorite. Now, please put the fork down and step away.”
His broad, beautiful smile makes my heart stop and my stomach flip. “Sure thing, Short Stack.”
“You don’t have to be so smug about it. I know it’s your favorite too. You’re not the only one who knows things.”
Truce?: Hating Elijah Monroe Page 9