“So why didn’t you just let me take the van back and continue the hunt?” I meant it to sound funny, but it came out a little judgmental, even to my own ears.
“Because it didn’t take me five minutes of being in that house to realize I wasn’t in the mood tonight. Sometimes, when you realize you’re just going through the motions, it’s better for everyone to just go home and sleep. Or binge watch something worthwhile.”
My mouth twisted into a mocking grin. “What exactly do you consider worthwhile binge watching? Are we talking reality TV, or really quality shit?”
“Please.” She cast me a glance of incredulity. “I hate reality TV. I’m actually between shows right now. The other night, I finished watching the latest season of Jessica Jones, and now I’m in a post-binge slump.”
“Hmmm.” I tapped one finger on my knee, a little nervous about what I was about to admit. “Uh, how do you feel about older shows?”
Zelda shifted in her seat. “How old do you mean? Like black and white series from the fifties? Or something that ended five years ago?”
“Old school medical dramas.” I shrugged. “I kind of got hooked on them when I was in the hospital for . . .” I pointed at my legs. “This.”
“Seriously?” I noticed her eyes didn’t follow the direction I’d indicated. “I’d think the last thing you’d want to watch in the hospital were shows about sick people.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m a little masochist that way. I had this roommate—he’d been in for about a week before me, and then we were together in the same room for over a month before he was discharged—and we’d watch the episodes and lay bets on which patients would make it and which wouldn’t. It was kind of macabre, I guess, but when you’re flat on your broken back, you learn to make your own fun.”
“I guess.” She sounded dubious, and I didn’t blame her a bit. I’d learned early on that not everybody could understand the rarified world of spinal cord injuries. Until you’d walked that walk—or more accurately, not walked it—you couldn’t comprehend the way losing that ability changed everything. “So tell me what you’ve watched.”
“Oh, ER and Chicago Hope and—” I lowered my voice. “If you repeat this to anyone, I’ll swear you’re a liar . . . but even Grey’s Anatomy.”
“That’s blackmail fodder right there.” Zelda laughed.
“It is,” I agreed. “But I promise, I’m not suggesting that we watch that one. It’s probably too much of a chick show for you. My buddy from the hospital—he lives outside Philly—he sent me the first three seasons of St. Elsewhere this week. He says it’s quirky and off-beat—and it’s where Denzel and Howie Mandel got their start, I guess.”
“I’ve heard of it. I think I even caught an episode once, late at night.” Zelda seemed to be weighing her options before she gave a little sigh and pulled the car forward to find a spot. “Okay. I’ll give it a try. One episode, though, and then I’m out of here.”
Chapter Five
Zelda
“This is just . . . bizarre.” From his seat on the bed, leaning against the pillows, Eli shifted a little to get a better view of my face. “Right?”
“Bizarre, yeah . . . but good.” I was laying stomach down, my legs bent and waving idly, with my chin resting in my hands. Speaking of bizarre . . . I was pretty sure I’d fallen into the bizzaro realm somehow. If anyone had told me I’d be lying on Eli Tucker’s bed, watching some old medical drama, talking with him like we were best buds, I’d have died laughing. This night had not gone at all the way I’d expected, but oddly, I was okay with that.
Clearing my throat, I added, “The writing is good. The thing is, I can’t tell what part of the weirdness is the fact that it was made in the eighties and what part is supposed to be a little strange, you know?”
“Yeah.” He fiddled with the remote for a minute. “I’m actually relieved that you like the show, too. Letting you in on my secret makes me feel like I was one of the geeks I used to laugh at back in high school. You know? It’s one thing to be addicted to cool, cutting-edge TV shows, but being hooked on some old series from before people even had cell phones isn’t exactly going to make me a popular dude.” Eli lifted one shoulder. “Not that I care about shit like that anymore, but maybe there are a few attitudes that linger.”
I chuckled. “Sure. Whatever you say.” I wasn’t going to let on that I knew just how much of a popular dude he used to be. A change of topic was in order. “I still can’t believe that guy’s wife died in the first episode.”
“Right?” Eli tossed up his hands. “I was shocked.”
“But on the other hand . . . it’s realistic. People die all the time.” I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. “Maybe it would’ve been weirder if she’d lived.”
Eli frowned at me. “Have you known a lot of people who have died?”
“Ah . . .” I shook my head, feeling my hair rub against his bedspread. “No one close to me. But I live with my grandparents—or rather, I did—and so I got used to their friends dying. Once you reach a certain age, I think it’s just one of those things.”
“Maybe.” Eli’s forehead drew together, his eyes clouding, and I wondered with a tinge of panic if he could be recalling any part of our conversation from years ago, when I’d told him about growing up on the farm with my grandparents. After a second, he gave his head a small shake. “Why did you live with your grandparents? Are your parents . . .?” His voice trailed off, leaving space for me to answer.
“Dead?” I huffed out a humorless laugh. “No. I mean, my mother isn’t. I have no idea if my father is or not. I don’t know who he is.”
Eli’s face settled into a careful expression. “Oh. Ah.”
“Yeah, you think you get it now, don’t you?” I eased into a sitting position and faced him. “My mom was a big old ‘ho, and she passed it onto me, right? That’s the rationale for how Zelda lives her life. That’s why Zelda fucks any guy who asks her.”
“That’s not at all what I was thinking.” Eli scowled at me. “Stop putting words into my mouth.”
My irritation drained as quickly as it had risen. “You’re right. Sorry. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I assume people see my mother in me.” Folding my legs, I hugged them to my chest. “My mother was fairly promiscuous, but not the way you think.”
“I don’t think anything. I’m just listening. Not judging.” His tone was mild. “You don’t know what I was like before I was injured, other than what I hinted about tonight, but trust me, I don’t have any grounds for judgement.”
I bit my lip, thinking that if ever I’d had an opening to remind Eli who I was and when we’d first met, this was it. But I wasn’t going to do it. For some reason I didn’t want to examine too closely, I was enjoying tonight. I liked sitting here with a guy who wasn’t trying to get into my pants, watching television and just talking. If I told him the truth now, all of this would end.
Wasn’t I entitled to just one night where I could act like a regular girl and have some innocent fun?
“Okay,” I said finally. “I believe you—no judgement. But I haven’t told anyone else about my family. I mean, Quinn knows I live with my grandparents and that my mother is, ah, less than reliable and my father isn’t in the picture, but she doesn’t know the whole story.”
“I won’t say a word. I promise.” Eli leaned forward as though he was going to touch my hand, but maybe thinking better of it, he sat back. “Like you said in the car, it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t know really well.”
“I guess.” I traced a triangular pattern on the comforter with the tip of one finger. “My grandmother was raised a Mennonite. I don’t know how much you know about the Amish and the Mennonites.”
He shrugged. “Amish wear bonnets and hats and drive buggies. And they make furniture, right?”
I laughed. “That’s a highly simplistic view of the community, but yeah, you’re covering the perspective that most of the world has. Mennonites have the same
religious roots, but they are—or can be—different. My grandmother’s family was Old Order Mennonite. She grew up with the horse and buggy, plain dresses and separate schools. She probably would still be living that life, but she met my grandfather one day while she was working the family’s farm stand and he stopped to buy a watermelon.”
Eli grinned. “Love at first sight? Over watermelon?”
“Pretty much,” I nodded. “Fifty-eight years later, and they’re still deeply in love, so I guess that must’ve been some melon.”
“That’s a long time to be married. Cool.” Eli shifted, adjusting a pillow at his back.
“It is. They got married, and Grammy wasn’t exactly shunned the way you hear about in books or movies, but since Gramps wasn’t a Mennonite—he was agnostic—being with Grammy’s family was less than comfortable. But they bought a farm in the area anyway, and they settled down to have seven kids.”
“Holy fuck. That’s a lot of children.” Eli gave a silent whistle.
“It is. My mother was the seventh. I guess they knew early on, though, that she wasn’t quite . . . right. She didn’t behave like the other kids. She was impulsive and wild and disobedient. She had problems in school. Grammy and Gramps tried to get her help over and over, but my mother was unpredictable. And uncontrollable. She was diagnostic with schizophrenia when she was fourteen. They tried therapy, in-patient treatment, medicine, prayer, you name it. Nothing seemed to work. And when she was fifteen, she ran away from home.”
“God.” Eli winced. “Your grandparents must’ve been so worried.”
“They were. And more than that . . . my grandmother began to wonder if my mother’s illness was Grammy’s punishment for marrying outside the faith.”
“That’s crazy. She doesn’t still believe that, does she?” Eli watched me closely.
“No, she talked to several ministers and prayed a lot about it, and ultimately, she was smart enough to realize that things don’t work that way. But she was still struggling with the idea when my mom showed up back at the farm, nearly a year after she’d run away. She was malnourished, sick, half out of her mind—and eight months pregnant.” I hooked a finger at my chest. “With me.”
“Oh, my God.” This time, Eli did reach out to touch my knee. “Zelda. That’s—Jesus. What did your grandparents do?”
I stretched out my legs, staring at my toes. “I think at that point they were so relieved that she was alive—they’d begun to resign themselves to never knowing what had happened to her—that the pregnancy was kind of an also-ran. They decided they’d raise her child as their own, and my aunts and uncles rallied around that idea.” I tilted my head, smiling. “I might’ve had a crazy mother, but I never lacked for attention and love. And for some reason—maybe it was age or hormones or just the progression of the disease—my mother settled down a little after I was born.” I shook my head. “Don’t get me wrong. She was never a real mother to me. I call her Lottie, just like her sisters and brothers do. Most of the time, she thinks I’m just another sibling. Every now and then she seems to remember I’m not—but she doesn’t usually understand that I’m the baby she had. She’ll still talk about baby Zelly sometimes. She just doesn’t get that I’m that baby.”
“Baby Zelly, huh?” Eli smiled, his eyes resting on me. “That doesn’t jive with the Zelda Porter I know. Or the Zelda Porter I’ve heard about all year long, anyway, if we’re going back to your premise that you and I don’t really know each other.”
Some of the quiet closeness I’d felt with Eli faded at his words. I pulled my legs back toward me. “Trust me. What you’ve heard is the real me. Zelly is just who I let my family see when I’m at home in Lancaster. That’s the only place she exists.”
“Hey.” Eli reached for me, circling his fingers around my ankle. “I didn’t mean anything. I was just teasing. I’m really . . .” He hesitated. “I’m very honored that you shared that with me. And I promise, this stays between us. I won’t say a word.”
I opened my mouth to say something snarky and stinging, but what came out was softer. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
The air between us buzzed with a tension both of us felt but neither of us was willing to define.
Eli released my ankle and sat back again. “If we’re keeping secrets for each other, I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t tell Quinn and Gia about finding me on Greek Row tonight. I don’t feel like explaining to everyone why I was there, what happened and why I called a girl I didn’t even know a slut.”
“Yeah.” Shooting him a mock glare, I wagged my head sadly. “That’s not cool at all. Throwing around the S word is kind of a dick move. I assumed you knew her.”
He glanced away from me, looking uncomfortable. “She was familiar, so I assume she went to high school with me. And she knew who I was. Or more accurately, she was nice enough to point out who I used to be. That was what got to me. And it’s fucking stupid to let something like that get under my skin, because the chick wasn’t wrong. I used to be Eli Tucker, football player. Now I’m just Eli Tucker, pathetic recluse.”
I blew out a long breath, rolling my eyes. “Oh, please. Stop sounding sorry for yourself. If you didn’t have a social life this year, it isn’t for any reason other than you didn’t want one. From what you’ve said to me tonight, it sounds like you enjoyed punishing yourself.” I leaned back, resting on one arm. “You get a pass for this year because I’m sure living at college was an adjustment. But if you choose to do that again next year, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. You can be miserable, but it’s all on you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Eli pointed to his legs. “You really think people want to spend time with a guy who’s got wheels instead of legs?”
One side of my mouth curved into a half-smile. “I can’t think of anyone I know who wouldn’t be friends with someone just because he’s in a wheelchair. Now, if he’s an asshole, that’s a whole different ball of wax. The moral of the story is, don’t be an asshole.”
“Thanks for your empathy.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Empathy is one thing. Enabling is another. You have a group of friends already, Eli. You have Nate, who’s both loyal and understanding. You have Quinn, who is probably one of the best people in the entire world. And you even have Gia, who’s fucked up but would still take a bullet for a friend.”
“Yeah.” One of his fingers tapped restlessly against his bulging bicep. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I knew what he was getting at, and I was buying time to figure out how to answer.
“Aren’t you in the friend category now? We exchanged secrets. You can’t pull this we don’t really know each other bullshit anymore.”
I ran my tongue over suddenly dry lips. “I don’t want to sound like a bitch, but I don’t do friendship with guys except under very specific circumstances. Like with Nate. Otherwise, men are for fucking, not for friends.”
“Why the hell is that?” Eli was more bent out of shape over this than I’d expected. His eyebrows had drawn together, and his mouth was tight.
“Because except under very specific circumstances, friendship between opposite sexes usually leads to one or the other wanting more. That might work out if both are on the same page, but even if they are, it ruins the friendship. The sex does, I mean.”
Eli cocked an eyebrow at me. “That’s a huge generalization.”
Ignoring his interruption, I went on. “But more often, only one person wants more. The other is fine with being friends, but once it’s obvious that friendship isn’t enough for both, it’s impossible to hold onto that friendship. Even if they pretend they’re going to stay friends, they both know it’s not going to happen.”
“I think that’s a fucked-up way to look at things, Zelda.”
I bent forward and patted his arm. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
He caught my fingers in his hand, holding me captive as he stared into my eyes. “What about friends with benefits? Does that ever work
?”
I tried to tug my hand away as I considered his question, but he had me in an iron grip. “Maybe. I’m friendly with most of the guys I’ve fucked, even if we don’t have repeat performances. But I’m not sure that’s what you’re talking about.”
“It isn’t.” He was staring into my face, and once again, I caught that glimpse of confused recognition, the same one he’d worn when we’d first met at Birch. After a charged moment, he let me go. “But what the hell do I know? It’s not as though any girls are breaking down the door here to give me benefits, let alone to be my friend at the same time.”
I nodded slowly. “You haven’t dated at all since you’ve been at Birch, have you?”
Eli snorted. “Dude, I haven’t dated at all since I was hurt. And if you’re stretching dating to mean sex, no, I haven’t done that either. I’ve been a fucking monk since my back snapped.”
My lips twitched. “Or a non-fucking monk, which is redundant, because monks are supposed to be celibate.”
Eli flipped me off. “Whatever. You know what I mean. I think most girls either think I’m no longer, ah, able to perform—which, just for your information, I totally am able—or they think if I’m in a wheelchair, there must be something else wrong with me. Something mental. Anyway, I don’t know why, but it’s true. I’m a born-again virgin since I’ve been hurt.”
I almost choked at that. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”
He flickered me a sideways glance. “Sympathy, yes. Pity, no.”
“How about an alternate theory?” I swung my legs around to sit on my knees, staring down at him. “What if your lack of sexual partners has less to do with the wheelchair and more to do with you being a surly jackass all year? Maybe it’s because girls are afraid you’ll snarl at them if they make a move. Or maybe they get a glimpse of that stay-away expression you wear all the time.”
Next Man Up (Making the Score Football Romance Book 2) Page 8