by Noir, Roxie
So did the maid of honor.
God, I hate my stupid brain sometimes. Can’t I just ogle a man in peace?
Eli turns away from me slightly, grabbing his shirt from the counter, his back toward me.
I notice something else: Eli has a tattoo now.
There’s only one that I can see, but it’s big. It stretches the width of his upper back, lines and circles connected across muscle and bone and sinew. It’s a good, well-done tattoo. A tattoo that clearly took time and effort and thought, a tattoo that was carefully and lovingly planned.
All at once, the enormity of the thing hits me.
Eli’s changed. He’s different. He left this place and then came back, and in the interim he was a chef in Bangkok and a bartender in North Dakota and God only knows what else, and he’s not the same any more.
The evidence is right there, in front of my eyes. Eli’s inked his change on his skin, stark permanent lines reminding me with every inch that this Eli is a different Eli than the teenager I used to know.
A new Eli, the same in some ways but reinvented in others.
Someone I don’t know. No matter how much I think I do, I don’t.
His new shirt slides over his torso, and I tear my gaze away, pretending to shake out the shirt he tossed me.
Did I change?
The thought makes my breath stick in my throat, and I stare at the shirt, unseeing.
I didn’t go anywhere. I haven’t done anything great or interesting. I haven’t gotten any tattoos.
I don’t even have my ears pierced.
I feel small, immaterial. I feel rooted like a tree, stuck in the ground, doomed to stay in the same spot from sunrise to sunset every day until I withered and died. Here’s Eli, tattooed and worldly, hot and knowledgeable about moose, and I still live in the same trailer where I lived in high school. It’s been ten years and I’ve barely left the state in all that time.
I think about the elevator again, even though I’d really rather not. Eli: tall, handsome, smirking. The maid of honor: arms wrapped around him, possessive. Like they were already lovers.
She probably went to college somewhere far away. I bet she studied abroad. She probably goes on international vacations, can speak a little French, has opinions about which part of the Mediterranean is the best for yachting.
Stop it, I tell myself for the one-millionth time.
“You gonna put that on?” Eli asks, glancing over his shoulder.
My face flushes. I focus on the t-shirt in my hands, giving it another good shake.
“I keep a few extras in my locker in case I make a mess,” he says, pull his new shirt down to his hips.
I HIKED THE CANYON, the shirt in my hands brags. GRAND CANYON NATIONAL PARK.
“Did you?” I ask, even though I think I already know the answer.
“I did,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair, then making a face. “Ugh,” he says, looking at his hand.
I hold up the shirt.
“Thanks,” I say, and head around a corner, into a pantry where I shut the door. There’s absolutely no way I’m taking my shirt off around Eli, not when he’s hot and tattooed and has been to Thailand and hiked the Grand Canyon.
Not when I’m just me.
His shirt smells nice. Of course it does. I ball mine up and stand there for a moment, squeezing it with my tired hands, before finally opening the door to the pantry and heading back into the kitchen.
Eli pulls a plate out of a fridge, a slab of wedding cake on it. It’s an edge piece, thickly covered in frosting. I raise an eyebrow, hoping that no one noticed him taking it.
“Come on, I earned it,” he says, looking at my face. “Besides, it’s not for me.”
“Who’s it for?”
“Daniel’s daughter.”
I eye the cake as we walk through the kitchen. The wedding is officially over and the party has moved back to the lodge, but the cleanup crew is still working, moving tables and chairs, packing the dishwasher, loading dirty linens into massive bags.
“She’s gonna be bouncing off the walls six ways from Sunday,” I say.
Eli grins and opens the kitchen door, letting me go through first.
“It’s a bribe,” he admits. “If I give her cake, she doesn’t tell Daniel that I called another driver a fucking shithead.”
I laugh.
“That sounds like Rusty,” I admit.
“She’s gonna get me in bad trouble one of these days,” Eli muses. “You going home?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve earned it,” I say as we walk down a hallway, past closed offices. “You?”
“Yup. Need a ride?”
“No, I actually drive myself to work most days,” I tease.
“Just making sure,” Eli teases back. “Let me walk you to your car.”
It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He opens the door to the outside and holds this one for me as well, the cool, wet southern night air flowing over my skin. It’s late, the sky inky black, the stars bright and the moon brighter.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I walk myself to my car all the time.”
“You’re covered in frosting and there are bears,” he says as we cross onto the asphalt of the parking lot, the air warmer as the pavement releases the last of its heat.
“The frosting is mostly gone, and they’re just black bears. If I were a dumpster, I’d be worried,” I counter.
“Raccoons, then.”
“I can handle a raccoon,” I point out, even though we’re already halfway to my car. A few spots away, Eli’s giant Bronco hulks.
“Can you?” he asks, casually carrying the cake, the shirts he’s taken off slung over his shoulder.
“Sure. They’re small. Terrier-sized or so.”
“They all have rabies. Every single one. Rabid as hell,” he says. “Besides, raccoons don’t give a shit that you’re bigger than them. They go for the eyes first.”
He holds out one hand like claws and pretends to snarl, the moonlight shadowing his handsome face, his hair falling perfectly over his forehead despite the frosting in it.
I laugh.
It’s the weirdest feeling.
I’m enjoying Eli’s company, maybe for the first time ever. Even though I like it, I’m suspicious. I know that next week, this spell will be broken, and we’ll be back at each other’s throats.
“Where are you getting your information?” I ask, digging my keys from my purse.
“Levi works for the Forest Service.”
“Levi’s a tree expert, not a raccoon expert.”
“You think he don’t know his varmints?” he says, exaggerating his accent.
I laugh as we reach my car, and I unlock the door, looking over at Eli as I open it.
“I think if Levi told you that raccoons go for the eyes, he probably had his own reasons for wanting you to think that,” I say. “You want a ride to your car so they don’t get yours, either?”
A smile flickers across his face, and he glances up at his Bronco, fifty feet away.
“I’ll take my chances,” he says, then taps the roof of my car. “See you Tuesday, Violet.”
He walks in front of my car, headlights briefly illuminating his form, and then he fades into the night. I wait until I see the lights of his Bronco flick on, feeling some responsibility to make that sure he doesn’t get attacked by raccoons, either.
Twenty minutes later, I pull up next to my trailer, the lamp in the living room blazing through my curtained windows. I keep it on a timer so strangers think someone is home, something I started after Mom died and I lived alone. I guess it works, because no one’s broken in yet.
A burst of laughter erupts from the trailer next door. I wonder how many cases of Bud Light the rednecks have gone through tonight. Apparently this weekend kicks off the summer party season for them as well.
Before I go in, I take one last look at the stars. They’re bright out here, and even though they’re so far away, somehow they feel warm, fri
endly.
Then, it hits me. Eli’s tattoo. It’s a constellation.
I stare upward, wondering which one. I didn’t recognize it then and I don’t now, trying to recreate its shape in the heavens. I wonder if it means something, whether recognizing it would give me some insight into Eli.
I wondered if the maid of honor saw it. I wonder whether she recognized it.
I wonder what pieces of Eli she has that I don’t.
I quit staring into space, open my door, and head inside to my lighted lamp and empty trailer. I strip as I head toward the bathroom and get into the shower before the water’s even fully hot, desperate to feel less sticky, to wash the day off of myself.
I could have kissed him again, I think. When he took his shirt off. No one else was there. I could have just walked over and kissed him and he’d have pushed me against the counter…
I sigh, roll over, and get my vibrator out of my night stand for at least the tenth time that week.
Chapter Fourteen
Eli
At seven the next morning, there’s a knock on my door.
I ignore it and shove a pillow over my head. I don’t do seven a.m., especially when my job means I usually don’t get to bed until one or two in the morning.
The knock sounds again, louder this time. I sigh, taking the pillow off my face and flopping one forearm across my eyes.
“No,” I shout.
There’s a pause, and then the door creaks open.
“Come on,” I say, fervently grateful that I’m wearing pajamas. It was the only rule my mother absolutely insisted on when I moved back in, and I’ve come to understand why.
I don’t open my eyes as small footsteps pad to the side of my bed.
Much too small to be Daniel or my mom. Rusty’s not the best with personal space. Like I said, thank God for pajamas.
“Did you get it?” Rusty asks, whispering so loudly they can probably hear her in the next county.
“This couldn’t wait an hour?” I say, my arm still over my face.
She’s quiet for a moment. I peek at her from under my arm, her serious blue eyes crawl over my face, studying me in that honest, open way that only kids can.
“Are you hungover?” Rusty finally asks.
That jolts me awake.
“No, no,” I say, sitting up right, swinging my legs off the bed. “I worked late, that’s all.”
She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with those wide, clear blue eyes.
“I promise,” I say, one hand on my chest. “Cross my heart.”
Rusty just nods, and something like anger closes a small fist, deep inside my chest.
I hate that that’s her first question. I hate that, at six years old, she even knows what a hangover is or what one looks like.
Daniel has sole legal and physical custody of Rusty. Legally, he never has to let his ex see Rusty again, but Daniel’s not a monster. He still wants Rusty to have her mom in her life, even if it’s not really clear that her mom wants the same thing.
She’ll go weeks, sometimes even months without contacting her own daughter. Daniel’s reported her missing at least twice. And then, after Rusty visits her, she comes home knowing what hangovers look like.
Sure, Daniel owns a brewery, but I’ve never seen him have more than one drink in a night.
“I had to hide it,” I explain, still trying to clear the final cobwebs of sleep from my brain. “It’s in the bottom of the fridge, behind that big Tupperware of macaroni salad that your grandma made.”
Rusty grins.
“Does it have a flower?”
“There weren’t any flowers,” I say.
Technically, it’s true: the flowers were gone by the time we actually served cake. I think most of them were in Violet’s hair.
God, it was disappointing when she went into the pantry to change shirts. Not unexpected, but disappointing. Turns out she’s pretty when she’s laughing, too.
“I got you a corner piece, though,” I say, as seriously as I can manage. “Is our deal still good?”
She nods.
I hold up one finger.
“One more thing,” I say.
Rusty frowns.
“You can’t eat it in front of your dad, because he’ll kill me,” I say. “We’ll sneak it out when the time is right, okay?”
Rusty nods, grinning and rocking from foot to foot.
“Okay,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement, then leaves my room.
I flop back into my bed.
* * *
“Listen, it was nothing,” I say, watching the saucepan like a hawk, keeping my voice low. “You’ve never made out with someone at a bar?”
“Oh, I have,” Daniel says, leaning over and looking into a pot. “That’s how I got Rusty, remember? Well, that was step one.”
Today’s Sunday, and that means that today is Sunday Dinner.
If we’re in town, we’re expected to be there. No excuse is good enough. Anyone we want to bring is welcome. Silas is there a lot. Charlotte, Daniel’s best friend, is usually around.
Since I’ve been back, I’ve taken over the cooking. Tonight I’m trying out a slightly sweet lemongrass catfish dish, and the sugar needs to be caramelized before I add it to the sauce.
“Then you know that sometimes it happens, and it’s no big deal, and there’s no need to talk about it because it was nothing,” I say, not moving my eyes for an instant.
The sugar is starting to turn very, very slight yellow.
“Yeah, it sure seems like suddenly getting physical with your childhood nemesis is nothing,” Daniel deadpans.
“We all make mistakes,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as I can.
Was it a mistake? Maybe. Would I do it again? In a second.
Did I come close last night?
Hell yes.
The sugar’s slightly darker.
“So this was a one-time thing and I don’t need to brace myself to hear even more about Violet?” he asks. “I just like to be prepared.”
I quickly glance up at my younger brother, who’s leaning against the kitchen counter and clearly doesn’t believe a word I’ve been saying.
“Nope,” I say.
“Well, if you’re wrong, I’m here for you,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “And I promise to only say I told you so a few dozen —”
“Here they are!” my mom says, bursting into the kitchen, holding her phone out in front of her like it’s divining rod. “Daniel, Eli, your brother’s on the phone!”
“Hi,” comes Caleb’s slightly staticky voice, over speakerphone.
“Hey,” Daniel and I say in unison as my mom hands her phone to Daniel.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Uh, I think this town is called Idyllwild,” he says. “I’m at a hostel for the night so I can take a shower and re-supply, so I figured I’d call and let you know I’m still alive.”
“How far have you gotten?”
“About a hundred and seventy-five miles,” he says.
Daniel whistles.
“You gonna finish this year?” he asks, and Caleb just laughs.
“Probably not,” he says. “The Pacific Crest Trail is longer and harder than the Appalachian Trail.”
“That’s what she said,” I mutter.
They both snort, and my mom rolls her eyes.
“Tell him about your job,” she says.
I’m still watching the sugar. It’s getting close.
“I got a new job,” I say.
“Doing what?”
“Cooking,” I tell him.
“He’s the executive chef at Bramblebush,” my mom says, smacking me lightly on the arm.
“He works with Violet Tulane,” Daniel says.
I shoot him a glare. He raises one eyebrow slightly, like he’s challenging me.
“You didn’t tell me that,” my mom says.
“Is that the girl you couldn’t stand in high school?” Caleb asks.
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“Yes,” Daniel and my mom chorus together.
“She’s very nice,” my mom says. “But she used to really get Eli’s goat.”
Daniel makes another face at me. I ignore it.
“Tell us about all your adventures on the trail,” my mom says.
* * *
That evening, after dinner, Daniel and I sit on a couch in the living room, watching Rusty.
She’s taken all the available cushions, piled them up on the floor, and is leaping onto them from the arm of the couch. I just watched Daniel try to corral her for about twenty minutes, but it was hopeless.
He gave up, exhausted.
Rusty stands on the arm of the couch, balancing carefully, her arms held out to the side. She’s tied a towel around her neck like a cape.
“Three, two, one…”
She bends her knees, crouching.
“GERONIMO!”
Rusty leaps onto the pile, already giggling.
Then she springs back up and climbs back onto the couch, ready to do it again.
“I think she’s possessed,” Daniel says to me. He’s sprawled across the other couch, the cushion behind him missing, probably in Rusty’s pile. “Is there a full moon or something?”
“That’s probably it,” I agree, keeping my voice totally neutral. “Kids just get crazy sometimes, I guess. So much energy.”
Rusty jumps onto the pile again.
Daniel sighs.
I say nothing.
Chapter Fifteen
Eli
It’s already four o’clock in the afternoon. At five o’clock sharp some pharmaceutical company’s retreat is having a happy hour and raw bar on the Presidential Patio.
The oysters were absolutely nowhere to be found.
I rub my temples, looking at the guy standing in front of me.
“What do you mean, you don’t think they’re down there?” I ask Zane, one of the college kids who currently has a summer job in my kitchen.
He frowns at me like it’s a trick question, real confusion crossing his face. I sigh inwardly, wondering why on earth Montgomery hired someone with the last name Payne to work a fast-paced job where he’d have to think on his feet sometimes.