I nearly forgot how hot Eli being ultra-competent is, a misstep on my part because he’s the most competent person I know.
He’s already gathered tools and turned off the water supply, and is now crouched in front of the sink, eyeing the pipes underneath.
“It probably got stuck in the P trap. I have to loosen these connectors and remove the pipe.” He looks over his shoulder at me, a solid six feet away. I don’t trust myself to be closer. “Do you mind shining a light in here so I can see?”
There goes that idea. “No problem.”
I reach for my phone, stopping when I see the chaos-causing paper ring on the counter. Shit. Did Eli see it?
Picking up my phone with one hand, I flick the ring with the other, trying to scoot it behind Grace’s ring box.
Instead, it ricochets against the backsplash, careening off the counter like Thelma and Louise’s car. It swan dives onto Eli’s naked back, then arcs away, landing on the floor next to his knee.
Eli looks down at it. I look down at it. Then we look at each other and the thirteen years of memories that silly little paper ring holds settle between us.
“Cole threw it at me yesterday,” I explain, like he wasn’t there to see it.
Like that’s an excuse for why I kept it afterward. “He’s an asshole.” “Yeah, well,” he says, “we all have our strengths.”
Eli grins when I laugh, a full one that shoots heat through me, but it fades as he looks back at the ring.
He could ask questions. This version of Eli might, a realization that makes my heart skip. But instead he picks it up, pinching it between his fingers. He sits back on his haunches, not quite on his knees, but the effect makes my stomach freefall anyway. At one point, I wished for this.
His gaze flicks up to me. “I think this is my best work yet.”
My breath leaves in a soft huff. “Give your medium some credit. That paper is much more luxurious than a straw wrapper.”
“Not as good as a gum wrapper, though,” he muses. “Less flexibility.” “You’ve always been passionate about your craft.”
“Sure have,” he murmurs. He looks at it for a beat longer before placing it on the counter. Then he clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, turning to the sink. “Did you have the water running when the ring fell?”
“Oh,” I stutter, disoriented by the shift in conversation. “Um, for a minute. That’s how I got wet.”
His eyes dart to my drying shirt. “Okay. It still should’ve stopped in the P trap.”
I kneel at his hip, close enough to feel the heat from his skin. With my flashlight shining, he takes the tool and starts loosening the connector. I try to keep my attention on his work, but soon enough I’m following the trail of undulating muscles in his forearms up to the bunch and release of his biceps, the shift of his shoulders and the flex of his back.
Then, torturously, he lets out a soft grunt of exertion. My body recognizes it immediately as the sound he’d make when he’d watch me take him inside, and every erogenous zone I have lights up like a pinball machine.
I’m not going to survive this.
“I forgot how good you are at fixing random things.” My voice is loud and wild in the quiet of the room, and Eli looks over, his eyebrows jumping. “Guess I absorbed all that handiwork my dad did after he got laid off,”
he says, setting aside the wrench so he can shimmy the pipe. It wiggles, but doesn’t separate, and he picks up the wrench again. “I liked going on jobs with him sometimes to keep him company.”
An old ache is threaded through his voice. I know how it hurt him to watch his parents’ previously solid marriage fall apart, how out of control it made eldest, responsible Eli feel to see everyone in his family suffer, himself included. His adult belief system grew from that disaster: financial stability that he controlled meant he’d never have to feel that way again.
No matter what other feelings I had, I never judged him for falling victim to the wounds of his adolescence. God knows I did the same thing. But while he was trying to fix what was broken in his past, he was breaking something that was right in front of him.
That thought is a splash of cold water. An addition to the list of reasons I need to keep my distance.
It’s just hard when he keeps getting closer. Like now, as his shoulder presses into mine.
I scooch over. “How’s your dad doing?”
“He’s great,” he says, pride rumbling through his voice. “He just bought a house in Pasadena, and he’s got a carpentry business going.”
I know. I follow him on Instagram, press a little heart onto every picture he posts of his work—beautiful furniture made of reclaimed wood that gets hundreds of likes and dozens of comments.
A few months ago, Marcus DMed me, said he appreciated every post I liked, and that he hoped I was doing well. He signed off with, miss you, kiddo.
I cried for three days, read it obsessively until I forced myself to delete
it.
“And your mom and sisters are good?” I ask. Nina and Zoe are as
ghostlike on social media as Eli, so they don’t have accounts I can stealthily stalk, but I know via his dad’s account that they’re about to start their junior and senior years of college, respectively. Eli’s mom texts me happy birthday every year, though I doubt he knows it.
I miss them all, but Kelly especially; I used to dream about calling her Mom someday. Now I keep my distance, but I’ve never been able to let go completely.
“Yep, they’re all good. Mom’s in Denver,” Eli says, breaking that thought apart. “Her partner proposed a few months ago.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah. It was a long time coming. Everything falling into place like that, I mean.” He pauses, darting a quick glance at me before returning to loosening the pipe. “For a long time I thought if my family didn’t look like
it did before all our shit went down, then how could we ever be happy like that again?” His attention shifts back to me, and this time his gaze is a lingering trace. “They really are, though. It’s different, but that’s okay.”
I don’t miss that he’s talking about them, not himself, and I have the urge to ask him if he’s happy. But it’s not my place to ask. Softly, I say, “Well, that makes me happy, too.”
Something warm and sad passes through his eyes. “What about your dad? He’s good? Slowing down, I hope?”
“No, still working hard.” I shrug. “Probably until the day he dies.”
For a moment he’s quiet, jaw flexing. And then he says, “He’ll regret that someday. Having a daughter like you and not taking advantage of every minute.”
My throat clogs. “It’s—”
“Don’t say it’s fine.” His eyes are locked on me, his voice strangely hoarse. “It’s not.”
It isn’t, but it doesn’t change the reality of it, and talking about it now won’t either. It’s too tender, and we’re too close, and Eli’s looking at me too fiercely. I could dissolve under his attention, but I can’t.
I look away. “Adam’s ring is probably screaming for us in that pipe.”
I can feel his appraisal. His desire to push. Finally, he murmurs, “Okay.” The room quiets as Eli lays the wrench down again and wiggles the pipe. This time it pulls off, and he empties the standing water into the
bucket.
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“It’s not here. It’s either stuck in the pipe above, or it could’ve moved further this way.” He leans in, squinting at the opening of the pipe that goes into the wall. I crawl closer, shining my light. We’re basically under the sink together now, bodies connected from knee to shoulder. It’s torture where our bare skin grazes.
His breath hitches, echoing around us. He tips his chin, the barest movement that still brings our mouths within inches of each other.
“If it moved further, we’re going to have to call someone,” he says.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
His eyes flare, even as his tone turns soothing. “Let’s try the other way first. Have you seen anything made of wire around here? A hanger, maybe?”
The conversation is neutral, but the air between us is thick. I can smell the mint toothpaste on his breath, see the beating pulse in his neck. “My dress is still on its dry-cleaning hanger.”
“All right, go get that, please.”
It’s a quiet demand that lights me up, reminds me of the way he’d sometimes get bossy and greedy during sex, this same man who I feared didn’t need me in the secret, desperate way I craved. It made our connection strip itself to the bones, turned it honest and real in a way I wouldn’t fully allow in the rest of our life.
Everything is suddenly too much—the past, the present, Eli—and I lurch back. His hand curls around the back of my head just before it smashes against the cabinet.
“Careful,” he rumbles, fingers tightening in my hair. God, I’m trying to be.
“I’ll be right back,” I babble, scrambling out of our tight space.
After three hundred cleansing breaths and a stern, whispered lecture to myself, I return from the bedroom with the wire hanger. Eli molds it straight, then hands it back to me.
“Stick that down the drain and wiggle it. I’ll stay down here in case it falls.”
He crawls under the sink while I wiggle the hanger as directed. I have no idea what I’m doing, and my heart starts beating fast at the thought of having to call a plumber in.
As if he hears me spiraling, Eli says, “You’re doing great.” “Please,” I whisper, peering down into the drain.
And then a triumphant, “I got it.”
“You got it?” I throw the hanger to the side as he scoots out. The ring is on his middle finger, sitting above his knuckle. “Oh my god, you got it!”
It’s like someone’s plucked me by the back of the shirt and dropped me over the edge of a cliff. The relief is that visceral. It’s the excuse I’ll use later for why, when Eli stands, I throw my arms around his neck.
I don’t know the last time Eli and I hugged for real, because of a shared happiness. If I could pinpoint that moment, I probably would’ve spent the last five years torturing myself with it, so maybe it’s for the best. I just know that when Eli wraps his arms around my waist following a brief hesitation, it feels like coming home after the longest time away.
He lets out a shattered breath, pulling me closer, crushing my breasts against his chest. His heart hammers with mine. Through the thin material of my T-shirt, I feel the cold metal of Adam’s wedding band and I close my eyes, trying to remember it’s about him and Grace, not this. Trying to remember I’m supposed to keep my distance.
But, fuck it. If this is the actual last time we hug like this—for real, in happiness—then I’m going to revel in it. I have enough memories that hurt; what’s one more?
I should say something. Instead, I press my face into the curve where his shoulder and neck meet, biting my lip so I won’t put my mouth on him. It’s how I rationalize it: at least I’m not going that far. It’s just this. Just for a minute.
Eli’s nose brushes against my cheek, his stubble scratching at my skin. An accident the first time, I think, until he does it again. I pull back until the corners of our mouths are nearly aligned.
This is a bad, very horrible idea, my brain screams, but my body presses closer. Eli’s arms tighten, fingers digging into the small of my back.
“Georgia,” he whispers, and I hate my past self for writing on our list that we should avoid saying each other’s names. I hate that I forced myself to be so careful, even as I recognize that I need it right now more than ever.
I scrawl out all the reasons in my mind: that Eli and I didn’t work the first time. That trying again would hurt, likely in the same ways. It would ruin whatever modicum of ability we have to keep things bearable for the sake of our friendship with Adam. That this new Eli, who looks so much like the old one I loved, can’t be here to stay. That I don’t want this. Can’t
have it, or else it’ll ruin me again, and this time I’ll become the mess I refused to be before.
I’ll remember all that in a second.
I pull back another millimeter. Two, until I’m looking at the deep, warm starburst of his eyes, filled with gold and sparking heat. His nose grazes mine and his lashes flutter down, press hard against his skin.
His hands drop to my hips. Shape them, and then grip them. “You’re not going to want this,” he whispers.
I told myself the same thing seconds ago, but hearing him say it out loud scrambles my brain. “What?”
“In thirty seconds, you’re not going to want this, and I can’t pull away, so you’re the one who has to.”
My arms drop like his skin is on fire and I stumble back, my hip connecting with the tiny island behind me. With a ragged exhale, he turns around, snagging the ring box. I watch him press it back into the velvet. Shut the box. Lower his head and rub a hand over his face.
“I’m sorry,” I croak out. “It’s okay,” he says.
“I was excited.” “Me, too.”
“About the ring, I mean.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.”
This was just us remembering. The memories of our last summer and what came after are everywhere, too easy to step into, and we both slipped like I feared. But with as much history as Eli and I have and how physically close we got after years of distance, it would actually be weirder if we hadn’t.
It’s a paper-thin excuse, but I grab it anyway.
“That was…” I scramble for a description that won’t throw us right back into danger. “Surprisingly good teamwork.”
He gives me an incredulous look over his shoulder. “The ring, Eli.”
Amusement replaces the heat in his eyes. “It’s almost like we work really well toward a common goal when we’re not fighting each other.”
“Is that passive aggressive commentary about the bakery?” He turns. “And the split-up list.”
“That was equally your idea.” “I did it for you.”
“What do you mean?”
He lifts a shoulder, leaning against the counter. “You clearly want as little to do with me as possible. I know you’d rather be alone here, or with Jamie or something.”
Of course I’d love to be with Jamie. But if Jamie were here, Blake would be, too, and while I adore Blake and love hanging out with them, sometimes listening to the couple shorthand they developed while I was in Seattle makes me feel lonely. Less belonged to by Jamie. It’s not something I’d ever admit out loud, though.
And it’s easier to be alone, but that doesn’t mean it’s what I want. That’s not something I’d admit out loud either.
“It’s not as awkward as I thought it’d be.” Awkward is now my emotional support word for this, apparently.
Something passes over his face, a shadow of the way I felt when he said it. “Great.”
“And you just saved the day, so I can’t exactly say I don’t want you here.”
“Hey,” he admonishes. “We did that together.”
We let the realization sink in. It’s a warm thing, familiar and foreign. “What if we tackle the big stuff together?” he asks. “It’ll make Adam
happy and get Cole to stop heckling us.”
“What’s up with him, anyway? He was being so weird yesterday.”
His gaze bounces away. “Maybe he just can’t fathom having any interactions with his exes because they all hate him.”
I laugh. “A solid theory.”
“Anyway,” he says, meeting my eyes again, “most importantly, we’re clearly better at mitigating disasters when we’re not doing it separately.”
He’s right—when we actually cooperate with one another, shit gets done. It’s exactly what we need as we get down to the wire. Adam will get up here on Friday and be blown away.
But it means that I’ll be living alongside Eli and this rebuilding awareness. I’ll have to be so careful.
Eli braces his hands behind him. Watching me. Waiting.
“Adam did inform me he set up a DJ appointment for tomorrow, so we could try the teamwork thing out then.” His gaze warms and so does my chest. Ugh. “He wants to FaceTime in anyway, so it’s a good idea to go together.”
“Done. And we’ll do the bakery appointment on Tuesday together, too?” “Yes, on our best behavior.”
He draws an X over his chest with a somber, “Cross my heart.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t fully bite back a smile. He grins softly in return and for a second we get caught in it. He looks like twenty-year-old Eli, the summer version of himself when that spark was heating inside me, the version of him in subsequent years when I was fully in love.
Oh my god, stop, the peanut-sized logic in my brain sighs.
He shakes his head as if rousing himself and pushes off the counter. “I should go. I’m helping with the deck this morning.”
“Right, yes, I need to get ready, too,” I say. “I’m helping unload a bunch of stuff into the shed to hold for the reception.”
I trail him to the door after we put the tools away, feeling an unsettling reluctance to let him go.
“Thanks again for digging me out of that mess,” I say, leaning against the door as he strides down the steps.
He turns, shielding his eyes against the quickly rising sun. “Anytime.” “Well, hopefully never again.” I say it lightly, but I’m not joking.
“Anytime,” he repeats, with emphasis.
It’s not until he’s gone and I’m in the shower, replaying our charged moment, that I realize he told me I wasn’t going to want this.
But he didn’t say that he wouldn’t.
