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.”