Page 41 of The One Who Risked it All

Elijah

Istepped into the dining room, a mountain of mashed potatoes in the bowl I held. The tension hit me like a wall of heat from a burning building. Dad sat at the head of the table, his stern expression unyielding. Great. This was going to be about as fun as a root canal.

Carla had offered not to come. I probably should have said yes, but she was pulling away from me and I hated it. I wasn’t even sure why, but she’d been distant ever since my dad found us K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Something I hadn’t gotten the pleasure of repeating. An unfortunate situation I was desperate to remedy. Shamelessly, I’d used the boys to convince her to come to Thanksgiving dinner.

“Watch out, coming through with a dangerously buttery load of carbs,” I announced, trying to inject some levity into the atmosphere. The joke fell flatter than a pancake run over by a fire truck.

As I set down the bowl, my eyes darted to Carla. She gave me a small, encouraging smile that made my heart leap. Focus, Wells. I had a minefield to navigate.

I sank into the chair next to Carla, resisting the urge to touch her. The faint scent of her perfume – something floral beggingme to lean closer and investigate further – mingled with the scent of garlic and rosemary at the table. “So, uh, who’s ready to dig in?” I asked, reaching for the serving spoon. “These mashed potatoes aren’t going to eat themselves.”

Dad cleared his throat. “Elijah, perhaps we should say grace first.” His voice was chilly and slightly exasperated, an unspoken commentary on my intelligence tangled in the tone.

Right. Of course. I’d forgotten prayer in my eagerness to break the ice.

As Dad began to pray, I snuck a glance at Carla. Our eyes met, and in that brief moment, a thousand emotions passed between us. The weight of our shared history, the lingering what-ifs, the forbidden nature of... whatever this was. It was all there, simmering just beneath the surface.

I bowed my head, but my mind was far from the prayer. How had I ended up here, torn between family loyalty and the undeniable pull I felt toward Carla? And more importantly, how was I going to make it through this meal without setting off the powder keg of tension that surrounded us?

“Amen,” Dad finished, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

“Amen,” we all echoed.

As the dishes began to circulate, Carla’s arm brushed against mine when she reached for the gravy boat. The brief contact sent a jolt through me, like touching a live wire.

“So, Carla,” my mother said, cordially, “how are things at the school? I heard you guys are putting on a play soon.”

Her eyes lit up, and I felt a warmth spread through my chest. Maybe this could work after all. “Oh, yes! The kids are so excited. We’re doing ‘The Wizard of Oz’ this year.”

“That’s great,” I replied, genuinely interested. “I bet you’re an amazing director. You always did have a knack for bossing people around.” Okay, I couldn’t resist a little teasing.

Carla laughed, the sound like music in the otherwise silent room. “I prefer to think of it as ‘gentle guidance,’” she retorted, her eyes twinkling.

I grinned, about to fire back with another quip, when I caught sight of my dad’s disapproving frown. Right. The feud. The reason Carla and I weren’t supposed to be within ten feet of each other, let alone exchanging playful banter at the dinner table.

The smile faded from my face as I turned my attention back to my plate, the weight of expectations settling once again on my shoulders. But as I risked one more glance at Carla, I knew that no matter how difficult things got, her presence made it all worthwhile. Now, if I could just figure out how to navigate this minefield without blowing everything up in the process.

The moment was short-lived. Dad cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention as he picked up the carving knife. “That’s enough chatter,” he said gruffly. “Time to serve the turkey.”

I watched as my father began carving, his movements precise and practiced. But I couldn’t help noticing how his eyes kept darting toward Carla, a hint of disdain in his gaze. My stomach churned, a mix of frustration and disappointment.

“You’ve outdone yourself this year, Mom,” I said, trying to keep things civil. “The turkey looks perfect.”

Dad grunted in response, barely acknowledging me as he continued carving. I felt torn, wanting to defend Carla but also desperate for even a scrap of approval from my father.

Dad placed a slice of turkey on Carla’s plate, his lips tightening into a thin line. I held my breath, silently willing him to be polite. But he said nothing, moving on to the next plate without a word.

I caught Carla’s eye again, seeing a flicker of hurt before she masked it with a polite smile. In that moment, I wanted nothingmore than to reach out and take her hand, to tell her that she didn’t deserve this treatment. But I knew that would only make things worse.

So instead, I turned to the kids, forcing a grin onto my face. “What are you thankful for this year, Alex?” I asked, desperate for any distraction from the growing tension.

As the children eagerly chimed in, I listened to their adorable perception of the past year, while acutely aware of the divide at our table – the innocence of the kids, the warmth of Carla, and the cold disapproval radiating from my father. And there I sat, caught in the middle, a firefighter who couldn’t figure out how to douse this particular flame.

The clinking of silverware against plates filled the air, punctuated by the occasional murmur of conversation. I stabbed at my mashed potatoes.

“So, how’re the boys at the fire station, Eli?” my mom asked, clearly grasping for a safe topic.

I swallowed a mouthful of turkey. “Pretty good. We’ve got a new trainee starting next week. Kid’s eager, but green as grass.”

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