Page 27 of The One Who Risked it All

“Look,” I said, leaning in closer, “I know this isn’t easy to talk about. But don’t you think it’s time? I mean, we’re not getting any younger here.” I attempted a chuckle, but it fell flat. “And let’s face it, Dad, your ticker’s given us all a scare. Don’t you want to clear the air before—“

“Before what?” Dad snapped, his eyes finally meeting mine. “Before I kick the bucket? Is that what you’re saying, Eli?”

I winced. “No, that’s not— I just meant—“

“I know exactly what you meant,” he growled. “And let me tell you something. What happened between me and Jim Putnam doesn’t concern you or anyone else in this town.”

I felt my own temper rising, matching his. “Doesn’t concern me? Dad, it’s affected our whole family for years! And now—“ I cut myself off, Carla’s face flashing in my mind.

His eyes narrowed. “And now what? This isn’t about some misguided crush on that Putnam girl, is it?”

My cheeks burned. “It’s not a crush,” I muttered, feeling like a teenager again. “Carla and I... we have a connection. And maybe if we could just move past this ridiculous feud—“

“Ridiculous?” Dad’s voice was low and dangerous. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I stood up, pacing the small room. “That’s the point. You won’t even tell me why I’m supposed to hate them.” My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—frustration with Dad’s stubbornness, longing for Carla, and the ever-present desire to make my father proud.

How could I choose between my family and the woman who made my heart race? The thought of angering Dad twisted mygut, but the idea of letting Carla slip away again was equally painful.

The silence that fell between us was thick enough to cut with a knife. I stared out the window, watching a flock of birds swoop past, wishing I could fly away from this whole mess. My shoulders sagged, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on me.

I let my guard drop. “Dad,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper, “I just want to understand.”

Dad’s gruff voice cut through the air like a thunderclap, showing his ire despite his weakened state. “The Putnams are nothing but trouble, Eli. Always have been, always will be. Jim Putnam is a snake in the grass, a chip off the old block, and that girl of his is cut from the same cloth. And I want you to keep her away from those boys.”

I whirled around, frustration and determination warring inside me. “You don’t even know her! Carla’s not—“

“Elijah Joseph Wells,” Mom’s voice rang out from the doorway, startling us both. “I could hear you two hollering halfway down the hall. What on earth is going on in here?”

I glanced at Dad, seeing the fire in his eyes dim slightly at Mama’s presence. He cleared his throat. “Nothing, dear. Just a little father-son chat.”

“Some chat,” I muttered, but I felt my own anger deflating.

Mom bustled into the room, her no-nonsense energy filling the space. “Well, whatever it is, it stops now. Harold, you need your rest, and Eli, don’t you have to get home to the boys?”

I nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape. “Yeah, I should get going.”

As I moved toward the door, Dad’s voice stopped me. “Eli,” he said, his tone still hard, “don’t push me on this. Some things are better left in the past.”

I didn’t turn around. “Bye, Dad. Get some rest.”

I stepped out into the hallway, my mind spinning like a tornado. Carla’s face flashed before my eyes, her dark hair framing that mischievous smile I couldn’t seem to shake. What a mess. Here I was, thirty years old, feeling like a teenager sneaking around behind my old man’s back.

I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes for a beat. What if getting involved with Carla would only lead to heartache? But then I remembered the warmth of her hand in mine, the spark in her eyes when we talked. It felt real. More real than anything I’d felt in years.

One thing was for sure – I wasn’t ready to give up on Carla without a fight. I’d just have to make my father understand somehow.

The fridge casta faint glow across the dark kitchen as I stood there, debating whether midnight pickles were a craving or a cry for help. I’d been up for hours, despite my exhaustion, reliving every conversation, every interaction. No matter how tired I was, I couldn’t shut them off. Regret, guilt, confusion—they all swirled together, like I was trapped in a loop of my own making.

I needed something, anything, to stop the noise in my head. Something simple, something stupid like pickles. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. It was me, trying to hold onto control in a situation that felt like it was slipping through my fingers. Torturing myself with the mistakes of my past and the shackles of the present.

I couldn’t move forward with Carla, not with my father’s disapproval. But every conversation with her made it harder tostay in this strange limbo. He was coming home tomorrow, and our conversation at the hospital earlier had been a disaster.

Deciding it was too late to try and philosophize my way through the mess in my mind, I reached up for the top shelf, my movements automatic, and began rummaging around.

“Midnight snack raid?”

I turned to find Carla leaning against the doorway, looking adorably rumpled in oversized pajamas that slid off one shoulder. Her hair was a mess, dark strands tumbling loose around her face, and a faint crease from her pillow marred her cheek. She was entirely too close, entirely too comfortable. As though my chaotic thoughts had summoned a vision to torment me further.

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