Page 227 of Ominous: Part 1
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask Eric Addison as he wipes down the kitchen island, and I think about Eli and Dominic talking at the pool, the way I only watched them before Dom left, seemingly far calmer than when he arrived. They’ve made up.
I blink, focusing on the now. There are still white Styrofoam takeout trays spread along the island, but they’re closed, lids flipped into latches, the scent of shrimp and grits and mussels and lobster heavy in the air.
But he had veggie “salmon” patties delivered for me too.
It was thoughtful, and I wondered when Eli told him I was a bad vegan.
Eric straightens, the dark gray tea towel in his hand as he clears his throat. “Sorry, I know it’s… a lot. But I just wondered if Dominic came over last night?” He averts his gaze as he asks, and I take in the way his white dress shirt is rolled up over his forearms, the tension in his shoulders and the frown marring his lips. He’s as anxious as I am, for whatever reason. And stupidly good-looking, which makes memorenervous around him.
Stop thinking about his dad being hot, Eden.
My heart picks up speed in my chest, and I’m grateful for the medicine I took before he arrived with our food a couple of hours ago. Now I’m short quite a few pills, thanks to Eli, and I’ll need a refill early, but I had enough for tonight. And last night, I slept like the fucking dead with all the medication in my system.
Eli is outside, walking around the edge of the pool, his phone to his ear. His coach had called him. Something about wrestling down a weight class, he’d explained before he walked outside, leaving me with his dad. I might kill him when he gets back in, wrap the choker around my fist until he faints.
I plaster on a polite smile and refuse to think of his hand over my mouth and nose as I meet his dad’s gaze, my palms growing clammy by my sides.
“Yes, I saw him.” I clear my throat, wondering if I should keep talking, or let him pry the information out of me.
“You heard about… Winslet?” Eric leans against the island, trying to be casual, but he’s got that dish towel clenched tight in his fist, one hand in the pocket of his dress pants.
“Yeah, I did.” I nod once.Do not think about Eli’s confession. Do not. Do. Not.“It’s… awful.” I feel heat bloom along my chest, but don’t look away.
Eric nods, his brows creased together as he glances at the stone flooring. “Was Dom okay? I know he’s had a tough year, and I think he’s messing around with drugs, his parents were telling me, before all of this.” He coughs, unnecessarily. “I just hope he’s all right.” He peers up at me, almost skittishly. I imagine he doesn’t get many answers from his son, and I feel a little pang of guilt because fuck, neither do I.
“He seemed okay,” I lie carefully. “A little quiet…”Not really. At all. Until he got sliced up by your spawn.“But okay.”
Eric sighs. “I’m not sure how he could be, after the news, and there were camera crews at his house, but the gate is closed, at the end of the neighborhood, across from ours. The first time in probably…” He trails off, then says, “Probably five years.”
Five years. Eli would have been thirteen then.
“Oh?” I keep my tone only politely interested. “What happened then?”
Eric’s gaze lifts to mine. Something crosses his face, a shadow of sorts, the way he frowns, little lines creasing around his eyes. “Well, you know… Eli’s mom… she moved away then. He kind of… Well, he had a hard time.”
I try not to betray my spinning brain. I knew she left because Dom told me. But I didn’t know when. I don’t know anything else, still. And “moved away” and “left” are very different terms. I don’t know what to say for a long moment. Eli’s dad releases his death grip on the kitchen towel, pressing his fingers between his brows and closing his eyes a second.
I, who rarely initiates physical contact of any kind, have an urge to hug him. I’m not sure why. It’s not this moment of weakness, exactly. Not thispresentmoment. It’s thinking of our futures with this boy we love, and how holding onto him is a slippery thing, never guaranteed.
I take a single step, my heart racing in my ears, and I don’t know what to do. But before I have to do anything at all, the patio door opens up and Eli walks in, a smile on his handsome face, phone held loosely between his fingers, at his side.
He closes the door behind him, the heat rolling in despite the fact it’s fall.
He rakes a hand through his onyx hair, the same one holding his phone, and I see his biceps flex beneath the sleeve of his white shirt.
“Wow, who died?” he asks cheerfully, cutting his eyes from me to his dad and back again, his hand still wrapped around the silver knob of the back door.
Eric forces his own smile, but he doesn’t do it with the same practiced ease his son does. He grabs the dishtowel, likely for something to do with his hands. “What did Coach P want?”
Eli lifts a dark brow, his smile slowly faltering, a haughty look replacing it, lips pressed together, expectancy in his eyes. He drops his hand from the door, gripping his phone tighter. “Baca is going to be out next weekend,” he says, but his eyes are on mine. “He wants me to take his place.”
“You’ll have to cut, what, how many pounds…” His dad trails off.
Eli shrugs. “I’m not worried about it.” He’s still looking at me.
I turn around, flipping on the faucet and rinsing the dishes in the sink before I begin to stack them in the dishwasher.
“No, Eden, really, that’s okay,” his dad says behind me.
