11
ELIJAH
Easton was a scrawny little thing when we first moved to St. Samuels. It’s not that she wasn’t being fed, although in retrospect, almost anything was possible in that household. She was just one of those kids, the sort that is always in perpetual motion, knobby-kneed and permanently barefoot. She’d come to our house in an oversized T-shirt that probably belonged to one of her brothers first, her dark curls snarled. Her brother Kevin was in my grade, and on the surface, she seemed like she’d end up a junior version of him—reckless, the kind of kid who was always crashing on a bike or skateboard doing some kind of crazy stunt.
And yet, there was a spark in her that was absent in her brothers, that was absent in almost anyone I’d ever known. It was as if her intellect was this flame you could see flickering, if you looked her straight in the eye—a flame she herself barely seemed to care about, and would prefer you not notice.
Easton grew up, obviously, but I can still see who she was: the bruised, scrappy little girl who needs one goddamn person to step up and say, “This isn’t fucking right.”
She’s retreated to her room to dry her hair and put on sixteen kinds of makeup she doesn’t need and I remain behind with my fists clenched, furious at my impotence in this situation.
I should’ve made sure she didn’t stay at that house. I should’ve fucking killed him when I had the chance, but if I start taking out all the people who could do Easton harm, it would be a very long list.
It leaves me in a shitty mood, which is less than ideal for the night ahead. My grandmother is not generally a bad person—sure, she’s opinionated; sure, she can be a bit of a snob—but she’s had thoughts on Easton for decades now, thoughts she’s way too comfortable voicing aloud.
That bruise on Easton’s face leaves me disinclined to put up with those thoughts, though, and it will be an incredibly stressful drive to New Orleans if I don’t get a grip on myself right fucking now.
Easton emerges in white jeans and jewelry and glossed-up lips. If I saw her out somewhere, as a stranger, I’d thinkgoddamn, who’s that?
But I want the old Easton back, and that extends way beyond her looks. I want the girl who was cheerful and relatively carefree, whose jaw didn’t pop when she yawned, who’d dive into the water heedless of temperature, riptides, or expensive hair shit.
“By the way,” I tell her as she climbs in the car, “my grandmother’s best friend is coming to dinner too. Don’t worry. She’s actually pleasant.”
“Let’s try not to tell the friend or anyone else that this whole road trip romance is fake, eh?” Easton says as I back out of our parking space. “The more people who know, the more likely one of them is going to DM Thomas and ruin it.”
I laugh. “Easton, my grandmother is eighty-eight and her friend is about the same age. I doubt either of them will bedropping into Thomas’s DMs. They probably don’t even know what DMs are.”
Although, actually, Betty might. The last time I was down here she encouraged me to go out and “get some strange.”
I navigate to the salon where they get their hair done three days a week, and leave Easton in the running car to go get them.
My grandmother beams at me from her chair. I sometimes wonder if she’s seeing me or my dad, her only child, when she looks at me the way she is now.
I hug her gently, then hug Betty, followed by Sharon, my grandmother’s hairdresser...who still has my mother’s last Christmas card tucked into the corner of her mirror eight months later.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask.
My grandmother takes a scowling glance at the car idling in front. “Soshe’scoming?”
“Grandma,” I warn, holding the salon door open for her, “I told you she was. And she’s going through it right now, so behave.”
“I always behave,” my grandmother snipes.
I’m not sure who she thinks she’s fooling...or how low her standards are for the treatment of others. She’s been shitty to Easton for decades.
Easton climbs down from the passenger seat as we approach, her face wary.
“Easton, you remember my grandmother, and this is her friend, Betty Lennox.”
Easton extends a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Lennox.”
Betty clasps her hand warmly in both of hers. “Call me Betty.”
My grandmother frowns. “You may continue to call me Mrs. Cabot.”
Easton laughs under her breath. “Always a pleasure,Mrs. Cabot. Would you like to sit up front with Elijah on the way to dinner?”
My grandmother snottily opens the back door. “No, no, if you’re insisting on coming, then you might as well stay up front.”
