my hands, a little confused and surprised to see tears. The sting of my eyes and the trickle down my cheek went unnoticed amid my anger. “That smile is life.” I wipe my hands on my pants. “So why in the hell would you choose to live half a life when you can have it all?”
Eli pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Doing what?”
“Making me feel like a terrible person.” He rubs his eyes and looks at me. They’re red.
“I’m not,” I whisper.
“You are. Because you’re using my son as leverage to take yourself out of the equation. But this isn’t an equation or a poll where everyone gets a vote. This is my goddamn life!”
I jump, hugging my arms to my chest. I’ve seen Eli slightly upset before, like when I agreed to go on a date with Warren or when I suggested Eli and Dr. Hathaway take Romeo to London. But those were nothing compared to Eli’s clenched jaw and tear-filled eyes taking me hostage in my own home. I can’t move. Not a single muscle.
He swallows hard, keeping his jaw locked and managing to blink several times without shedding those tears. “You’ve made me feel like a truly awful father. And I know that’s not what you meant to do, but you have. The guilt, Dorothy … you’re fucking killing me with guilt. You’ve turned loving you into a fault. An epic error in judgment. A choice …” He shakes his head and sniffles. “You weren’t supposed to be a choice. Not you. Not Roman. But you’ve laid it all out there. If I choose you, that means I’d have Roman part-time. But that makes me a ‘stupid fucking idiot’ in your eyes. So what’s the point?”
What did I do wrong? How do I excel at always messing things up? I spend so much time planning my moves and my words. I journal them and bounce them off my parents. How did a move that felt so selfless turn me into a monster? The judgmental enemy.
“Just …” I ease my head side to side, grimacing from the pounding inside of it. “Just tell me what you want me to say … what you want me to do.”
He hangs his head, closing his eyes.
I glance back at the door. Eli brought a bag, but who brought Eli? I look at my watch. It’s almost ten o’clock.
What would a neurotypical person do?
I’m not sure. This exact scenario hasn’t played out in the movies or my novels quite this way. I mean … given his complete demeanor, I assume he might want to storm out, get in his car, and squeal his tires.
But he can’t storm anywhere. I’m not sure he can even stand on his own.
No car.
My drive is gravel so no pavement for squealing tires.
That leaves me in uncharted territory with only one question.
What should I do?
Pie.
You can’t go wrong with pie, especially apple pie. I slide the plate from the console and kneel on the floor between Eli’s legs, giving the table his casted leg is on a tiny nudge. He opens his eyes, sharing a lifeless expression.
I think I put that on his face. Another example of my plans not at all going how I imagined they would go. So I fork up a bite of pie and hold it up to his mouth. After a few slow blinks, he takes the bite.
That brings a tiny smile to my face, even if he isn’t finding a single shred of happiness.
Because of me.
I take the next bite. The following bite includes the largest chunk of apple, the best bite of the whole slice. Slowly, I move it toward his mouth, hoping he pays attention to my offering, a peace offering of sorts.
He takes the bite, but his emotionless gaze remains affixed to me. Such a waste. I might as well have taken the bite for myself.
My bite.
His bite.
Mine.
His.
Yep, I take the last bite of crust, the one that’s a little crunchy but sweet with a thin sticky layer of apple filling clinging to it. Something tells me Eli wouldn’t appreciate it as much as I do.
With the pie gone, things get awkward again.
Nothing to say.
Nothing to do.
Yet a crippled man remains in my game room with his overnight bag by the door. And I need a shower. And my meds. And I had planned on working a few things out in my journals. But that’s all gone to Hell with the