Loving Elijah McCay

Vol. 1: Forty-Four

When the bell has finished ringing, he looks over to me, finger pointed and all. "You and I are gonna talk tonight." After his last few words, he begins trudging in the direction of the student parking lot, obviously not making an effort to wait for to catch up.

"Rick!" I call out, "you're my ride!" He turns to me, pointing in the opposite direction of his path. I follow his finger, and a smile interrupts my scowl as I see who's standing there.

Elijah is leaning against a wall that stands just outside of the boys locker room, my backpack in one hand, and a bottle of water in the other. He looks just as handsome as ever and is wearing a casual grin. "You coming?"

I don't waste another second, before running toward him. He hands me the bottle of water, tossing one of my backpacks straps over his shoulder. As I chug the water, clearly dehydrated from spending hours in the sun, he chuckles.

"Go ahead, drink all of my water." I shove his chest, watching as he stumbles back.

"Screw you, you're the one who gave it to me." I follow him in his lead toward his car, that is parked closely behind the school in an open spot in the empty lot.

When I've slipped into the front seat, I buckle myself in, handing Elijah back his rather large bottle of water that I've chugged most of. When he pulls out of the parking lot and makes a direct turn into a familiar street, I sink against the headrest of the passenger seat.

     My brows furrow when the realization that he hadn't been at practice dawns on me, "you weren't at practice today." My words are quiet, eyes barreling into the side of his face, his features being shone through the suns reflection.

     Elijah doesn't bother turning toward me, only flicking on his blinker and turning into the next street, us becoming closer and closer to my house.

     "Uh, yeah. I had something to take care of." He says this so nonchalantly that I'm sure he doesn't want me prying—doesn't want me questioning his whereabouts as if he owes me an answer.

     I nod, wanting so badly to know what he needed to "take care of" but always not wanting him to feel weird around me. "Oh."

     He waits a few seconds, his car being stopped at a red light. Once he parts his lips to speak, the noise of a blaring cellphone cuts him off. It takes almost everything in me not to swear aloud. Because just as he's about to open up a little more—of course, we're interrupted. As he reaches down for his cellphone, he sighs while reading the caller ID.

     Elijah holds the small, blaring device in his hands, his teeth pulling on his bottom lip in contemplation. Then, he ever so slightly turns to me, voice hoarse. "Is it cool if I take this?"

     "Yeah, of course."

     He picks up, holding the cellphone closely to his ear, answering with a quiet. "Hello?"

     I try not to eavesdrop—try my best to distract myself by scrolling through my social media feed. But a distant voice answers him on the other line. It's deeper and far more persistent than Elijah's. But I find myself recognizing it halfway through their sentence.

"Did you visit her yet?" The voice who I now recognize as Elijah's father asks, stern and awaiting a response.

Elijah's car takes off again, after the light has turned green, him breathing out a heavy sigh. "Yeah, I just left. I left flowers."

My neck feels as though it's straining to keep straight, me just itching to know what the hell they're talking about. "Okay, good. And do me a favor, Eli, call your sister and see if she's okay. She hasn't been answering your brother and I's phone calls since yesterday. I think she's having a hard time—"

"Yeah, dad you know I'm actually kind of busy right now, so can you call her?" Elijah's voice is dismissive, like he has no interest in having this conversation. And I almost wince at the tone that he responds to his father in.

"Elijah, please call your sister, she needs you right now—"

"Can we just talk about this later? I'm with someone right now—"

     I don't mean to listen in on his phone call, but hearing Elijah and his father go back and forth about who should call his sister and check on her, made me feel only the smallest bit uncomfortable. It was obvious that today marked a significant date for he and his family.

     And who was I to even wonder what that date was—even if my intentions and clear curiosity meant well.

     "Elijah, I'm not asking you. Call Corey, and ask her how she's doing. I'll see you tonight for dinner." The line is abruptly ended and Elijah seems to seething through his teeth. His free hand reaches out to push a piece of hair back, running it down his face in apparent stress.

     He keeps his eyes trained on the road, and I follow his lead, not wanting to disturb the tense silence that has now surrounded the car. But I can't help but stare when a string of curse words leave his lips all at once, his irritation growing by the second.

     I keep my words calm and collected, not wanting to push him off of an inevitable edge, as it seems like just a second ago, he was completely fine. And now, he's just beyond frustrated. "Is everything okay?"

     Elijah nods his head, shoulders visibly beginning to soften. He turns, and sends a soft smile. One that I graciously return. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just . . ." He pauses, leaning his head against the headrest of his seat. "I just really wish my siblings were better at dealing with things."

     "Dealing with things?"

     He turns into another empty street, and my house is visible from the car now. "Today is my mom's birthday." When my face doesn't change, he gives me a certain look, as though waiting for me to put the pieces together.

     Just as he parks his car in my parents driveway, the remembrance of earlier this year hits me like a brick. "Oh. Oh, my gosh—Elijah, I'm so sorry. I didn't even realize—"

     "No, no, it's cool, you didn't know." A breath feels as if it's lodged in my throat. My hand reaches out, grasping onto his shoulder. I want to say something. Something that will ease whatever pain he's got to he feeling in this moment, but words don't feel like enough.

     I pull him by his shoulder, bringing him in close, in a tight hug. I hold on tightly, burying my head into his broad shoulder in hopes of easing his stress. He merely chuckles, returning the very, very tight hug. "Thank you, Gage. Thank you."

     Nodding into the crook of his neck, I whisper. "Do you need to talk about it?"

     Shaking his head, he pulls back, tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip. "No, I think I just need to go home and spend the rest of the day with my family. Apparently, my sister isn't answering anyone's calls."

     I nod like I didn't just hear his father yell at him over the phone. "Yeah, of course. I'll see you tomorrow."

     Just before I slide out of the passenger seat, I give him one last look, to which he reciprocates and my heart aches once more. I thought letting go of him—of something I didn't have, and never would have, would be easier. But as it turns out, it was just as hard.

     And having moments like this, where he and I can honest and vulnerable, like true friends, makes it even harder.