Page 27 of Cut Off
I shove the phone in my pocket and push through the door.
Those things can wait. Tomorrow, I’ll face Coach and whatever punishment he has. I’ll figure out how to keep things strictly professional with Zoe even while she lives under my roof.
Tonight, I’m going to finish getting the house ready.
Because whatever else is broken in my life doesn’t matter if Eli and I don’t work.
9
Day One
JONAH
The silence in the car is so thick I could skate on it. Eli stares out the passenger window, his small face blank—no joy, no anger, nothing I can read. The court hearing was a blur of legal jargon and sympathetic nods from the judge. “Temporary custody granted.” Three words that changed everything, officially making me responsible—at least for now—for this kid who shares my DNA but might as well be from another planet. I steal another glance at him as I turn onto my street, Steelhead Drive. My son. The concept still feels foreign, like I’m trying on someone else’s life.
“We’re almost home.” I wince at my word choice. It’s not his home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Eli just keeps staring out the window, clutching his backpack.
“Here we are.” I try again as we pull into the driveway.
Still nothing.
Coach forced me to take the week off given my situation. So, I’ve had nothing but time the last five days. Time to stress about the hearing all last night, clean the entire house, and rehearse answers to questions about my parenting philosophy that I’d decided on. In the end, the judge reviewed the paperwork, asked me questions about my work schedule, the caregiving situation, and then he asked Eli what he wanted. When Eli said he’d like to give this a try, my throat closed up, and I had to swallow hard to clear it. Then the judge signed the order.
I park in the garage and take a deep breath. “You hungry? Tired? We can do whatever you want.”
Eli shrugs, finally turning to look at me. “Not sure.”
“Okay.” I try to sound casual.
We climb out of the car, and I resist the urge to grab his backpack for him. Ms. Hernandez warned me about this: don’t baby him, let him maintain his independence, but be ready to help if he asks. The problem is, I don’t think Eli’s going to ask for anything.
I unlock the front door and step aside to let him enter first. The house still smells of fresh paint. Eli’s furniture’s assembled and his room’s decorated, creating a space that’s supposed to feel like it’s his. But as I watch Eli walk into the foyer, his shoulders hunched, steps hesitant, I second-guess the blue paint color, the superhero theme, and every piece of furniture.
“So.” I force enthusiasm. “We have a few hours before dinner. Want to check out the backyard? The pool’s heated, but it’s probably too cold to swim today. Hot tub works, though.”
Eli’s face puckers like I’ve suggested we go dumpster diving. “No, thanks.”
“Maybe another time.” I run a hand through my hair, already feeling out of my depth. “How about the game roomthen? I’ve got an Xbox, Switch, PlayStation… whatever you’re into.”
A flicker of interest crosses his face, but he shuts it down. “Can I just go to my room?”
That one stings even though it probably shouldn’t. “Sure. I’ll show you.”
“Thanks.”
I lead Eli up the stairs, and he looks so small against the backdrop of my oversized house with its vaulted ceilings.
When we step inside his room, I say, “The bathroom’s stocked—toothbrushes, soap, all that, but let me know if you need anything.”
“Okay.” He shrugs his backpack off his shoulders.
I get the sense I’m not welcome, so I leave, closing the door behind me. When I’m back downstairs, I head to the kitchen, and I don’t know what to do. I could throw some nuggets in the oven, make him a sandwich, but he said he wasn’t hungry. I could guide him through the TV stuff, show him all the kid channels I got.
I pull out my phone to text Zoe. She’s been living at the house for the last four days, but she’s staying at her sister’s tonight to give Eli and me some alone time. I write:
Me:He hates it here. Help?
