Page 39 of Cut Off
Zoe squeezes my arm again, then gets out and circles the car. She opens his door, says something low I can’t hear, and together they walk toward the school. She matches his pace, lets him keep his distance, lets him be in control. It’s more grace than I’ve ever managed.
Zoe glances back, smiles and waves, then keeps moving. Eli doesn’t look back, not once.
Okay, so he didn’t want me to take him in. That’s fine. This is about him and what makes him comfortable.
He’ll grow out of it, and in the meantime, maybe I can wear a better disguise when needed.
My phone buzzes, and I don’t even look.
I think about Rosie, about every missed minute, everything I got wrong.
I picture her in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, singing along to the worst possible morning playlist. Never in key, but loud. The mornings I left for practice, she’d tape notes to the coffee pot: “Don’t forget to eat” or “Try to smile at least once today, it won’tkill you.”
Once, after a bad fight where I said too much, and she didn’t say enough, she sat next to me on the curb outside our apartment, barefoot in February. “You can’t fix everything, Jonah. Most things aren’t even broken, they’re just different now.” I didn’t get it then. I thought it was her way of giving up, but really it was the opposite.
I think about that a lot.
Maybe I’ll never be the dad who does it right. Maybe I’ll never be the guy who can fix this. I’ll just have to accept that it’s different. But even if it kills me, I’ll keep trying.
I watch every step Eli takes. His head pivots like he’s memorizing the exits, his hair sticking up in the back where he slept on it weird. My heart throbs for how hard he’s trying and how little he wants anyone to notice.
I want to believe he’ll be okay, that his armor will hold, that he’ll find his seat and maybe—God, maybe—make a friend. I want him to have a friend so bad it’s a physical ache. I want him to laugh during lunch, to catch someone’s eye during class, to feel like school isn’t a punishment or a minefield. I want him to have something to talk about when we drive home.
But mostly, I want these kids to be decent, to not smell the fresh blood of someone who’s different. I want the teachers to see him, really see him, and not mistake his quiet for being standoffish. If a kid gives him shit, I’ll know about it, even if he never says a word because it’ll show up in the set of his shoulders, in the way his voice gets careful.
I can’t protect him—not from this.
I hate that most of all.
12
The Chamber
JONAH
The drive out of the parking lot is a blackout. No music, no chatter. Zoe’s riding shotgun, scrolling through her phone. Me?
I’m switching gears, getting into upstanding-citizen mode for this judge.
Time to find out why he wants to see us after only two nights. Emergency session.
Downtown Dickens is bright, the sun shining down on it today. Let’s hope it does the same for me.
This suit’s tight, and my shirt collar’s strangling me, which I can deal with. What I can’t deal with is not knowing what’s waiting for me behind those courthouse doors.
Ms. Hernandez meets us just inside security. “Mr. Holt, Ms. Lane.” She’s all business. “Follow me.”
We snake through dim hallways, past guys in suits and women in blazers. The air here smells like bad coffee and oldcarpet. My ears ring as we head to the judge’s chambers. Ms. Hernandez stops at a battered wooden door with no sign or number on it.
In we go. Zoe’s close enough I can smell her shampoo—floral and calming. The chambers are what you’d expect. Bookshelves, a judge behind a big desk, and two chairs facing it. Ms. Hernandez points me to one, then finds her own spot near the wall. Zoe stands on my left, and I can already feel a headache kicking in behind my right eye.
The judge levels his gaze at me, steeples his hands, and wastes no time. “Mr. Holt, the matter before us concerns the ongoing custody of your son. There’s been a formal challenge.”
A challenge? My stomach clenches.
My head spins when the door behind us swings open, the hinges squealing in protest. Everyone turns. A woman in a powder-blue suit tiptoes in on cheap heels, dripping with apology.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, Your Honor, traffic was just—well, you know…”
