Page 39 of Elijah

“Yep, all done.” He flashed me a picture on his mobile and I nodded in appreciation. “Fancy a late lunch when we’re paid up?”

Sam slapped my shoulder again and I couldn’t help but flinch, drawing in air between my teeth.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, his face an expression of concern.

“Nothing. You’re just a heavy-handed fucker.”

I moved another step away from him, punching my number in on the card machine offered to me by Scarlett.

“Me doing that…” he said, slapping my back again, “hurt?”

“Sam,” I snapped. “Be fucking careful.”

My stupid dick of a brother started to laugh. “Why do I need to be careful when you got the heart covered up and didn’t get the fox on your shoulder blade?”

I looked at him and could see a stupid smirk on his face. He fucking knew and was playing with me.

“You sussed me out, okay. You can stop being a dick now.”

“Oh dear,” he replied, shaking his head slowly. “Oh dear.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, why the hell lie to me and pretend you’ve had the damn thing covered?”

I looked down at the floor, scuffing my feet on the tiled floor. What did I say to him? Why had I lied? I had no clue if I was being honest.

“Here’s your card back, Elijah,” Scarlett said.

I caught view of it in my periphery and turned to her. “Thanks, Scarlett.”

I took the card and turned back to Sam, who reached around me to pass his to her.

“Well?”

“I don’t know why I lied,” I said, blowing out a breath. “Maybe I thought you’d take the piss out of me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m a fucking idiot who still has a tattoo over his heart for his ex-wife.” I glanced at the desk to see Scarlett was still busy with Sam’s card. “I just couldn’t do it, Sam.”

“Because it’s a great tattoo?” he offered, with a knowing grin.

I shook my head and scrubbed a hand down my face. “No, because I can’t move on. I don’t want to move on – not just yet. I just need a little more time.”

My voice was quiet and Sam had to strain to hear me, but I knew he didn’t have to hear the words to know what my reason had been. My brother knew me better than anyone.

“How much time do you need, Eli?” he asked softly. “It’s been five years.”

“I know.”

I knew exactly how long it had been, five years and one hundred and fifty-five days to be exact, and every one of those days had started with a heaviness in my chest.

“If you can’t move on, what do you do about Mia?”

“I love Mia.” I frowned at him. He knew I loved her.

“But do you love her enough, Eli? Do you love her like you loved, or maybe still do love, Amy?”

That I couldn’t answer. Not because I didn’t know, but because giving him the truth would mean admitting it to myself.