Page 75 of His Elder

"I sketched you," he said suddenly.

I looked up.

"For a year after I got home. Filled three sketchbooks. Your hands. Your profile. The way you looked when you were praying. When you were sleeping." He paused, his voice dropping. "When you were with me."

My chest ached. "Eli."

"I burned them," he said. "All three books. Took them out to the desert and lit a match. I decided I needed to stop living in the past and figure out who I was without thechurch, without the mission, without..." He stopped. "Without you."

"Did it work?"

"Mostly." He met my eyes. "Until tonight."

I didn't know what to say.

"I'm not angry," Eli said. "I want you to know that. I was. For a while. Angry that you stayed silent, that you didn’t stop me or follow me out. That you let me take the fall alone. But then I got angry at myself for expecting you to be a martyr, knowing that I chose to sacrifice myself so why should I be angry at you? For putting myself in that position."

"I wasn't a martyr. I was a coward."

"You were a kid who lost his entire world in twenty-four hours." Eli leaned forward. "And you survived it. You built something new through struggle and hardship. Practical Sam."

"Practical Sam," I echoed with a weak smile. "And you? Are you... happy?"

"I'm free," Eli said. "I paint what I want. I live how I want. I don't have to apologize for existing. It's enough."

"Is it?"

He looked at me. Really looked at me. "It was. Until about forty minutes ago."

The air between us shifted. The two years of silence and grief seemed to thin, leaving us exposed.

"I don't know what happens now," I said.

"What do youwantto happen?"

The question terrified me. Because I knew the answer. I had known it since the moment I saw his name on the gallery wall.

"I want to know you," I said. "Not Elder Vance. Not the person you had to be in Barcelona to survive. Just... Eli. Who you are now."

"Even if I'm different?"

"Especially if you're different."

Eli studied me. "You're different too. You cut your hair. You look... heavier. Not in a bad way. Just solid."

"I am solid," I said. "I had to be."

Eli reached across the table. Rested his hand palm-up on the scarred wood.

I stared at it. At the charcoal stains and the familiar shape of his fingers. It was an invitation. A second chance.

I placed my hand in his.

His fingers closed around mine. Warm. Real.

"Yeah," Eli said quietly. "Okay."

We sat like that while the coffee shop filled and emptied around us. While the terrible octopus mural judged us from the wall. While two years of silence finally began to heal.