Page 11 of Holding the Line
Eli deepened his voice theatrically.“Here we observe the elusive Pathfinder in his natural habitat—surrounded by chaos, caffeine, and carefully concealed sarcasm.”
The table burst into laughter again.Marsh’s mouth twitched, the barest start of a smile, and just like that—he was in the conversation.
The rest of the evening unfolded with easy teasing and familiar rhythm.
The tension broke.Laughter rippled around the table.
Eli kept the conversation going, quick, sharp, animated.It wasn’t about being charming—it was about redirecting, shielding, giving Marsh a second to settle without the weight of everyone’s sympathy crushing him.He slid smoothly into the role, catching nods and chuckles, drawing the room’s focus just long enough for Marsh to wheel in and slide quietly into the end spot beside Ricky.
Eli caught the flicker of relief in Marsh’s eyes before he looked away.
Conversation resumed, loud and light.No awkward glances.No pointed silences.
They made space.For Marsh.For Eli.
By the time coffee was poured, Eli was leaning back in his chair, cheeks sore from smiling, stomach full.
The team was chaotic.Blunt.Loyal to the bone.And it was clear, even without a speech, that the people around this table were home for them.
Marsh was quieter than the rest but held his own, tossing out the occasional barb or sarcastic dig that landed just right.When Ryan tried to balance a spoon on his nose and sent it clattering across the floor, Marsh caught it mid-roll and muttered, “Fucking amateurs,” which sparked three adults, Anton, Blake, and Ezra into yelling “Language, Marsh,” in stereo that made Sophia laugh so hard she fell over.
And Eli had watched it all, heart pinched by something he didn’t want to name.
When the evening wound down, Marsh declined Ezra’s offer to call a buggy for him.
“I’ll push you back,” Eli offered, already moving.
Marsh hesitated, then nodded.
The path was lit with solar lamps and smelled like pine and cool stone.Eli walked behind the chair, hands firm, footsteps soft.
They didn’t speak until they reached the ramp at the Ridge House.
The house loomed above them, silent and still, its windows catching slivers of moonlight.The cool night air had settled into Eli’s bones, mixing with the remnants of warmth from dinner and laughter.His hands tightened around the handles of Marsh’s chair as they reached the ramp.
Eli stopped, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots.
Marsh shifted, the mechanical hiss of his chair was barely louder than his voice.“You gonna say it?”
Eli blinked.“Say what?”
“That you had to lay out the conversation for me tonight, that without intervention I can’t even talk with my own fucking team anymore.Shit.Not even team, maybe not even friends.If I can’t be who I was before this happened.”March punched his thigh, and Eli knew it had to have hurt.It was still healing after all.“Then I am just dead fucking weight to this team.”
Eli’s jaw clenched.His fingers flexed against the push handles.“Marsh, you can’t possibly believe that?”
“Why not?”
“Because from what I’ve heard, you more than contribute to the running of this place,” Eli said, voice steady.“I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I say that.”
Marsh let out a sharp breath, something bitter curling his mouth.“Well, maybe don’t say anything at all, then.”
Eli frowned but didn’t speak.
“You come in here all sunshine and sweet, telling stories like they’re some kind of personality trait.You think talking about your crappy car and teaspoon ignition makes you real?Makes you relatable?”
Eli stiffened, a slow breath dragging through his lungs.
Marsh pressed on, cruel now, jagged.“It’s not honesty, Eli.It’s a smokescreen.You charm the room, so no one asks what’s underneath.You act like you’re part of this team already, but you haven’t earned that.And when things get real—when it’s not about quips and giggles—you’ve got nothing to say.Because maybe deep down, you know you’re not smart enough.Or worthy enough.Or strong enough to hold that silence without breaking.”