Page 86 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
“Oh, honey, that’s thelightversion,” she says, beaming like she’s proud of it. “We didn’t even put the full two cups in this time. Eli said you don’t like as much sugar as he does.”
“Two—” I stop myself, glancing between them. They’re serious. “Right. Yeah. It’s great.”
And weirdly enough, it is. Maybe not the tea, exactly—but the way this table feels. The way everything hums with comfort and noise and affection. It’s not a kind of love I’ve ever been part of, but it’s a kind I recognize deep down. The kind that doesn’t make you earn your seat.
Jules—Eli’s sister, all sharp blue eyes the same color as his and unfiltered curiosity—leans her elbows on the table and points her fork at me. “So, Max,” she says, “whatexactlydo you do? Eli just says you ‘fix people.’ Which sounds like a cover story for a spy or a hitman.”
Across from her, Eli groans. “Jules, I thought you’d grow out of being annoying by now?—”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Athletic trainer. I work with the hockey team—injuries, recovery, prevention. Basically, I make sure they stay in one piece.”
Her brow furrows. “So you’re like a doctor, but cooler?”
That earns a laugh from Eli’s dad, Brett. “Careful, Jules. Don’t undersell the man.”
“Yeah,” Eli chimes in, bumping my knee under the table. “He’s the reason I haven’t fallen apart yet.”
There’s pride in his voice. Simple. Unapologetic. It knocks something loose in my chest.
His mom refills my glass before I can stop her. “We’re glad you came with him, Max. It’s nice having someone new at the table.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “It’s… nice to be here.”
The conversation keeps going—Jules teasing Eli about his messy apartment, his dad offering to “train” with me sometime, which I’m fairly certain means tossing a football until one of us pulls a muscle. It’s all noise and movement, but beneath it, I can feel something deeper taking root.
I haven’t had this in years. Maybe ever. A table where no one’s waiting to explode. Where laughter doesn’t hide a threat.
I glance at Eli. He’s laughing at something his sister said, head tipped back, light catching in his eyes—and I swear, for the first time in my life, I understand what home might actually mean.
He catches me looking. Just smiles, soft and knowing, like he can feel every thought unraveling in my head.
And I let myself smile back.
For once, I don’t fight it.
The sink’sfull of warm, soapy water, and it feels good against my hands—something to do, something that keeps me from thinking too much. Eli’s beside me, towel slung over his shoulder, humming under his breath while he dries. He hums the same way he talks: loud, a little off-key, completely unbothered. It makes the small kitchen feel alive.
I pass him a plate, and he brushes my fingers when he takes it. Probably an accident. Probably. My pulse doesn’t get the memo.
“You don’t have to help,” he says, grinning. “Mom’ll think you’re trying to win her over.”
“Maybe I am,” I mutter, rinsing another dish.
He bumps my hip with his, water sloshing onto the counter. “You already did. She made extra pie just for you, didn’t you notice?”
I glance over at the pie cooling on the counter, still half warm, and shake my head. “That woman’s dangerous with the sugar.”
“You have no idea.”
The sound of his mom’s voice makes both of us look up. She’s leaning against the doorway, towel from cleaning off the tablestill in hand, eyes soft and knowing. “Y’all don’t have to do all that. Leave a few for me and your dad. How about dessert out instead?”
Eli perks up instantly. “The custard place?”
“Of course. They’ve still got the peppermint swirl flavor,” she says, smiling at him like he’s ten years old again. Then she glances at me. “You up for a drive, Max?”
I should say no. I should probably draw the line somewhere before I start believing I belong here. But Eli’s already looking at me—hopeful, bright, expectant.
And the truth is, I want it. All of it. This whole chaotic, sugar-soaked world that built him.
