Resilience

Eleven

<Xavier>

Eleanor's laughter rings through the room, a bright, infectious sound that has me feeling lighter than I can ever remember. Her eyes are sparkling with mirth, and she's laughing so hard that tears are streaming down her cheeks, which she keeps dabbing away with her hand.

When she asked about my old squad mates, I was momentarily caught off guard. No one had brought them up since my return—not that I made it easy to broach the subject. But Eleanor didn't pry into the grim details of their fate. Instead, she asked about my favorite day overseas.

I told her about the prank war we had going on. In an active war zone, the weight of the world can be crushing. To cope, we began playing pranks on each other, a way to cut through the tension and remind ourselves we were still alive.

As Eleanor wipes another tears of laughter from her eyes, the blaring alarm from her purse cuts through the moment, snapping me out of my daze. She quickly silenced it and said, "Sorry, I've got to pick Tate up from practice." I watched her gather her things with effortless grace.

I stand and walk her to the exit, feeling a pull I can't ignore. It might sound soft, but the more time I spend with her, the more I crave her presence. Clearing my throat, I say, "Thanks for bringing that up... it's been a while since I've reflected on the good times." Her eyes soften, and before I can second-guess myself, I step in and wrap my arms around her. She stiffens at first, but it's not long before she relaxes and returns the embrace. The moment is fleeting, and she steps back, out of my reach.

"Eleanor—" I start.

"Just Ellie," she replies, echoing my earlier words and turning to leave.

"No, I prefer Eleanor." Her puzzled expression shifts to a playful glint.

She nods, a playful smirk curling at her lips. "Thanks again for the coffee... Mr. Griffin," she says, her tone teasing.

I've been buried under work all week, catching only brief glimpses of Eleanor as she's come and gone with her son. It's Friday, and I'm deep in payroll when Damon barges into my office without so much as a knock. He flops into the chair opposite my desk, and I can see he's got something gnawing at him, though he won't keep me guessing for long.

Damon's always been a hothead—reckless and brash to the point of rudeness. His older brother, Vince, chalks it up to their mother's early death and the lack of a maternal influence. Maybe that excuse would hold water if Damon didn't have a twin brother, Devon, who's his complete opposite despite the same upbringing. While Damon comes off as rude and uncaring, Devon is thoughtful and calm, weighing his words carefully. Damon's way of thinking before he speaks might rub people the wrong way, but I find his honesty refreshing.

Damon lets out an exasperated sigh, and I roll my eyes at his dramatics before giving him my full attention.

"Vince is being a real pain," he declares. This isn't news; they've been clashing since Damon was a teenager. Vince has had to be more of a parent than a brother, and even though the twins are 25, he's never really turned off that role.

"We were supposed to meet Dad last night. He acted all cagey and vague," Damon continues, his phone buzzing as he picks it up and responds to a text.

I've never been a fan of Vince Sr. After his wife died, he left my best friend to pick up the pieces instead of stepping up for his kids. He's weak, and knowing he abandoned Eleanor only deepens my disdain.

"What does this have to do with Vince?" I ask, dragging his attention back to me.

"Because, as usual, Vince knows something and won't tell us. He called this morning, pissed that Dad never showed up. Now neither of them is answering my calls."