Everly After (22 page)

I look up from the laptop and laugh. “Should I have thoughts on the Derawan Islands?”

“You can swim with jellyfish there. They aren’t toxic anymore because they have no natural predators.”

“Then it sounds like you want to go to Derawan Islands to go swimming with nontoxic jellyfish.”

She scrunches her nose at me, her face growing red as the blood rushes to her head. Maybe I should have pushed us to get out a bit more these past few days or return to Paris like we were supposed to two days ago, but we’ve been content here, holing up like a pair of horny hermits, surviving on boxed macaroni and cheese and burnt popcorn.

For once, it hasn’t been hard to write, either. Everly sleeps or reads, and I write and then write some more. It’s this perfect little world, almost untouched by our real lives.

All except for how I missed my second meeting with Tom because I was preoccupied with finding more ways of making Everly blush. I fucked that up and lost my job, but right now I don’t care much. If this could be real for a while longer, I think I might have a chance at getting my shit together. Forget the shrink—no one tells you that if you find someone who understands, that things start to make sense again. The way she looks at me, the way she kisses me—hell, anything about how she is with me is enough to make it all better.

“Have you been before?” She lowers the map and waves it around, her body rocking as she tests her balance.

“No.” I clear my throat, fixated on the blinking cursor. “I report in the Middle East.”
Did
report. “That’s where I’ve traveled mostly.”

I can feel her watching me. For once, it’s not something I enjoy. I lean a little closer to the corner of the wall and focus on my hands on the keyboard, the words in my mind, the story there that’s strangling me from within to be told.

Everly pulls herself up from hanging upside down. I hear her rustle her stack of maps. “I don’t think they have a hostel there,” she says, sounding a bit lost.

I’m not sure if she means in Indonesia or the Middle East, but I don’t say anything, only type a few more sentences. The confusing anger inside me leaks out with each pound of the keyboard. I might need to get out of this box today, Everly or no. I might put a hole in something if I don’t.

My body still feels shattered from the nightmares I had last night. I think I was screaming when I woke up, but I can’t really remember. I know I ran out of bed as fast as I could so I didn’t hurt Everly. I remember yelling at her to go back to sleep because I’m a cranky asshole. I stayed on the top bunk for the rest of the night, my face pressed to the glass of the window, trying to suck some air from London, dripping in a cold sweat. I hate those fucking sleeping pills, how they make me feel, but I wish I’d brought them with me. I couldn’t stand myself if I hurt her.

It’s hard to keep yourself together when you’re holed up in a tiny fucking room with a near stranger. She’s good for me, but she’s dangerous, too. The illusion is going to shatter soon, and then we’ll have to face what we’ve both been hiding from each other.

I hear the click of the lighter, then smell the joint she scored from a group of backpackers from Australia. She hops down from the bunk and kicks a pile of clothes heaped over the floor toward the bottom of the door.

I fight back a smile as she turns and climbs onto the bottom bunk with me. I try to focus on my screen, but I’m more focused on the way she crawls over me. She pulls the joint from her mouth and braces herself on her hands, then tips forward and kisses me slow.

I forget what I’ve been doing all morning when she nips at my bottom lip. My head grows a bit foggy, my cock a bit hard, and I think maybe I’m falling in love with this girl.

I reach for her hand with the joint and draw it up to my mouth, sucking in a deep inhale. I let go and relax against the back of the bed and close my eyes, hoping she’ll kiss me some more.

“Funny thing,” Everly says. I open one eyelid, waiting. “You haven’t been in a hurry to get out of bed lately, but I woke up and you were on the top bunk this morning.”

I take another hit. “It’s not funny. I don’t want to talk about it.” I want one more, but she springs back, shaking her head at me. “I don’t sleep…well,” I confess.

The playfulness fades from her face, and her smile drops. She hands it back, and I haul her closer by her ankle, watching as she bumps over the tangled sheets to join my side.

A motor backfires outside, and I wince, smacking my head against the wall. I bury my face against the top of her head, breathing in and out. I don’t want her to see this part of me.

She twists and snuffs out the joint, then frames my face with her hands. I haven’t shaved in a few days, and I regret it now. I can’t feel the softness of her hands.

“I’m the last person to judge you.” She kisses the tip of my nose, and I feel myself slip into that dangerous space between us where we’re closer to sharing the truth. “And I have all the time in the world. I’ll listen.”

I hug her closer because what I want to say in this instant is the scarier option.

“You know my brother died,” she says. “He drowned when I was sixteen.”

I don’t want to do this—trade emotional scars. What am I supposed to say to that? That my father murdered my mother and liked to rough me up? That I found her bloody body when I came home from school? That I killed two soldiers back in Afghanistan because I was curious and had a question? That I watched a woman blow herself up because I thought she needed help? That I got kidnapped and nearly died when I was being rescued?

No. I’m not forcing us into a game of who’s more fucked-up. We’ve both lost.

“I’m sorry, pet.”

Everly never tells me anything about herself. Once my heart slows down from racing in my chest, my mind catches up, and I realize I’m being an asshole. She’s trying to understand, and I’m only pushing her away.

“I have bad nightmares. I didn’t want to hurt you, so I slept up top this morning.”

Her fingers curl around my neck. “It hurt more that you didn’t tell me.”

Fuck, she’s really set on gutting me.

She slips her fingers around the chains at my neck and follows their length to the names of the two men who died because of me and my hero complex. They rest in her palm. I’m not ready to talk about this with her. It’s bad enough that I have to relive it every time I see the shrink. Survivor’s guilt or something—that’s what he says I need to confront and deal with.

“Why do you only wear these some days and not others?”

I exhale because that’s an easy answer.
Penance
.

“Some days I take them off, thinking I can move on. Other days, I don’t bother because I can’t.”

Everly drops them against my chest, meeting my gaze. I see it there in her eyes, how I’ve just said something that drags her a little further in. I don’t think we can stop it now that it’s started.

“So you tell me something,” I say.

She tries to pull back when I cup her chin.
Too late
, I want to yell. She acted too unaffected about her brother, and the cold weight in my stomach makes me think there’s something more behind her confession.

“What made you so upset the other day when I came back?”

She blinks at me, her body still as stone. I hear the soft exhale between her lips like I’ve stabbed her with my question. Maybe I have. Maybe I want things to be equal between us. I’ve been the boy with a sad past, but she’s still the girl with the sad eyes. I want to understand why.

It’s awkward when she jerks away, like her body doesn’t understand what she’s trying to do. She takes off her tank top and tosses it onto the floor. As much as I like the view, I’m not falling for it right now.

She leans forward to kiss me, but I lay my hands on her bare shoulders and gently hold her back. “What was it?”

“I just remembered something about a boy last spring. A boy who said he loved me.” She raises her hand between us and fingers her red bracelet. “But I don’t believe in lies.”

I let her kiss me, but I swear she whispers something like “Not anymore” against my lips.

Everly

We spent the day outside of our Shangri-La today. It was nice rejoining the rest of the human population after a very blissful exile. Beckett brought me around London, and I think he’s happy again. I caught him smiling a lot. My camera is full of pictures of us doing the usual touristy things—a normal day between two normal people functioning like adults in a very mixed-up world.

But now we’re back in our room at the hostel and it’s late. We have the TV on, but I’m not sure we’re watching much of
Sherlock.
I’m not. Beckett is drawing the most amazing, distracting circles over my hipbone with his rough fingers.

The light must flicker in a certain way because his fingers stiffen over my scars. “What’s this?”

Goosebumps ripple over my arms, the chill chasing down my spine and sinking into my belly. “I was with Hudson.” I reach for Beckett’s hand and lace my fingers with his, tracing over the scars. “He wrapped his dad’s new Lamborghini around a tree.”

I wish I could go back to that night. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have gotten in that car, but even now, I know I would’ve. I still might, and that’s the twisted part of me I hate.

“How old were you?”

I try to order the years together. It’s hard when my life feels like one, long bad decision. But that summer is a little easier to remember. I was staying with Hudson and Julia because my parents and I had just buried Nathan. They left for Greece after his funeral and wouldn’t bring me along. I didn’t want to stay in the city by myself, so I lived in the Hamptons for the summer.

“Sixteen.”

I deserved to die that night. We both didn’t belong in that car after partying all day. But we were young, senseless…thought we were making a point to the Man. We were lucky it was a tree and not a car filled with a family. I don’t think I could deal with having another’s blood on my hands.

“It was stupid. Reckless. But I wanted to get in that car. I knew what was going to happen.”

We’ve been trying to kill each other ever since. It’s as if that night at the beach bonfire we made a pact over a bottle of Jack that we were going to die young. Together.

I wait for Beckett’s judgment. I deserve that now, too. But it never comes.

“Did you sleep with him?”

I pull my hand away and make a grab for the sheets. I’ve had enough of Beckett tracing the scars. I’m afraid if I tell him I have three bolts in my hip and a plate in my femur, he’ll pry even more. He’s kind like that, and it was easier when we were making out, pretending to watch
Sherlock
a few minutes ago.

“When?”

“In Paris. After we met.”

Not for a lack of trying on Hudson’s part, but I don’t think we ever did. Never after I returned Beckett’s quilt. Not that I can remember anyway. I shake my head, biting my lip to keep the rest to myself.

His eyes soften like I just told him he won the lottery, but his mouth is still pressed in a hard line.

“He’s always been in my life, Beckett. He’s been there when everyone else goes away. He’s all I have most of the time.”

I rub my forehead with my palm, panic edging up inside me. I did a shitty job of packing, thinking I could leave behind my Adderall and Xanax, my Percocet and the rest of my medicine cabinet.

“I don’t want him when I have you.” My voice ends high, like I’m asking a question. Maybe I am.

“Spend the summer with me,” he says. I laugh, not catching up with the jump in conversation. “I don’t have my job anymore, and I have to sort out my aunt’s place. Stay with me for the summer.”

“And then what?”

“And then…whatever. We don’t need to make plans. We have time.”

Beckett wants me to stay? I guess I say this out loud because he chuckles and traces his hand down the side of my face.

“Don’t be daft, pet. Of course I want you to stay with me.”

I roll over onto my back and sigh, the weight of everything pressing against my chest. I’ve never had this before. Never had someone who wanted me to stick around, someone kind, someone I wanted to love me.

I force myself to stay still, even though I want to grab my things and run out that door and never see Beckett again. The idea of him and what he’s come to mean to me is terrifying. I never thought I was worth keeping around. No one has ever wanted me much except for money or sex. I’m broke now, and while we’ve had sex, it’s different. That’s terrifying, too. To have sex and have it mean something, feel a real, honest connection for the first time. To not feel so alone for once.

“You don’t have to answer me right now,” he says. He sits up, and I think maybe he’s leaving, disappointed by my non-answer. Instead, he levers himself over me. “Need me to plead my case to you? Why you need to spend the summer with an unemployed writer?”

I brush past the heaviness of my confession about Hudson to Beckett. Of how I think I might be in love the man kissing me now. Of how it ended last spring when I believed the same.

Beckett

There’s an endless depth to Everly that I’m afraid of drowning in. I’ve known this since Paris. I knew it when we first met. She is addictive in her brilliance—in the way the day’s light clings to her even when she stumbles through the world, afraid of the dark, lost in her dreams of oblivion.