The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (18 page)

It takes me a second to get my words in order, to seek out what little tact I do possess and apply it. I disguise the pause by wrestling with the garden hose, pulling it out and attaching the sprinkler head.

“The world that you come from,” I begin, “especially with people like you and Tony, with family legacies and careers and businesses to live up to. And I saw a lot of… pressure behind the scenes when I would take Cindy to dance, especially at her competitions. Your dad was really different from them all. I’m sure you can imagine what it would have been like to be raised by just Clarissa.”

Evie shudders and I can’t hold back a laugh before continuing. “Anyway, my point is, I know Tony’s parents from the club, sort of. They’re not the nicest people around. I know all you rich kids have a lot to live up to, family names and all that shit, but have you ever considered… the idea that maybe… Tony’s dad might have hit him?”

Evie whips her head around to stare at me incredulously, and I rush to explain more.

“Not beat him or anything. Maybe not even an actual hit. But if his dad was kind of a… a shover or something, you know? Even if it just happened a few times, or maybe when he was really young. You know, smacking on the side of the head. Pushing him against the wall like Tony did to you. Hell, maybe he even pulled Tony around by his hair to make him look him in the eye. Intimidation stuff more than actual physical abuse. It wouldn’t have to be a big thing, but if it happened a lot when Tony was young…”

I trail off and shrug my shoulders, and then feel a little nervous, because Evie is still staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes. “I don’t know. You probably knew them better than I ever did. But a lot of the people at the club… I see a different side of them, as they deal with the help behind the scenes. And Mr. Stull was by far everyone’s least favorite. Even Uncle Alex, and he had a huge pool of asses to choose from. He’s worked at the club since he was my age.”

More silence, again comfortable as we get the left flowerbed completely finished and arrange a sprinkler to water the flowers. I don’t push anymore because I know Evie is thinking, considering, absorbing everything. Small conversation, hopefully a big impact. I hope she can cross at least one thing off her list. Accept that this, at least, she can change. And change immediately.

Finally, it’s complete and we both stand back and admire our work; an infusion of pink, purple, and red impatiens grace the forefront of the flower beds, with spindly rose bushes behind them, which will grow and bloom soon enough. Eventually, the gazebo will be surrounded by the scent of roses, a small thing that occurred to me later in the planning but one I know Evie will come to appreciate.

“Looks good,” I finally say, wanting to break the silence. I nudge her with my elbow, trying for a playful grin. “Not too bad, for a rich girl.”

Evie doesn’t laugh, just looks up at me with big eyes which are capable of melting every wall I still manage to keep up inside me. Damn, those eyes are dangerous.

“I think…” She pauses to take in a deep breath, and her whole face is filled with fear, as though whatever she’s about to say, she’s scared to admit. As though it terrifies her. “I think you could be right. About Mr. Stull. He’s not… he’s not the nicest guy out there. I never really felt comfortable around him. So maybe… maybe the blame is a little less on my shoulders than I might have thought.”

“None of it is on your shoulders,” I say firmly. “But okay. Baby steps. I’ll take a maybe.”

Evie gives a quick, jerky nod, her eyes going back to the flower beds. “Baby steps,” she repeats. “I like that.”

Evangeline

61

In another two days, the flower beds around the gazebo are full, and I find myself in love with them, and this feeling. I’ve never gardened before; it’s always been contracted out, and this is the first time I’ve plunged my fingers into dirt, warm from the sun on top, chilly beneath the surface. The first time I’ve planted something in the earth and had the pleasure of seeing it days later as the roots sink deep, taking hold and embracing their new home and growing, thriving in their new environment. I like to think it’s symbolic, a sign of what is happening inside me as well.

I still have nightmares, still sleep in the downstairs because I can’t face my bedroom, but seeing Zeke every day has calmed the mass of emotions that always tumble around in my head, and I haven’t felt like I’m going to float away for days now, which also means I don’t feel any urge to harm myself. For the first time in a long time, my body is free of new wounds, only healing. I hope it’s the same for my inside as well, though I’m cautious of progress that seems to come too fast. I struggled for a while, trying to keep myself from feeling too optimistic, but finally I decided to hell with it, I deserved some freaking happiness and peace when it came my way, and I would deal with any relapses or complications when they finally appeared.

I’ve finally called the company to install the pond, and they show up on Thursday morning and begin swarming over the backyard with half a dozen people and a ton of equipment. Zeke and I try to steer clear of that area and work on our own decided project for the day. The nursery finally delivered the much larger trees and bushes for the end of the path near the gazebo earlier this morning, and we’re dragging them into place on the path so we can be ready to plant them tomorrow.

It’s exhausting, back-breaking work and it isn’t helped by the fact that the humidity is already so heavy I swear I can see the water in the air. The sun is also beating down on us and I’m pretty sure it’s already over ninety degrees. I move some of the smallest bushes into place myself, rolling them along the ground, and then Zeke and I tackle the bigger trees together.

After just an hour I’ve sweat what feels like buckets and I’m panting for air. I can feel how red my cheeks are and I think I’m about to die of a heat stroke. I don’t know how the pond people can stand to move around in their jeans and heavy boots. Zeke’s cheeks are tinged pink underneath his dark skin and sweat stands out on his forehead. His own gray t-shirt is soaked, and finally I stand up, leaving the third tree that we’re trying to move right where it is, stuck between the middle of the backyard and the path.

“That’s it,” I say. “We’re not getting paid for this. Therefore, I say we take the rest of the day off. It’s too hot and we’re only going to be in their way.”

“Deal,” Zeke says immediately, not even trying to argue. “I’d kill to be able to sit down and stuff my face right now. It feels like it’s three o’clock, not noon.”

“Let’s go then,” I agree, and lead the way up the hill to the house, asking over my shoulder, “Pizza?”

He gives a wave of his hand. “Anything.”

We step inside the sliding glass door and breathe an identical sigh of relief as the air conditioning hits us. Then I head to the fridge and pull out two bottles of water, handing one to Zeke before stepping over to the phone. I order us a pizza and we just sit at the kitchen table, trying to recover ourselves. Or more appropriately, Zeke sits and I lay overtop the counter, letting the cool granite lower the temperature of my flushed body. Finally, the doorbell rings and I go get the pizza, bringing it back to the kitchen and getting us more water.

“Good thing Clarissa is gone all day,” I say while we attack the food, as though we’ve been working all day, not just barely an hour. “She’s shopping at the outlets and can’t yell at us for ‘stinking’ up the house with pizza.”

Zeke inhales three slices before coming up for air to ask, “Where’s Hunter?”

I shrug, chugging half my water in one go and finally feeling hydrated again. “Gone. He comes and goes. I think he stays with girls or his friends a lot. I don’t honestly care because if he’s gone, he’s not here bothering me.”

“Huh,” Zeke grunts in agreement and silence reigns again as we eat.

“I’ll never eat again,” I groan once the box is empty. I sit back with my hands over my stomach, and reflect once again, as I often have since Zeke took me on a run to his bridge, that I should probably pick up running again, at least on a treadmill. But then I push the thought away. There is no Tony to answer to if I get bloated, or if I gain three extra pounds because life steals away my exercise time for a few weeks. No one will notice, and a few extra pounds are the least of my worries right now. I have the right to become huge if I want, and Tony can no longer say a damn thing about it. It’s one area, at least, where I don’t get a pang of guilt at defying him.

“Right,” Zeke says, laughing as he tosses a wadded up napkin at me. “I’m pretty sure that you eat just as much, if not more, than I do. You should weigh three hundred pounds. Or at least be a little taller.”

“Ha-ha,” I tell him, wrinkling my nose as I toss an empty water bottle back at him in retaliation. “Hilarious.”

Zeke stands and tosses away our trash, familiar enough with the kitchen by now to know how to clean up. Then he lounges against the counter and eyes me speculatively. I take in his hair, which is a bit long, getting some curl at the ends and needs a cut. His arm tattoos are clearly visible, unimpeded by his short sleeved shirt. His right arm is covered in thick lines, some kind of tribal looking imprint that I already know swirls up his arm and curls around his right shoulder and back like smoke.

I’ve never looked closely at any of his other tattoos and I only know this one on his arms because he had his shirt off once. The shoulder was as far as I got before I began to feel like I was doing something, looking at something, that I shouldn’t be. The only other tattoo I can always see is the trail of stars, a combination of the Rihanna/Chris Brown look, that comes up out of his shirt and around the curve of his neck and up under his right ear.

I’ve never found tattoos particularly remarkable or sexy on a guy. They’re just marks on bodies, sometimes interesting, sometimes not. But with Zeke, it’s different. It’s simply part of who he is, part of his whole image and the expression of what is inside him. After what he told me by the bridge, I have no doubt that he designed every mark on his body, and I find that wildly intriguing and I stare at him sometimes, like now, wondering what the rest of him looks like.

I suddenly realize that Zeke has been staring at me, and I at him, for over a minute, and I squirm uncomfortably and finally tear my gaze away from him. “What?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, and for the first time I wonder if he finds me even marginally as interesting and confusing and … absolutely intoxicating as I find him. “Clarissa and Hunter are both gone, and I was just thinking…”

He looks vaguely uncomfortable still, and I raise my eyebrows at him and egg him on, knowing the challenge will make him spit out whatever he’s trying to ask. “If you want to look at her panties, you’re on your own. I don’t know where her underwear drawer is.”

Zeke actually recoils. “You’re sick,” he snaps, and rubs his stomach. “Shit. That made me want to throw up. I was wondering if I could see the rest of your house. I never got a tour.”

“You want a tour… of my house?” I repeat blankly. I look around the big kitchen, the house I’ve lived in all my life but that has felt so strange and empty the past few weeks.

“It’s my masochistic streak kicking in,” Zeke says sarcastically, though he still looks a bit discomfited. “I like looking at what I know I’ll never have.”

“It’s just a house,” I say, because it is. It might be big, grand and imposing and richly decorated, but at the end of the day, it’s just a house, full of things that could always be replaced, everything in it easily fixed. So much different from a person.

Zeke raises his eyebrows at me. “Your richness is speaking. Most of my friends have never set foot on the property of a house like this.”

I throw my hands up in the air in exasperation. “Fine! Let’s go see the house.”

I hop off my stool and begin leading Zeke around the first floor, and he follows in relative silence, though his eyes get wide sometimes. My house isn’t overly done, isn’t insanely flashy, but it’s impressive in the sheer size. There are ten bedrooms upstairs, though three of them have been converted into offices and the basement transitions from movie room, to a cocktail lounge-type room complete with a bar, to a more comfortable teen-friendly hangout space.

We’re downstairs in that very room, in fact, when Zeke notices my heap of blankets and pillow on the couch, and looks over at me quizzically. “Have you been sleeping down here?”

I shrug and say without even thinking, “I don’t like my bedroom.”

An instant, fatal mistake to the perceptive Zeke, and the fact that my own emotions are always constantly so transparent. I get a chill as I think about the room I once loved so much; decorated in bold colors that Clarissa and even Tony despised; teal, purple, orange, pink and lime green. The colors I tried to have my nails painted. I don’t feel like that wild, fun-loving and bold girl anymore, so maybe it’s only appropriate that I can no longer stand to set foot in that room.

Zeke lets out a dry laugh. “Seriously? I can only guess what your bedroom looks like, and you sleep in the
basement
?”

I don’t respond because for a flash of a moment, all I can remember is Tony moving above me, holding my hands above my head, and my arms clench around my chest nervously. I hate those memories, hate that time. They are the ones I have tried my hardest to forget, to block out completely and if I get a disorder from repressing them, I don’t care. I want to forget everything about that night and the one before it.