The Love Story (The Things We Can't Change Book 4) (24 page)

“Thanks,” I say and he winks at me. I step out from behind the podium. Never have I felt so sure of myself or so filled with purpose. I know exactly what I have to do next. Finally, at long last it seems,
I know what I’m doing.

I march straight up to Jenny as the class around us disperses.

She’s staring at me, practically slack-jawed. “Evie!” she exclaims. “Evie, that was amazing!”

“Thanks. It felt good,” I admit, a little surprised. “Listen, there’s something I have to do. Will you help me?”

Evangeline

108

My palms are sweating as I step through the doors of our school, but I wipe them against my jeans and try to ignore it. As if she can sense my nervousness, Jenny gives my arm a reassuring squeeze and smiles at me.

“Don’t worry. You look absolutely fabulous.”

“Thanks,” I say, still swallowing back an insane urge to run back out. But what’s done is done and I can’t change it. It’s permanent.

I am, however, wishing for the safety of my old clothes, something simple and effortless, a pencil skirt and sweater set, maybe. Not the black skinny jeans, grey stiletto heeled boots and black v-neck with a grey vest that I’m wearing right now. But I tell myself that it’s not like I’m naked and that I actually
do
look quite fabulous. And since Jenny is wearing flats, I’m actually as tall as her for once.

My scars are out in plain sight, no sweater or long sleeve to hide them and I think that’s part of why I’m feeling so vulnerable. But it’s time to stop hiding, to stop lying down and taking whatever people throw my way. There are things in my past that I regret, that I wish I’d been strong enough to avoid, but they have made me who I am in this moment and right now, I feel pleased with who I am.

So I wear the short-sleeved shirt proudly and don’t even try to keep my arm behind my back. Besides, from the looks I’m getting so far, the scars on my forearm are the last thing people will be noticing.

“Okay, I’m going to look around,” Jenny says as we weave through the art show exhibits, nearing the one with drawing and paintings. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” I say, pausing to watch her walk away and, truth be told, stalling. Then I shake my head and give myself a pep talk. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” I say firmly, knowing people will think I’m crazy for talking to myself and not really caring. “You can do this. You actually like it, remember?”

I’d expected to mourn the loss, to feel as though I’d lost a security blanket, but I’d been surprised to be in love with it. I feel lighter, figuratively and probably literally too. Hair was
heavy
.

I don’t know how this talk is going to end. I have high hopes for it and then I also have realistic ones. I don’t know which will win out but one thing has changed: I know I’m strong enough to handle whichever it is.

I give a nod and walk around the table I’ve been hiding behind, the tri-fold display board sitting on it shielding me from view. I’m confronted with Zeke’s back and the
Lola
painting. The painting is, of course, fabulous. I’d expect nothing less from Zeke. It’s sexy but in a classic, black-and-white seductive kind of way. No one would guess that a seventeen-year-old boy with a juvenile record, wearing baggy jeans and an overlarge T-shirt, had painted it.

Zeke isn’t wearing that now, of course. Koby had told me of his indignation when Mr. Bryant had demanded he dress up a little bit for the show. Apparently, working at the country club gives any employee an instant dislike of dress pants and button-down shirts. Still, in slacks and a dress shirt Zeke is.

I stare at him for a moment, studying him just as he is studying his painting and then I realize that yet again, I’m stalling.

“Showtime,” I mutter, and step up so I’m standing beside him. I say clearly and articulately, “You clean up nicely.”

Zeke looks over at me and then does a double take. And then he just stares. I allow him, knowing the shock he must feel. I still get a jolt whenever I look in the mirror. However, he begins to stare in silence for so long that I start to feel uncomfortable.

“So… nice painting,” I manage to say, wanting to do
something
to break the uncomfortable moment.

He’s still practically slack-jawed, but at last he speaks. “You… cut off your hair.” His voice is flat, his eyes reflecting the shock that still seems to be clutching him tightly.

I think about a joke to lighten the mood—
Oh, you noticed? How odd for a boy!
—but I decide that might be in bad taste since he looks so thunderstruck.

“Yes, I did,” I say at last. I run a hand through my hair—or at least, what’s left of it. Three feet of hair. That’s about how much I got taken off. Someone at Locks of Love is going to get a damn fine wig, as the hairdresser said. It left me with a sling-bob style haircut. It wasn’t shorn off to my jaw or anything and I didn’t shave it off either. The shortest point is at the nape of my neck and it angles downward and longer as it comes around the sides. It’s straight as a pin, not a curl in sight. Ultra-modern and sleek, and much easier to manage, I’m learning already.

“You cut it off,” Zeke says again, as though he still can’t believe it, despite the proof before his very eyes.

“Yes,” I confirm, and then I dive right into it, not able to put it off any longer. “I had to. And I honestly don’t care if you like it or not. It was something I had to do. For me. But it will grow back,” I reassure quickly, because he’s looking more horrified by the second. “I plan on letting it, actually. But I needed a change. I needed to… to reflect outwardly the change going on inside. I always wanted to see what it was like to have short hair. My mom never let me cut it while I was growing up, did I ever tell you that? I think I kept it long afterward for her sake and was clinging to it at first for that reason. And then Tony liked it and then you liked it. But I realized that it’s always so damn heavy and hot and I always wanted to know…”

I realize that I’m rambling and stop suddenly, giving him a small smile and shrugging. “Anyway. It’s done. Can’t take it back now and I really like it.”

“That’s… that’s good, I guess,” Zeke says, still sounding shocked. And completely unconvincing.

If it didn’t all feel so serious, I would have been amused at how utterly lost he sounded. But my mind is on more important things as I take a step closer. I want him to subtly pick up on what I’m trying to say, to realize what I’m getting at so I don’t have to say it. But somehow, the strange mind-reading that we’ve always done is failing right now.

Or maybe he’s ignoring it on purpose.

Whatever the reason, he’s going to make me do this the hard way. But that’s okay. Because I can.

I take a single step closer to him, not even bothering with a deep breath for courage. I don’t need that anymore either.

“Zeke. I think we need to talk about not being on a break anymore. We need to talk about being together again. For real.”

Zeke’s guard instantly comes up. I can sense it more than anything else, a sixth sense because almost nothing about him outwardly changes. But I can still see it. I fight back a feeling of disappointment because I know what he’s going to say.

“Evie,” he says in a low voice, eyes darting all around as though looking for someone to distract or save him. “Now is not a good time.”

“Why? You’re not talking to anyone else. I’m here. They already did the awards. Congratulations, by the way.” I gesture toward the ribbon pinned on one corner of his painting. First place, of course. I’d have been outraged if he’d received anything less.

“Thanks. Really, thank you, Evie. But can we talk about this later, please?”

I take another step closer, so we’re standing nearly toe to toe, the closest I’ve been to him in a while. Since that day outside the club when I’d come to talk to Alex. I want to throw my arms around him. I’ve missed him so much. But I don’t. I just look up into his eyes.

“You don’t see it, do you?” I ask in wonder. “Any of it. Or are you just ignoring it on purpose because you’re scared?”

In an instant, irritation falls into place over his eyes. “I’m not scared of anything, least of all you. Please, I’m just asking if we can do this later. I-”

“
No
,” I snap, and he looks at me in shock. “We’re not doing this later. I want to talk about this now. So for once, we’re doing things my way.”

My voice is so forceful that Zeke doesn’t say another word. He just stares at me. Forcibly calming myself, I reach out and take one of his hands, holding it in both of my own. I run a thumb over his palm. Beneath the bravery, beneath the simmering anger, there’s a biting disappointment. I know, I’m convinced, of where this is going.

Heartbreak.

“Zeke Quain,” I say formally, looking up into his eyes once more. “I love you.”

There is complete silence between the two of us. The crowds of people bustle behind us, talking and laughing but Zeke and I are in our own private bubble. It’s just the two of us and the echo of three little words that I think Zeke fears above all else.

“Evie,” he sighs. “I know you do but you need to-”

And just like that, my anger snaps. It comes boiling out above all else, hot and strong. I love Zeke, I never want to hurt him, but just as in a lesson he taught me once, sometimes you have to get angry.

I drop his hand as though it’s burned me and cross my arms, glaring at him as I interrupt yet again. “No. I don’t
need
to do anything.
You
need to listen to me.”

I pause and lick my lips, ignoring Zeke’s stunned face as I search for the right words. “You kept me going,” I finally say, settling on the honest, bald-faced truth and unable to keep a tremulous tone from my voice. “You’ve always kept me going. Through everything. You pushed and shoved me until I got better, never letting me down or giving up on me. I have done
years
of potential healing in just one summer, all because of you. Don’t think I don’t know how incredible that is or that I’m the least bit ungrateful. I’ll never be able to repay you for any of that.”

I pause but he doesn’t say a word. I continue. “When we went on our break, it was needed. It really was. Old habits… die hard and once again, you helped me. You made me heal all the way and never failed to do what was best for me. But you don’t see that you kept me going. I did all of this so I could have you. But right now, in this very moment, for the first time ever, you’re letting me down.”

He opens his mouth to protest but I hold up a hand, not wanting to hear whatever excuses he’s trying to drum up. “You have been for the past month. I thought it was me at first. And finally, at long last, I realized that it wasn’t me at all. It’s all you. You and the fact that you’re still scared of your emotions. You’ll let yourself feel now but only if the feelings don’t go too deep. Only if you don’t have to let that person too close. I overcame everything for you. Maybe I should have done it solely for myself, but you were going to be my grand prize.”

I look up at him, tears stinging at my eyes. “I did all of this so I could be worthy of you. But now I see maybe it’s you that isn’t worthy of me. You were right. I
can
stand on my own. And maybe… maybe I don’t need you after all. I still
want
you, Zeke. I want you more than anything. But I can’t take you like this. I need—I deserve—more than this.”

I can feel tears stinging my eyes and try to summon my anger back from wherever it has gone. I don’t want to leave him with the impression that everything is over because that’s the very last thing that I want. But he has to know that it’s
his
turn to face his own demons,
his
turn to make the final push and either live in fear or walk out from under its shadow. I force up a glare from somewhere and aim it at him.

“I deserve more than this,” I say again in a steadier voice. “More than you’re trying to give me right now, if you’re even giving anything, at this point. You need to stop smoking and get your shit together. Apologize to your dad and stop being such a baby about telling people you love them. I need a man, and lately you’ve been a poor excuse of one.”

Zeke’s eyes grow wider with every word and I wonder if I’ve taken it too far. Tears sting at my eyes again and I know I need to disappear before I really lose it and betray my true feelings. I find words for one more parting volley.

“And I hate the way you dress!” I snap. “If I see you in baggy jeans again, I’m going to smack you.” Trying to use my indignation to keep my lip from trembling, I turn and disappear into the crowd.

Ezekiel

109

I don’t know how I make it through the rest of the art show. I stand there numbly for another hour, nodding robotically whenever people say hello or compliment my painting. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on around me. All I can think—all I can hear—are Evie’s words.