Pictures of You

Chapter 61

61

Evie

I’m almost ready for Drew’s mum’s funeral when there’s a knock at the door of the terrace apartment in north Sydney, where I’ve been staying alone since Oliver rented a studio in Coogee “to give you space.” Space is not what I’ve asked for. I want a complete severing of the relationship—a message that seems to be bouncing back, undeliverable, no matter how many different ways I say it.

Finding my own place is my top priority—it will send him the message that we are irrevocably done. How I’ll do that in Sydney on a meager PhD scholarship and the part-time tutoring work I’ve been doing is not yet clear. Thank God I kept that café job he said I didn’t need. But I can’t stay here. Can’t afford the rent, but can’t bear to, either. Too many memories that left me ducking from words that stung and bruised as I swept away shattered promises. Papered over cracks. Apologized, excused. Hoped.

I open the door.

It’s him, bearing an oversize bunch of flowers and an apologetic expression. “Let me in, Evie,” he begs. “I’ve been so wrong. I’m sorry.”

His eyes roam over the muted floral dress I’ve selected for the funeral and I wonder how much his father has told him, if anything. I bet he still has no idea he even has a brother, let alone who it is and how hard this day is for him. I shudder at the idea of him finding out. The mere mention of Drew’s name has always been a hair trigger for Oliver, a sudden disruption to his fragile stability.

“I’m just heading out,” I tell him as he thrusts the flowers at me and pushes into the wallpapered hall, even though I don’t want them—or him. I set them on the antique hall table I’d picked up on a weekend away in Moss Vale once, even though there was no room for it in the car and Oliver complained the whole way back to Sydney that I never thought things through. I have absolutely no intention of plunging the flowers into water. They can die there, with this relationship.

“This is important,” he argues, pushing past me into our sitting room. “We can’t just ignore each other.”

“Why not?” I fling back. “Oliver, this hasn’t been working. I’m sick of having to check myself constantly.”

“Check yourself?”

“It’s everything . Always questioning whether I’ve done something wrong. You sending copious messages every time I go out.” Where are you? Who are you with? When are you coming home?

“Because I worry about you,” he argues.

“You criticize me for not being lively enough at your work dinners. Or for being too animated. No matter what I do, I can’t ever seem to hit the right note.”

His hand on my shoulder feels like dead weight, pushing me down with his ever-changing expectations.

“It’s not just me who you criticize. It’s my parents. Friends. Bree. The few friends you allowed me to make at university. You pick at people until there’s nothing left!”

If he’d heard the chorus of advice my friends have given me over the years, he’d do more than verbally assault them. Why do you stay, Evie? You’re so smart! Just leave!

“I’m sorry, Evie. It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve been seeing a counselor.” The blue-green eyes I’d fallen into that first night at the pool stare at me now, just as intensely.

“Since when?”

“I don’t think I had a good role model for relationships …”

You don’t say! The anguish in his expression is almost convincing.

“The psych is talking me through everything. The way I was raised. I’ve never been shown how to love someone properly. I’ve spent my whole life trying to get my father’s attention. I’ve never been enough.”

This part is true. Anderson’s behavior at Oliver’s graduation was just the latest example of how hot and cold the love runs. He’s either bragging obsessively about Oliver or ignoring him altogether. As long as I’ve known him, Oliver has scrambled to impress his dad, and has always fallen short.

“Evie, I’m doing the work, I promise. I’m begging you for a second chance. You’re everything to me.”

I’ve been Oliver’s everything ever since we fell into the swimming pool. But I think I’ve been drowning every moment since. Every time I try to clamber to the surface, he finds a way to pull me back under.

“You don’t have to marry me,” he promises. “I can see that’s too much pressure. But I want to support you through your PhD. You can give up your tutoring. I’ll throw everything at getting you through this. You can have the career you’ve always wanted.”

It’s all too late. A hopeless afterthought without enough power to win me over. I zip up my purse and grab my keys.

“I don’t think you understand,” he pleads, stepping up to block my path. “I need you.”

I glance at the time on my phone. And then at him. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Such a disheveled version of that perfect, confident boy I knew.

“This last week,” he says, more quietly now that he has my attention, “I’ve wanted to end everything.”

Don’t take me down this path.

“I can’t face a life without you, Evie. And I’ve realized my father has set the very worst example of what it means to be a man. It’s him I need to cut ties with.”

He’s right about his dad, at least. He takes both my wrists in his hands and clutches them, staring into my eyes with a genuine misery and need. “Please, just one more chance. We can take it slowly. Just let me prove to you that I’m learning. I’ll do anything for you.”

“Olly …”

He falls to his knees now, arms reaching for my waist. Our bodies know this choreography, intimately. This is the part where I always yield.

“If you push me away now, I’m not going to survive.” There’s a finality to his tone. A believability that forces me to fast-forward in my imagination to a time when there might have to be another phone call to the paramedics. More flashing lights. More questions. Another gurney with a white sheet on it …

And then forward again, to all the years after, where I’d always wonder if I could have stopped him.

This is impossible.

Oxygen fights to make it into my lungs as my chest seems to freeze, limbs tingling, brain aching from the desperation of this relationship. The car keys drop from my hand and clatter onto the floorboards beside Oliver, a hopeful spark reentering his eyes as he stares up into my face.

But this time, from somewhere deep in my subconscious, another vision pushes up and forces itself through all the sinews of this diabolical mess, until it takes a stranglehold and causes me to break eye contact, remove his arms from my waist, and pick up my keys again.

It’s that same gurney. Those flashing lights. A body under a sheet.

And a soul-deep knowing that, if nothing changes, the body will be mine.