12. Evangeline
CHAPTER TWELVE
evangeline
I spent years describing love
using too many words
specifically verbs
before finally realizing
you weren’t really listening
only nodding along
E very time I shift in my chair, phantom fullness pulses between my legs. Two days after Wilder broke my vagina, I still feel him. Every time I wipe. Sneeze. Bend over. Muscles that have no business interfering with my life are sore and cramping. Yesterday I was convinced I was starting my period. But no—just another consequence of the most intense, depraved, earthshaking sex of my life.
“Not hungry, Eva?” asks my dad, his eyes lifting from my untouched waffle and narrowing with concern.
I summon a smile. “Not really. Filled up on fruit.”
“I’ll take that,” Hunter says, snatching my plate. At eighteen and still growing, he’s perpetually starving. He’s already finished off two servings of waffles, bacon, and scrambled eggs.
Mom shakes her head with a fond smile while my uncle Josh chuckles. “I remember that age well.”
The conversation veers in a safe direction—namely, away from me—as they reminisce about keeping my uncle Patrick fed when he was a teenager. I devote myself to my cup of coffee, pretending to listen while trying not to think about how sore I am and ignoring my dad’s periodic, searching glances.
He’s always been the worrier in the family, especially when it comes to me. His overprotectiveness used to piss me off when I was a teenager. Now I’m grateful for it. Mostly. Right now it’s knives sawing on my already frayed nerves.
Unfortunately, Sunday brunch at my parents’ requires an excuse to skip. A worthy one in the realm of sudden hospitalization or amnesia. My mom is militant about the tradition. In the early years, it was chaos with both sets of grandparents and four aunts and uncles every weekend. Now most of my parents’ siblings have families of their own. Uncle Josh and his wife don’t have kids, and since she works most weekends as a trauma nurse, he still comes more often than not. My grandparents are usually fixtures as well, but they travel a lot during the colder months. This month all four of them are on a cruise to Panama.
“Eva.”
My mom’s gentle voice jolts me. I look up, blinking in surprise when I see that Hunter’s gone and Dad and Uncle Josh are clearing the table.
“Sorry. Spaced out.”
My dad opens his mouth, that familiar frown of concern on his face, but my mom gives him a look . He closes his mouth fast. He and my uncle trade a humored glance and head for the kitchen with plates.
Mom rounds the table and smiles down at me. “Come on. I have something for you.”
Whereas my dad is all about frontal assault, Sophie Sullivan is the master of sneak attacks. With her gentle spirit and angelic beauty, she’s a Trojan Horse of life lessons I’m never ready for.
Sighing, I push back from the table and follow her down the hall. She veers into her art studio, a bright, colorful space that’s one of my favorite places on the planet.
Growing up, I spent countless hours curled in the armchair by the window, watching her draw. Sometimes I fell asleep, but mostly I read books, listened to music, and later, played guitar. Most of our difficult conversations have also happened in this room. The Sex talk. The Red Flags and Safety talk. The Why-Your-Best-Friend-Isn’t-Your-Best-Friend-If-She-Kisses-Your-Boyfriend talk.
Leaning against the doorjamb, I cross my arms and school my expression.
“What’s up?” My voice is unconcerned, masking my unhinged inner dialogue.
You’re fine. Everything’s fine. You did not have life-altering, semi-hate sex with Wilder. And he definitely didn’t shred your G-spot with his pierced dick.
A vivid flashback hits me—the tender, fierce expression on his face when he ripped off the condom and came all over my chest, then rubbed his cum into my breasts.
My whole body flushes. Between my legs, a painful pulse makes me wince.
Thankfully, Mom has her back to me as she rummages through a small closet. I take slow, deep breaths until I feel calm again.
“Ah, here it is! I found this in the attic last week and thought you might like to have it.”
She turns around, offering me a small black box, the kind you buy in a craft store for keeping mementos. It’s covered in band stickers.
My face goes numb. “I don’t want that.”
There’s nothing remotely normal about my voice this time.
“Oh, honey.” She sets the box down on a drafting table. “Come sit.”
With no reasonable excuse not to, I drag myself to the armchair and collapse into it. Mom pulls over her rolling stool and settles in front of me. Grabbing my hands in hers, she leans forward until we’re eye to eye.
“It’s the new song, isn’t it? I’m sure it brought up a lot of complex feelings.”
“Um, yeah.”
She leans back an inch, her brows lifting.
I screw my eyes shut. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“You just lied to my face.” There’s amusement in her voice. “You haven’t done that since you were four and tried to convince me the cat covered himself in pink marker.”
Slipping my hands from hers, I rub my face. “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t really lie. The song did throw me for a loop.” And started this mess.
When she doesn’t say anything, I make the mistake of looking at her calm, compassionate face. My defenses crumble.
Cheeks burning, I whisper, “He came over Friday night.”
Her eyes widen and flicker to the left side of my neck. Specifically to the spot where I piled concealer over a hickey. My skin crawls. I’m hoping it’s a prelude to spontaneous combustion.
“Oh,” she whispers, then sits back, blinking fast. “ Oh .”
I groan, dropping my head back to stare at the ceiling. “It was a mistake, Mom. It was—” I choke, my eyes stinging. Perfect. Mind-blowing. “I hate him so much.”
There’s a long pause. “You don’t hate him, sweetie.”
“It’s just us. You and me. Like it’s supposed to be.”
As his words whisper through my mind, I finally allow myself to feel them. My gut clenches, my heart pounding in thick misery. Tears push against my closed eyelids, forcing their way through my lashes.
“You’re right,” I concede, angrily swiping wetness from my cheeks. “What I hate is that he changed. I wish I knew what happened my senior year. One day he was the Wilder I’d always known, and the next day he was different. Like he had a… a poison inside him that spread so slowly I didn’t notice until it was everywhere. I think that’s the worst part—the guilt. I feel like he needed me to help him, but I didn’t even know something was wrong until it was too late. I lost him before I knew he was slipping away.”
My mom makes a soft, sad sound. She grabs my hands again, squeezing hard.
“Listen to me very carefully, Eva. You’re not responsible for anyone else’s mental health. The road Wilder is on is his to walk. We all worry about him, Rose and Julian especially. But they know there’s nothing they can do but provide support, set boundaries, and be there for him if he decides he’s ready for a change.”
My lungs atrophy, turning my voice brittle. “What are you saying?”
She sighs, her head briefly bowing. When it lifts, determination and sorrow shine in her eyes. “What changed back then was Wilder started having debilitating panic attacks. He refused to see a therapist or consider medication. Rose thinks he started using drugs to manage his anxiety and that over the years his using has progressed.”
Shock erupts from me in a breathless laugh. “What? No. I mean, sure, he smoked a lot of weed back then.” We both did. “And I’m sure he drinks and stuff now, but he’s always been super careful because of his family history…” I trail off at the unchanging expression on her face. My spine stiffens further. “He’s not an addict, Mom. He wasn’t loaded on Friday. I would have known.”
“Maybe not,” she says softly, but I can tell she thinks I’m being naive.
Maybe I am.
Was he on drugs?
The idea nauseates me.
I jerk to my feet, forcing her to push back the stool. “I have to go.”
“Eva, please?—”
“No! He’s not a fucking addict!”
Buzzing silence follows. I’ve never yelled at her like that. Shaking my head in dismay, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”
She reaches for me, but I back away.
“I can’t do this right now.”
Movement in the doorway makes me flinch. My gaze flies to my dad. His expression is neutral, but his voice emerges hard. “Julian says it’s opiates. Probably pills. He’s careful around his family, but he’s not fooling his parents. He’s always high these days.” He pauses. “Stay away from him, Eva.”
“I haven’t seen him since the barbecue last year,” I blurt.
My dad’s eyes narrow. “You think after years of watching him toy with you that I didn’t recognize the look on your face the second you walked in this morning?” His gaze drops to my neck. “Please tell me that’s not from him.”
Mortified, I slap a hand over the spot .
His shoulders bunch, then relax. He shakes his head slowly, blue eyes filled with such disappointment that shame spreads like ink through my chest. My chin wobbles. He’s never looked at me this way.
My mom takes a few steps toward him. “Let’s take a breather,” she says softly.
He stays laser focused on me. “Deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time before he came after you, but I really, really hoped you’d be smarter than this.”
“Matthew,” hisses my mom.
He ignores her again. “I know you guys were close growing up. You had a bond anyone could see. Hell—Julian, Rose, your mom, and I used to joke that the two of you were a done deal. Soulmates .” His lips twist over the word. “We were wrong. What Wilder feels for you isn’t love. Maybe it could have been, but the second he decided to take the coward’s way out, he became incapable of the feeling. If you let yourself believe the bullshit he’s telling you, he’ll drag you down with him. He’s an addict. He’s using you. Did he tell you he was single now? He’s not. His girlfriend moved in with him two months ago.”
“Enough!” snaps my mom. “Take a walk, Matt.”
He looks at her, but it’s like he doesn’t even see her. His jaw ticks, then he spins on his heel and disappears into the hallway. I stare after him, silent tears spilling over my cheeks.
My mom wraps her arms around me; I barely feel the embrace. “He shouldn’t have said all that. It was coming from a place of pain that has nothing to do with you.”
“His dad?” I ask weakly.
She nods against my shoulder. “And Julian. There was a rough period in the early days before he got sober. It almost broke up the band. But it’s not an excuse. He went too far.” She leans back, framing my face in her hands and smoothing away my tears. “Expect him to be groveling tomorrow.”
Preternatural calm descends on my shoulders, numbing and welcome. My tears slow and stop.
“You agree with him, though. Don’t you?”
Her gaze flickers away from mine, her hands falling. “I won’t lie and say I don’t have some of the same fears.” She looks like she wants to say more, but instead presses her palm to my chest over my heart. “Be careful with this, okay?”
I manage a small smile. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of seeing Wilder again, at least not on purpose.” I pause. “He told me he was in an open relationship. Do you know if that’s true?”
She frowns. “I don’t, sorry. Do you want me to ask Rose? I can be discreet.”
I shake my head, regretting letting the question slip out. “No, that’s okay.”
I know exactly who to ask.
* * *
Once at home, I make myself tea and take it onto my back porch. The sky is a pale, crystal blue, the air cold enough that I have a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and my tea has doubled its steam.
Despite the still-bare branches of the maple above me, green stalks are pushing through the soil along my fence. In a few weeks, white and yellow daffodils will bloom. I’ve always loved this time of year—the first yawn of spring—but for the first time, I can’t connect to the symbolic beauty of new beginnings. All I see is barrenness.
Dropping into a chair, I take a few sips of chamomile.
Then I make the call.
Rye answers on the second ring. “Yo! Good timing. Just got in the car to head home from Casey’s. I can’t wait for you to meet this girl, Eva. She’s super cool. No crazy vibes at all.”
“Is this a different Casey from the one you dated before Anna?”
There’s a telling silence, then a deep groan. “Shit. Oh, fuck me. Her name is Kelsey. I totally called her Casey this morning. No wonder she gave me that weird look.”
I try not to laugh, but it’s impossible.
“What am I going to do?” he whines.
“I’d start with an apology. Was it a first date?”
He makes an affirmative sound. “I was going to be a gentleman and drop her off at home, but then she dragged me in?—”
“Got it,” I say quickly. “If it was a first date, she might accept an apology. No promises, though. Getting her name wrong after spending the night gives major fuckboy energy.”
He laughs, unoffended. “Anyway, what’s up? How was the party on Friday?”
I lean back to stare at the bare branches above me. “It was at Wilder’s house. Is that why you suddenly had last-minute plans?”
“Uh, maybe?”
I sigh. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not friends with him, Rye. I don’t care about that. I’m calling because I have a question. After you answer it, we’re going back to never talking about him. Cool?”
“Cool.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Eva. We were in the studio for months?—”
“It’s fine,” I interject. “My question is about Wilder and his girlfriend. Do they have an open relationship?”
This time the pause is so long that if it wasn’t for the background hum coming from moving tires, I’d think he’d hung up.
When his answer comes, his voice is uncharacteristically serious. “They both sleep with other people. But I wouldn’t even call it a relationship. It’s super fucked up. They don’t even like each other. Why are you asking? What happened?”
I open my mouth, but before I can speak, he explodes.
“Oh, shit ! He seduced you, didn’t he? That motherfucker. Were you drunk? Do I need to beat his ass? I knew I should have gone with?—”
“Rye, chill!”
He falls silent, but his breathing is harsh through the line.
“I wasn’t drunk, okay? I went home early and he showed up at my house. We slept together. It was consensual. He left. The end.”
Memory seizes me.
Wilder buttons his jeans and buckles his belt, bare chest and arms flexing with the movements. I know I have to get up to lock my door behind him, but I need another minute. I’m not sure my legs can hold me yet.
“You really have no idea,” he murmurs, heavy-lidded gaze dancing down my body.
I sit up, dragging the sheet with me. “About what?”
Avoiding my eyes, he grabs his shirt and pulls it on, then slips his feet into unlaced boots. His socks are tucked into a pocket.
Finally, he looks at me. “Be stronger than me. Block my number. Don’t open the door if I knock.”
I swallow so hard I hear it. “Obviously.”
His smile is tender. Sad in a way I don’t understand. “I mean it. Someday you’re going to realize the way it is between us isn’t the norm. But when that happens—when you’re tempted—remember that I’m not worth it.”
Before my shock can transition to anger, he stalks to the bed and grabs my throat, then presses his lips to mine in a short, hard kiss.
“Goodbye, Fairy.”
Then he’s gone, striding from the bedroom. He doesn’t look back.
“Eva?” asks Rye in a tone that tells me he’s been talking but I haven’t heard a word he’s said.
“Sorry. I’m here.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I force confidence into my voice. “Yep.”
He hesitates. “Are you guys talking now? Is this going to happen again?”
A sudden gust of wind throws my hair across my face and whistles through high branches. I shiver, then grab my tea and stand.
“No. It was a one-time thing.”
Rye says nothing.
He doesn’t have to.
I’m not sure I believe me, either.