Chapter Seventeen
Evelyn’s eyes fell on a younger version of herself, standing at the bar, plowing shrimp cocktail into her craw.
That was less than remarkable. But the rest of it—the swank guests packing the place, the skyline from the terrace overlooking Manhattan, the bar decorated with silver and blue trimmings—was incredibly comprehensive.
Evelyn was amazed that her brain could create such a detailed delusion, with minutiae she had long since forgotten, when Three appeared behind her.
“You didn’t need to bring the vase,” he said.
“What?” Evelyn said, confused.
Three nodded to her hands.
She was, indeed, still holding the vase.
“Oh, for—” Evelyn went to put it down when she saw him. David.
It had taken her younger self a moment to place him.
After that winter holiday in high school, they had gone their separate ways.
Despite the fact that they both attended college in New York—him at Columbia, her at NYU—they never met up.
Indeed, they weren’t even friends on social media.
But it was David who recognized her, and approached, first .
. . while she was still shoveling shrimp.
“Evelyn?” young David asked.
Her attention shifted to the handsome man at the bar who apparently knew her name.
“I’m sorry,” she said, a hunk of shellfish still hanging from her mouth, cocktail sauce fully dribbling onto the napkin she was holding. “Do I know you?”
“It’s me,” he said, holding out one hand. “David?”
“David . . .”
Her words hitched in her throat. The teenager of her youth had disappeared, replaced by a man who was both handsome and confident.
The voice which had once squeaked all through high school was now deep and gravelly.
Weirdly confident. And his hands—her eyes wandered down to his fingers—were now thick and long.
His grip was strong. She was weirdly attracted to him.
Perhaps, at any other point in her life, she would have done ye olde catch-up and moved on with things.
But time had clearly changed them both. New York, and their respective journeys through college and into the young professional world, had turned them into full-fledged adults.
David was now in medical school. Evelyn was working as a television producer.
And, as it turned out, neither of them was much into partying in penthouses with a bunch of strangers.
At some point, she put down the shrimp and let David take her out for some pizza instead.
Until finally, after three hours of conversation and catching up, Evelyn invited David back to her apartment.
If she had known what David was capable of in bed, she wouldn’t have lost her virginity to Jackson Fields.
The man was a bona fide rock star. All the things that made him that sweet kid and dorky friend .
. . translated into being a caring and firm lover.
She hadn’t even been sure she was capable of orgasm through penetration, but her body roiled, over and over.
And then, one morning, after yet another night engaging fully in being friends with benefits . . . her mother called her.
“Honey,” she said, “where are you?”
Evelyn had known something was wrong by the harried tone in her mother’s voice.
Also, it was Sunday morning, and her mom never woke up and called her before 10:00 a.m., since both enjoyed sleeping in when possible.
Her mother only called her outside her normal patterns when there was news.
Horrible news. Also, gossipy. But based on the way her mother was speaking, asking her to sit down, asking her if she was alone right now or could call a friend over . . . Evelyn knew.
“Mom,” she spat out. “Just tell me!”
“Your father died last night in his sleep.”
She was blindsided. And David was still asleep in her bed, naked, splayed out between her sheets.
Evelyn sat down beside him and told him that she needed to go home.
Or rather, he needed to go home. They both needed to go home.
She didn’t remember most of what happened from there.
Everything was numb. Everything moved like she were walking through a thick fog, her mind struggling to make sense of this new reality.
In many ways, she had blamed her father for the divorce.
Also, for not being present enough in her life to model safe and healthy love.
But now that he was gone, a heart attack in his sleep, his absence felt like this oozing and infected wound that would never heal.
And yet, she loved him. For all his mistakes, for all his misgivings, for all the hurt he had left inside her .
. . he was her daddy. She would never have another one.
It was a heartbreak, for sure.
One of the worst of them.
“Why are you showing me this?” Evelyn snapped at Three.
“Wait, wait,” Three said, nodding to the image of a young Evelyn, at her mother’s house in New Jersey, setting up chairs for shiva. “You’ll see.”
She didn’t need to watch the gameplay on repeat, because she remembered how much it had meant to her to see David, standing with his whole family, at the funeral.
She remembered how they’d come, with more food than could even fit in her mother’s refrigerator, for every day of shiva.
And she recalled how each night, when she went to sleep, David was beside her.
Honestly, she kept waiting for him to leave.
To get tired of the game. To move forward, find someone less complicated .
. . better. But David was like some great stone weight, tethered around her ankle.
He’d been unmovable in his devotion to her.
An anchor. His care had felt undeserved, but at the same time, she’d welcomed it.
She’d needed it. She’d allowed herself to be vulnerable with him, to fall into his arms, and cry, and find comfort.
Evelyn didn’t fall in love with David on the night they slept together.
Or in high school. Or on that curb of a sidewalk when they were just kids.
No, what made her fall in love with David was that she saw who he was when her father died.
She saw his goodness, and his heart. And she knew that no matter what, he would never leave her.
Until, of course, he did.
Evelyn had seen enough.
“Are we done now?” she asked, turning to Three.
Three inhaled, deeply, and then nodded to the piece of pottery still sitting on her end table. “Don’t forget your vase.”
Evelyn awoke to find herself laid out flat on the floor of her living room, drenched in a cold sweat, clutching a vase to her chest. Quickly, she got rid of the vase.
Sitting up, she did an audit of her surroundings.
She was back in her apartment, in the present.
Things were normal. And yet nothing about these dreams—or delusions, she wasn’t certain—felt okay.
It wasn’t like she was really seeing ghosts.
It was the stress. Or, the migraine. Or . . . the thought hit her all at once, it was the flu.
She ran to her bathroom, flung open the cabinets and searched them furiously. Finding a thermometer, she plunged it under her tongue, waiting for it to beep. And then, horror. Her temperature was 99.4 degrees. Clearly, she was dying.
It couldn’t be happening at a worse time.
Tossing the thermometer aside, she raced for her cell phone. She had to call three times before, finally, her ex-husband picked up.
“David,” she said, frantic. “I need you.”