Chapter Twenty-Six #2
“God, no.” He straightens up with a rueful shake of his head.
“I made a choice in the moment, under stress. I used the work I did on your account to prove I could do the kind of work the position might require. That’s all.
And I never said I managed the account. Just that I helped with branding and content creation.
But I knew when I did it that I was doing it for selfish reasons.
I was exploiting something personal for professional gain. ”
He pivots toward me. I pivot toward him. For several seconds, we regard each other, standing too close in a kitchen that’s only nominally a kitchen, but also not close enough.
“I thought—” I start.
“I know,” he says.
“But you didn’t—”
“I did. Just not the way you thought.”
“It doesn’t sound so bad, now that I know the whole story.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The look on your face Monday night...”
I feel myself grimace. I can only imagine.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “If you’d asked about using the account for your interview, especially if you said it might be the only way to keep that toxic waste of a skin suit from getting a job you deserve and he doesn’t, I would’ve been on board.”
He flicks at the edge of the counter where the laminate coating is peeling, realizes he’s doing it, and busies himself with tearing open the brown sugar and measuring it out.
“It felt so selfish,” he says. “Like giving you a gift and then asking for it back. And I’d already been too focused on my application and not focused enough on us.
I didn’t want to turn the TikToks we made together into one more thing that was about my job.
I didn’t want you to think that was what was most important to me.
Not you. Not Aggie. My goddamned career.
” He packs the brown sugar into the measuring cup with fast, fierce punches of his fist, denting it with knuckle prints.
“I don’t know. Maybe I also thought that if I couldn’t earn the promotion with the work I’d done professionally, I didn’t deserve it.
It should go to someone else. Guess I changed my mind on that one.
” He punches the sugar again, this time hard enough to make me flinch.
I reach out to halt his motion. “Everett...”
“Sorry.” He flexes his hand as I retract mine. “It’s just, Monday, when you heard—”
“I was blindsided. That came out of nowhere. After I trusted you so implicitly.”
“I know.” He hangs his head, shaking it slowly. “I know. I know. I know.”
That’s a lot of I knows , I think, but it’s a joke only I would get.
“Even if you didn’t plan to use the account for your interview,” I say, “you should’ve at least told me after you did it. I would’ve supported you. I would’ve understood.”
“I know,” he says again. “I meant to. I tried to. But I was so ashamed.”
“More ashamed than you are now?”
He lets out a breath of humorless laughter. “Definitely not.”
I attempt a smile but I don’t get very far with it.
All this stress. His and mine. My shock.
His shame. The mental contortions I’ve put myself through, trying to make sense of his actions.
Whatever he’s put himself through over the last few days.
The near certainty we were over. And for something that now seems so insignificant, just a series of small, imperfect choices, their impact catalyzed by an unexpected announcement.
I can’t even be that mad at Everett for not telling me.
Didn’t I avoid talking, too, making matters worse? Aren’t we both at fault?
“We have to be able to trust each other,” I say. “And talk to each other.”
His expression grows stern, etching a crease between his brows. “Of course we do.”
“How do you suggest we do a better job of that?”
He drags a hand down his stubbled face while his eyes stay locked on mine, their warm caramel-colored centers ringed by mossy green.
Fall-colored eyes for a fall-sweater boy.
I don’t know why I think that in this particular moment, at the critical fulcrum of What’s next?
But my thoughts are a million places at once right now.
My emotions are even more fractured. There’s such a weird energy between us, a softening of edges but a distance yet to be bridged.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll get everything right all the time,” Everett says.
“I’ll make more mistakes. A lot more, probably, but I do at least learn from them, so I think I can safely promise you I won’t make the same ones twice, not the big ones, anyway.
If I know I’m doing something that might hurt you, I’ll tell you right away.
Even if I really, really don’t want to.”
I nod, considering, as I sneak a glance at Aggie over on her bed.
She’s lying on her belly with her head lowered between her front paws, still watching us intently.
I wonder how much she understands about what’s happening right now.
She must sense the tension between us. If she didn’t, she’d be over here with a ball in her mouth or angling for a pet.
Happiness. Trust. Forgiveness , I think. And also deep, lifelong, unreserved love .
“And I won’t put off having hard conversations,” I say. “Even if I’m really, really afraid of what they might mean. I’ll also try to be better about accepting help when it’s offered.”
The first hint of a smile pulls at the corners of Everett’s lips.
“Does that mean I can buy you dinner tonight?” he asks.
A familiar snap of resistance straightens my stance and forces my lips to purse. But I heard what he said, and of all the issues on the table, this seems like the most easily solvable.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say with noticeable effort. “But we should finish the cookies first.”
“Forget the cookies,” Everett says through a sharp exhale. “Just let me hold you.”
With those five simple but beautiful words, the tension between us breaks and we collide into a fierce embrace, one that feels like we’re squeezing the life out of each other, or squeezing the life back into each other.
Fingers curl into clothing. Arms tighten into vise grips.
Knees bump. Cheeks brush. Hearts pound together. Chests rise and fall as one.
I love you , I think as all other thoughts vanish. I love you. I love you. I love you.
He draws back far enough to meet my eyes as something beyond joy sparkles in his.
“I love you, too,” he says.
My chest cracks wide open at the sound of those words, as though he spread my rib cage and spoke directly into my squishy, beating heart, where I most needed to hear them.
And then the too registers, making me scrunch up my face in embarrassment.
“I said my I love you s out loud, didn’t I?” I ask.
Everett beams at me, with his glasses glinting and his soft curls begging to be tousled.
“It’s one of my favorite things about you. Direct access to your brain.” He tips his forehead against mine as if to illustrate. Or maybe to get closer. “Also, thank god you did say it because I’ve been waiting to say it for months, afraid you’d think it was too soon.”
I scold him with a look, but a half-hearted one I undercut with a smile I can’t repress.
“No more being afraid to tell me things,” I say.
“I’m working on it.” He nuzzles my nose with his, softly, sweetly, gently, Everett-ly.
“I’m working on it, too,” I say, knowing I was also afraid, knowing I will be again, and he will be again, but maybe we’ll be less afraid next time.
It’s enough. It’s more than enough. So I close the last inches of distance between us and kiss him, falling into the warmth of his lips, the slide of his tongue, the strength of his arms, and the countless murmured I love you s he showers on me between kisses, each one embedding itself in the forever section of my memory.
Not never. Not sometimes. Always.
We’re going to be okay , I think, or maybe I say it out loud.
It doesn’t really matter if I do. It’s the truth either way, and one I believe more now than ever, because the world may be full of disposable things, but that doesn’t mean we should let something die if all it needs is a little care and attention.
Care, attention, forgiveness, an occasional mustering of bravery, a lot of love, an impossibly soft sweater, an impossibly soft boy, and the sound of a perfectly timed thumping tail over on a dog bed, ensuring we know she’s on board for whatever the future holds.