Chapter One #3
The next morning, I’m making breakfast when Mom calls. Everett comes into the kitchen post-shower, snatching the plate of eggs and bacon from my hand like I’ve made them for him.
His hair is dripping down his neck—he never fully dries off—and looks nearly brown beneath all the water it’s holding.
Shooting him a glare, I place Mom on speaker and lay my phone next to the stove.
“Morning,” I greet her, cracking two more eggs into the sizzling pan.
“Good morning, baby. Good job at your game.” Her sweet voice is loud and excitable, the same way it always is, even if it’s 7 a.m.
“Thank you. How’s Dad?”
My parents like to stalk the school’s sports page on game days; I’m notorious for being shit at giving updates. They’re not big fans of beach volley, but they’re still incredibly supportive, even if Dad’s version of support is more stoic and quiet. Mom makes up for it tenfold, anyway.
“Oh, you know him. He’s just fine,” she says dismissively. “Is Evie there?”
Everett looks up from his plate, mouth full of eggs as he waves at the phone.
“Yeah, he’s waving right now,” I tell her.
Mom laughs, the light, gentle sound filtering through the space around us. “Well, good morning, sweet boy. Are you coming to breakfast next Saturday? We’re celebrating Skylar’s birthday since he’s staying on campus this weekend.”
Everett swallows his food, taking a swig from the bottle of water he stole from the fridge. I watch his throat work, his thick fingers as they wrap around the plastic. Everett clears his throat, and I turn back to the stove.
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be there,” he promises.
I plate my breakfast and walk around the kitchen bar that doubles as my dining table, bringing my phone with me.
Mom replies, “Good, we miss you. Skylar, how are midterms going?”
I take a bite of my eggs, talking around them as I say, “They don’t start until October.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s impolite,” she scoffs.
“Yeah, pup. Don’t talk with your—ow!” Everett rubs his arm, glaring at me.
“No fighting, boys,” Mom chastises through the receiver—half joking, half serious.
“Sorry, Mrs. Parish,” Evie apologizes.
At the same moment, I say, “Mom, we have to go; class starts soon. I love you.”
Mom says her goodbyes, tells Everett to keep an eye on me—eye roll—and hangs up.
“Stop kissing ass to my parents; they already like you. It’s been years,” I grumble, but Everett just smiles and takes another drink of his water.
“Everyone likes a sweet boy. And thanks for breakfast.”
“Fuck you,” I mumble, watching him take his empty plate to the sink to rinse.
His shirt stretches over his back as he reaches up to put the salt and pepper onto the top shelf above the stove. I watch the black fabric strain, observing the strip of skin that is being slowly revealed as the hem rides up above his jeans.
Everett’s gotten more of a tan in the past few months, just as he always does this time of year. No one can say he isn’t beautiful. He looks like the poster boy for the cute boy next door. Women love him.
“Are you ready for your birthday Saturday?” he asks me, moving to slip on his sneakers that sit right outside of the kitchen, next to the front door.
“I guess. Should be fun.” I like my birthday, mostly because I like the excuse for everyone to get together and let loose.
“Want your present early?” He wiggles his full brows at me, grinning devilishly.
“Hm. Is it you returning my apartment key so you’ll stop stealing my food when I’m not home?”
Everett snorts, reaching over the bar to take my now empty plate, rinsing it and adding it to his own. I stand, finding my own shoes by the front door and grabbing my bag off its hook.
“Absolutely not. Even better than that, actually.”
I hum in response. “Then I’ll wait. Now come on, we’re late.”
Everett pulls open the front door, and I can feel the heat radiating off him as I step past.
We walk to campus—it’s not far; it takes all of fifteen minutes to get to my first class of the day. I head to Microbiology, and Everett heads toward his Business Ethics lecture.
As I’m walking into the lecture hall, a severe sense of nostalgia overcomes me. It reminds me of Everett and me as mud-covered kids, of that shitty little elementary school and how we’ve stuck together from there all the way to this shitty little college.
And of course, because nostalgia isn’t partial to only the happy moments of time, it also reminds me of the piece of myself that I’ve kept hidden from him. Of the accident and of my mother’s crying face. Of Everett asking me why he isn’t allowed over on Sundays.
But the past is the past, and I can’t change it now. I can’t go back in time and stop myself—to warn past Skylar of the fallout. All I can do now is focus on the life I have and be proud of how I came to achieve it.
I have so many good things in my life, things I can’t bear to lose.
And I can’t, can I? Not these things, at least. They’re embedded in me, my heart and soul. Living in my flesh and blood like an extension of myself.
There is nothing in this world that can take my family or Everett away from me, right?