Chapter Eight
Skylar Parish
Everett has been giving me kicked puppy eyes all night. Kelly got into her Uber an hour ago, and last call is in two minutes, yet there he sits—nursing his third beer with sad eyes and tense shoulders.
When his group of friends left earlier in the night, that blonde girl said something to him—right into his ear—but I couldn’t tell if it was a good conversation or not because he wore that standard Everett smile that hides what he’s really thinking.
“You can go, Sky. I got the last bit covered,” Mandy, the owner of Seabird, calls from the office.
“Alright, thanks. Night, ma’am.”
Throwing the dirty rag from my shoulder and into the bin in the corner, I grab my bag off the shelf under the bar where we keep our personal items.
As I approach the exit, I notice that Everett is missing from his seat by the door; where he went, I do not know. But it’s cold out tonight, or technically this morning, and I forgot a jacket, so I hurry along to my car.
Due to my rushing, I don’t see him until I’m approaching the trunk. I startle, watching his head lift from where he leans against the passenger door.
“What?” My voice is far sharper than I intend it to be, but I’m tired and irritated. I just want to shower and sleep.
“Let’s go home,” Everett says, and there’s a defeat in his tone, something sad I don’t recognize, so I don’t fight him.
I unlock my Honda and drive the short distance to my apartment.
As I’m finishing my shower fifteen minutes later, I try to make sense of the events of tonight. The sexy football player giving me his number; Everett’s blazing glare as he grilled me about it. That hot blonde on his arm.
Simply put, I’m confused. So fucking confused.
Up until this past week, things have been very simple for me. I was pretty young when I figured out I liked men; being gay was never a big deal to me. In fact, it was so unimportant that coming out has never felt necessary.
If I ever found someone to be with, then I would. If not, there was no point in my mind. Especially not when it can be used against me.
That, and I never really had… desires like that. I never had a phase of being obsessed with porn or sex; I just existed. Sure, like all teenagers, I jacked off occasionally, but I have never been concerned with losing my virginity or pointless hookups.
And dating? Yeah, right. I’ve never met anyone good enough. I know what I have to offer, and in this shit hole of a town, no one ever seems to meet what I bring to the table.
But now that I’ve been… awoken, things have gotten weird. Ever since Everett pulled me into my bathroom, all hot with rage and tension as he licked into my mouth, pulling me against him while whispering obscene things against my neck, I haven’t been able to chill out.
Now I want it. I want to plant myself right back on his lap and grind onto him; to hear his voice in my ear and feel sweet release. But it doesn’t have to be Everett, right? It could be Jacob.
Plus, Everett has gotten weird. Well, weirder. See? So fucking confusing.
Now he’s sitting on the edge of my bed with his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees like he’s fifty years old and going through a midlife crisis.
“Go to bed,” I tell him.
I can’t understand him tonight.
“No,” he murmurs.
I sigh, and as his head rises, his brown eyes are sad, tired, and red-ringed. He’s being difficult.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, since he so clearly wants to talk.
But he slumps further, shaking his head. “I don’t understand you anymore. You’re changing.”
I think he may be drunk. I saw him playing games with Kelly and her friends; games that involved a considerable number of shots.
“Changing? Everett, maybe it’s not that I’m changing, and more that you’re only just now truly seeing me.”
I know this most likely isn’t true—that I am changing in some ways. But it’s too personal to admit, and none of my sexual awakening should affect him this deeply.
But the statement pisses Everett off, whether it’s true or not, as he sneers, “I am always looking at you.”
I shiver under the weight of his words, his glare, the overall intensity of him in this moment.
On any given day, Everett is all smiles and golden retriever energy. But since last night, he’s been so… forceful.
“Then why are you shocked?” I press. “I am no different than I always have been.”
Because outside of wanting to swallow him whole, or wanting him to swallow me whole, I am the same as I’ve always been. I don’t understand why he’s freaking out.
“Yes, you are!” He stands, throwing his hands up in annoyance. “You’re taking your clothes off at parties, kissing our friends, getting random numbers at bars!”
I am laughing in his face now. I’m not sure when I closed this distance between us, but my anger is a living thing where it sits inside of me. It feeds off every breath I take and demands I set it free to feast on Everett’s ignorance.
Every time I find myself believing that I’ve killed this part of myself, it comes back in sharper focus, coated in more shame.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Everett. Am I being too independent for you? Am I forgetting to ask for your permission and instead making my own decisions? Am I not allowed to kiss who I want, to strip naked, or to get a stranger’s number?”
He breathes heavily, returning my glare with every bit of heat, and he snaps, “No!”
“Why?!” I all but yell, and in response, Everett takes a step backward.
His eyes widen, his hands shaking at his sides. He seems… manic.
“Why not, Evie?” I continue. “Why should I not kiss Kelly, or fuck that football player? It’s my life!”
A long, tense silence dances between us as he looks at me as if he doesn’t know me. As if I have broken him; like he’s dying.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I’m going to Henry’s for the night. I’ll see you later.”
Everett grabs his phone from my bed, turning for the door.
I jog after him. “Everett! Wait, why are you going? You’re drunk.”
“I’m Ubering.”
“Just stay! We can talk about this later, but just stay.”
He shakes his head fast and hard as I follow him to the front door. “No. I… I don’t want to sleep here.”
I can feel a hot burn, an ache in my chest at his words. Something that feels way too similar to rejection.
He pauses at the front door, and I stand behind him, my voice suddenly quiet and anxious as I ask, “Why? Why are you running from me?”
He doesn’t turn to face me. “I just… I can’t…”
Everett doesn’t finish his thought. He opens the front door and slips out, gently closing it behind himself.
Everything is falling to pieces around me so quickly; I am so disoriented as I spin in circles in search of a solution, an answer to the madness that surrounds me. I find nothing.
So, instead, I lock the door and do my best to find sleep.
I’m lying sprawled out on the couch the next morning, staring at the white, popcorned ceiling. I’ve called Everett twice, but he’s declined both of my attempts at reaching him.
The clock on the wall reads noon, and I have a game in three hours. It’s a home game against Jacksonville, and we lost to them last year, so I’m a bit on edge. I’m sure Dante is, too.
But more than getting this game done and over with, I want to know why Everett is ignoring me. Does he genuinely think he should control my life? Lately it sure feels like it.
Or maybe he’s homophobic? But how does that work when he also likes shoving his tongue down my throat? Could it be… What if he didn’t actually like it? Was he just that drunk?
Either way, who is he to try and control me? Just last night he was all over some girl, laughing the night away as if they were long-lost lovers.
I hate my memory of it. The burning ache. But why? I can’t place if it’s rage from his pure audacity, hurt because of what we had just done together, or jealousy.
But jealousy? Do I even have the capability to like Everett past sexual attraction? I mean, sure, I want to find out what every inch of his skin tastes like, but could I go on a date with him?
At the sound of my front door unlocking, I tense up, eyes shooting to the hallway even as I don’t bother to sit up.
There is only one spare key to my apartment.
Everett looks like shit as he walks in. His blond hair is disheveled, still wearing yesterday’s clothes; his eyes are tired and red. He stares right at me with that same sad, pained expression.
“Hey,” he says, swallowing thickly.
I sigh, sitting up and patting the cushion next to me. Slowly, he finds his way to the spot and sits down, careful not to touch me.
I hate that.
“Will you talk to me now?” I press him. “You’ve ignored me all morning.” Everett says nothing, so I add, “What did I do? I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”
Angling myself to face him, I practically plead at this point, which is far beneath me. But I miss his voice, his laugh, his smile. He hasn’t been this upset with me in, well, years.
“You didn’t… you’re not… fuck. It’s not you.” Everett appears to be struggling, which just confuses me more.
I blink, then blink again. “What?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just a mess; I’m sorry. I was drunk and being stupid and protective. Can we just drop it?”
Well, his explanation doesn’t quite line up with his actions, but if it makes this sad puppy routine go away, I’ll do damn near anything.
“Yeah, sure,” I concede, and Everett finally returns my stare, but I see no relief. Only more confusion, more conflict. “What is it, Evie? Just tell me.”
Everett looks to be in pain. As if he feels a great turmoil as he debates speaking on whatever is so clearly tearing him up.
After a long, terrible moment, he finally snaps. With a slight tremble of his lips, he asks, “Skylar, are you gay?”
This is not what I figured he’d say—not in the slightest. Sure, I’m not hiding it, but I’ve never said it out loud either. This would be the first.
I don’t lie to Everett. And he’s watching me, hands laid flat on his thighs as they shake—so anxious that I can’t tell who’s more nervous, him or me.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone calm and even.