twenty-four #2
“No,” he said. “My mom’s kids, I guess? I want to be, but they’re eight and six.
I feel like more of an uncle to them. And the sister my dad had when I was four—Amy—we’re really close.
She lives up in Santa Barbara. I’ve tried to reach out to the others, though.
One of them, my brother, keeps in pretty close touch.
And some of them were friendly enough, but some of them weren’t interested or never answered my messages.
I think having a shared disdain for your father isn’t necessarily enough to make you want to strike up some close sibling relationship. ”
“That’s got to be hard,” I said. I considered my next words carefully, teeth sinking into my lower lip. “But I think the siblings
you are close with are pretty lucky.” I looked out at the water, swallowed over the tightness in my throat. “All I wanted
was a sibling when I was growing up. Someone who got it. Even if it was just Amy, at least she has someone who gets it. What
it’s like to have not just a parent like that but that parent.”
Everett was quiet for a minute. I could feel his eyes on my face before I looked at him, and when our gazes did lock, there
was some understanding there. “That’s why they’re all so important to you, isn’t it,” he said, voice soft.
I shrugged, trying to brush it off. “Everyone’s friends are important to them.”
Everett shook his head. “I don’t care about everyone,” he said. “That’s why they’re so important to you, isn’t it?” His tone was firm the second time, like I couldn’t avoid it.
I looked at him dead on, trying to shove the Laurel of it all out of my head when I said, “I think anyone who stays is important.”
A shadow passed over his face, clouding it for half a breath, before he was nodding, mouth twisting into a small knowing smile.
“We make quite a pair,” he said.
Something occurred to me as he said it. “Is that why you don’t like drinking that much? Your dad?”
“Yeah,” Everett said slowly, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.
“Something like that. Some shitty childhood memory lodging itself into my psyche and informing this habit.” I could tell there was more to it, whatever memory he momentarily retreated into as he stared at the sand in front of him, but I could also tell it wasn’t something he wanted to relive just then.
Something he would share with me only if he wanted to.
He looked back up at me suddenly, a blaze in his eyes I hadn’t seen there before.
“Maybe it’s not true for everyone,” he said.
“But I’m fucking terrified of being anything like my father.
I hate that the only thing I want to do with my life is so closely tied to who he is.
I hate that I want anything close to something he’s done. ”
I did reach for him at this, cupping his face in my hand and rubbing a thumb across his cheekbone. I was still surprised at
the way the closeness to him made me feel, a fluttering in my stomach and a heat in my cheeks, a pull at my center. “That
might be the one good thing you got from him,” I told him, hoping he knew how much I meant it. “That passion for something.
But you won’t be him, Everett. You’re too good.”
I wished so much there wasn’t a Maud, in that moment. I watched as his eyes dipped to my mouth, briefly, and I realized with
a deep rush of dislike for myself that I would have let him kiss me then, that I would have let him do more than that.
That was always the problem with Everett. Our time together was like some break from reality, the one time I let go of control
in any real way. He wasn’t part of any plan, couldn’t possibly fit into any real plan, and that was part of the allure of
it. I was a different version of myself with him, someone who let the world rest lightly on her shoulders, who was open to
whatever our brief time together would bring. There were no repercussions to be felt, no aftershocks save for sometimes seeing
him in my dreams. We were free of consequences.
But other people were a consequence. Other people were real, could be hurt, and Everett knew this, drawing away from me and hopping to his feet, holding out a hand to help me up.
I could see it in his eyes—he knew. Even if we hadn’t done anything, a line had been crossed.
Not only in the way I touched him, but in what he’d shared too.
Everett didn’t talk to people like that, didn’t share things readily, and I had a sneaking suspicion Maud didn’t know any of it.
But I did. And I was far from just a friend.
“Hey,” I said, waving a hand at the beach around us. I wanted Everett to know he hadn’t done anything wrong. That he was the
one to pull away, and it counted. “It’s just this place.”
He looked at me, something sad flickering across his face. The wind played at his hair as I waited. Finally, he shook his
head. “It’s not just this place,” he said.
The words slammed into me, sunk into my bones. I’d keep them there for the next year, returning to them every once in a while,
long after I’d returned to my normal with no Everett around to make me go a little crazy.
We walked back to the house, a marked distance between us. Laurel and Davi were waiting, and Everett still had a girlfriend,
and we were still supposed to be nothing more than just friends, no matter what he’d said. No matter what molecular thing
between us had shifted.