thirty-four
This Summer
I march into the house determined to find Laurel, but I’m stopped by a familiar figure in the kitchen, hood pulled up over
his sleep-messy hair, two mugs on the island in front of him. He looks up as I come racing in, footsteps louder than I intended.
“Hey,” Everett says. He starts to slide a mug toward me, but catches sight of the one in my hand, its ceramic now cold. “Thought
I could beat you to it.”
“You did,” I say, walking behind him and dumping the contents of my mug in the sink. I turn and take the mug he’s now holding
in midair, expression a little confused. “Thanks.”
He clears his throat, watches me as I take a sip. “Could we talk?” he asks.
I glance toward the stairs, like Laurel might appear there at that moment.
“Everyone else is still asleep,” Everett says. I look back at him, surprised at the worry that shades his eyes, undeniable.
“They won’t hear us, if—”
“No, of course,” I say, nodding quickly as the reality that he’s nervous about the two of us being seen together sinks in.
I don’t want him to feel that way, ever. Not anymore. Still, I think this is a conversation better had in private. “Your room?”
Everett follows me up the stairs, our steps quieter than my marching ones earlier. I glance at Laurel’s door as we pass, but
it’s closed, as is Davi’s across from it. Mine is the only one open in the hall.
When we walk into Everett’s room I notice that the bed is made, our clothes from last night carefully folded and set near
the door, ready to wash later, like he’s been up for a while. I glance up at him as he closes the door behind him, that same
expression on his face.
“I was talking to Hank,” I tell him.
He nods, something like relief passing over his features, and I wonder for a split second if Everett thought I’d just left.
That last night caused me to flee at dawn, leaving him and everyone else behind.
I set my coffee on one of the nightstands and settle on the edge of the bed as Everett sits in the armchair across from me,
scooting it in closer.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Um,” Everett mumbles, raking a hand through his hair. “Like I know why I never drink that much. Like I’m never drinking again.”
“Fair,” I say, drawing a small laugh out of him. “If it’s any consolation, you’re handling it remarkably well.”
“Oh, I feel like I’m dying, for sure,” he says. “But I don’t want to delay this conversation any longer.”
I nod, and Everett plants his elbows on his knees, holding his mug between them. He considers it for a minute, glances at
the nightstand where mine is, reaches over and sets it down. Runs a hand through his hair again. I watch him, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. My shoulders slump, head tilting as I start to protest, but he continues quickly. “I know you said no more apologies, but I need to tell you I’m sorry when I’m not half drunk and freezing. I was an asshole last night.”
“You were hurting last night,” I say.
“That doesn’t make how I acted okay. The things I said.”
“You were quoting me,” I say, shrugging a shoulder. “Can’t exactly get mad at you for that.”
“Yes, you can,” Everett says resignedly, running a hand down his face. I wait for him to continue. When he does finally drop
his hand he doesn’t look at me, instead gazes absently out the window above the bed, like he can’t meet my eyes.
“There’s so much I do to prove I’m not like my dad,” he says, surprising me. “Even things that are supposedly good, things
I want to do. My relationship with my siblings, never changing plans, proving myself. But there’s a lot of shit too.” He glances
at me. “Never getting too close to anyone. Never letting anyone know how I’m feeling, unless it’s a good feeling. And last
night I was just like him. I got that call and I figured, I don’t know. If I can’t beat him, join him. I just—” He drops his
head, shakes it. “I hate myself for that.”
“Everett,” I say after a long silent moment that I expected him to fill again. I slide off the bed, kneel in front of him,
reach up to cup his cheek in my hand. He looks at me then, and I can see it there, that he doesn’t think he deserves this,
that he’s not worthy of any kind of forgiveness, any kind of second chance. I let him believe that, once. I think back to
all the moments he would only share snippets with me, tiny pieces of himself that left me hungry for more of him. Every time
he omitted something, every time he shared only the shiniest parts, he was constructing a version of himself he thought we’d
all like enough to keep around.
The last night of our first trip here suddenly pops into my head, the game he came up with.
One thing we were scared of and one thing we were looking forward to.
Even though it was his idea, he hadn’t told us what he was really afraid of, what he really wanted.
He always kept it light, and the thought breaks my heart.
Everett at nine, at fifteen, at twenty, at thirty-two, always trying to do just enough to keep someone interested but never show enough of himself to risk disappointing them.
“You are not your father,” I tell him. When he almost smiles, tries to glance away like it’s a joking matter, I catch his
chin in my hand, gently, so he’ll keep looking at me. “You aren’t, Everett. You never could be.”
He blinks as my hand slides back up to his cheek, something clearing in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, but it almost comes
out as a whisper, rough.
“I know you are,” I tell him, rubbing a thumb along his cheekbone. “But I’m also glad I got to be the person there to help
you.”
A small smile flickers at one corner of his mouth at this. A real one. “Should probably just tell you what’s going on next
time,” he says. “Before I head for the nearest dive bar.”
I laugh. “Probably,” I say. “But I’m not too worried about a next time.”
Everett’s eyes flick between mine as my hand falls to my lap. I watch as his expression fades from something softly happy
back to somber. He stands up after a while, pacing toward the door. I follow suit after a moment, stopping him in his tracks
with a hand on his shoulder when he turns back to find me standing there.
There’s still so much conversation to be had, things we can’t keep ignoring if we want this to be something. God, I hope he
wants this to be something.
“Everett, when I said those things,” I say. “When I ended things with you . . . it wasn’t because I didn’t want to be with you. I wanted that so much.”
“I did too,” Everett says, storm-tossed eyes latching on to mine. “And I’m sorry for everything I said. I—” He breaks off,
glances sideways like he’s collecting his thoughts before looking back at me. “I’ve never let anyone in like I did with you,
Sutton. I wanted it to work so badly, but even if things hadn’t ended like they did . . . I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t even
fight to keep you. It just seemed like it was inevitable, somehow, that I would ruin it. So I said things I didn’t mean.”
“You didn’t ruin it,” I say. “You didn’t ruin anything. And, honestly, you were right.” His brow furrows, confusion spreading
across his face. “I do love to be in control. I think we both do, in our different ways.” He tilts his head, confirming this.
“It wasn’t just about everyone else. I was terrified of getting hurt, just like you said.” I drop my gaze, shaking my head
as I say, softly, “It was so much easier to just blame you than admit that.”
Everett slides his hand around mine then, intertwining our fingers. I look back up at him. “Sutton,” he says, a pleading look
in his eyes. “I promise you I didn’t know the others were back. I need you to believe that.”
“I know you didn’t,” I say. The truth is, I think I let go of that further back than I realized. I clung to it so tightly
as a reason to hate him, even when my heart knew it wasn’t true. “I trust you.”
Everett’s expression softens. “You do?”
I nod. “Of course I do.”
I smile, something like hope blooming in me. Everett reaches up to brush my hair behind my ear, lets his hand fall to my cheek.
Everett’s thumb traces over my cheekbone. “I think you care more than most people,” he says. “I think you make all of us better.”
My throat squeezes. “I expect too much,” I say.
“Sutton,” he says. “It would be the greatest honor of my lifetime to try to exceed your expectations, if you’d let me.”
I look up at him at this, my breath catching. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t be a person,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I don’t feel like that,” he says softly. “I want to be the person you thought you could be with five
years ago.”
I dip my head into his palm. “I’d rather you be who you are right now. Who you’ll be tomorrow.”
Something in Everett’s eyes sparks; maybe the same kind of hope I’m feeling. A sort of nervous animal, peeking out after a
long winter. Maybe what we ruined before can be rebuilt, and the essential pieces of us still remain.
I don’t want later with Everett. I want now. We’ve already had our fits and starts. I don’t want to wait another ten years
to see if this could work. This thing between us has always been real, but it’s been trapped in small stolen moments, and
I want to bring it out into the open, let it breathe. Give it life. I want to tell him what I was going to say last night.
That I love him, after ten years and one life-altering week. That I know it now.
I’m about to say something like this to him when there’s an urgent rap on his door and we both turn, not even bothering to
step away from each other when Gabe opens the door.
“What’s going on?” Everett asks, his hand still clasped in mine.
I’ve never seen Gabe look so panicked. He looks between us, brows drawn together. “Laurel’s gone.”