Chapter Fifteen Everleigh
Chapter Fifteen
Everleigh
“Oh!” My mom gasps, coming out of the bathroom just as I reach the top of the stairs to brush and floss my teeth. “Where did you go? And why didn’t you leave me a message? Did you have to deal with a patient?” She flips her hair over her shoulder and rubs her tired eyes.
I glance down at my dress. “Do you think I dress like this for patients?”
She inspects me. “I’m half asleep, dear. I didn’t focus on your outfit.”
“I went to the bar with Will.”
She perks up like I just infused espresso into her veins. “Do tell.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” I squeeze past her to brush my teeth.
“Was it a date?”
I shake my head, turning on my electric toothbrush.
“He’s cute,” she whispers with a hand cupped at the side of her mouth.
I nod and smirk over my mouthful of suds.
“He’s still upset about taking your virginity.”
I stare at her while I finish brushing my teeth. After I spit and retrieve the floss, I turn toward her and lean against the counter, wrapping the floss around my fingers. “He’s upset I was seventeen. And there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“You can apologize.”
I shrug. “I’ve done that. And maybe he just needs time to accept my apology.
It’s still new, and he might need a minute to gauge my sincerity.
But sometimes an apology (no matter how sincere) is not enough.
Sometimes the only thing that will make something better for someone is going back in time and undoing it.
Of course, that’s not possible. I have this discussion all the time with patients.
We look for a solution to make amends or find a way to take what is available.
Maybe that’s an apology or compensation.
And often the patient thinks that will make things better, but then they get what they think they need and find out it’s not enough. ”
“So then what?”
I work the floss between my teeth and mumble, “Then nothing. It’s called job security, Mom.”
She chuckles. “That’s terrible.”
I nod. “It is. But it’s life.”
Mom blows me a kiss and heads back to bed. “Night, hun.”
I rinse my mouth with mouthwash, remove my makeup, and head back to the shed, passing Will on the way. He ignores me because he’s in the gaming zone.
After I change into a tight white tank top and cotton shorts, I return to the house, plopping down on the sofa next to Will.
“I didn’t tell you I was seventeen because I was seventeen. So close to eighteen.”
His thumbs furiously punch the controller as he ignores me.
“I’m thinking about building a barndominium. Do you know what that is?”
“I do,” he says.
Will’s two-word response is a thrill. I’m easily satisfied. Does he remember just how easily?
“A house that resembles a barn on the outside, usually built with a steel frame and metal exterior.”
“Correct. I heard you’re pretty handy. If you want to make some extra money on your days off, I’d consider hiring you to help me finish the inside after it’s constructed.”
“Who told you I’m pretty handy?” he asks, killing two guys.
“When Maren showed me your house, she mentioned you built the she shed and did a lot of renovations around here. I can do most of it, but sometimes an extra set of hands is helpful.”
He whips his head to the side, eyes narrowed, and just as quickly turns back to the TV, but his avatar is dead. “Shit,” he mumbles, tossing the controller aside. “What do you mean you can do most of it?” He rubs the back of his neck while glancing at me again.
“I watch a lot of videos, and I’m a quick learner. Construction is just good math, measuring, and following instructions. But it also can be physically demanding, so that’s where an extra set of hands is helpful. I remodeled a bathroom in my previous house. I love tiling.”
Will returns a blank stare with slow blinks. “So you can tile?”
I nod.
“You put in the substrate, mixed the thinset, cut the pieces, and grouted?”
“Why do you look so shocked?”
“I’m not.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“Because you’re you.”
I rest my back against the arm of the sofa and playfully kick his leg while stretching out mine. “What do you mean by that?”
Will eyes me, rubbing his fingers over his lips, but it doesn’t erase his amusement. “You’re so analytical, a brainiac. I look at you as a thinker more than a doer. But then you play video games and tile shit. You’re”—he scrubs his hands over his face—“all over the damn place.”
“You mean I’m unexpected and refreshingly delightful.”
He barks a laugh while reclining and stretching his arms along the back of the sofa. “I don’t know what I mean.” He yawns and brings a fist to his mouth.
“Told you it’s past your bedtime.”
“Because I’m older than you?”
“Because you’re older than half of the US population.”
“Normal people wouldn’t know that more than half of the US population is under forty.”
“Normal is boring,” I say.
He smirks. “And yet, you love that word. I bet you’ve said it to me half a dozen times or more. All you’ve ever wanted is to be normal.”
I drum my fingers on my legs and then fold my hands to stop fidgeting.
“What would Dr. Reichart say about Everleigh?” Will asks.
I return a hesitant chuckle. “That’s a tough question. I haven’t found an answer since Everleigh doesn’t fully trust Dr. Reichart, and Dr. Reichart is too emotionally attached to Everleigh.”
Will rubs his chin, eyes narrowed. “Hmm, let’s expand on that. Why doesn’t Everleigh fully trust Dr. Reichart?”
Laughter bubbles up from my chest. “Are you shrinking me?”
“Trying. But I don’t use the right words,” he says.
“What are the right words?”
“I don’t know. Probably words or phrases like: it’s my observation, positive correlation, proclivity, insofar as, plethora, universal consensus . . . It’s a long list.”
My face hurts from grinning so much. “It’s been my observation and experience”—I giggle—“that even if a psychiatrist or therapist has a proclivity for using clinical language, they try to use layman’s terms when speaking with people who are not their colleagues.
And I try not to correct malapropisms. It can be embarrassing, and it’s pointless if I know what they mean. ”
Will blinks without speaking.
“A malapropism is when you misuse a word, a sort of verbal blunder, like meaning congregate but saying conjugate. Sedentary and sedimentary. It happens to most everyone at some point.”
“But not you?”
I shake my head. “Even me.”
“Such as?”
I shrug. “I don’t know off the top of my head.”
Again, he yawns.
“I’m going to bed.” I stand, pulling my hair over one shoulder.
“What?” he asks when I don’t move beyond the sofa.
“Nothing. Good night.” I smile.
He returns a chin lift. It’s a lazy nod.
“You say, ‘Good night, Everleigh. It’s been lovely chatting with you.’”
Will’s right brow makes a slight lift like his chin did. “Actually, I don’t say that. I didn’t say that. And I have no plans of saying that. Is this some weird role-playing you do with your patients?”
“Everleigh, let me walk you to the shed since it’s so late. I’d hate for a bear to attack you,” I say, ignoring his previous comment.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on. I’m enjoying this little skit.”
“Everleigh,” I continue with a deeper voice, which draws a smile from him, “I’d love to help you finish the inside of your barndominium. I’ll bring the beer. You order the pizza.”
“I’ve got news for you,” he says. “If I’m helping you, then you’re providing both the beer and pizza.”
“So that’s a yes?” I inflate with giddiness.
He stands, forcing me to step away from the sofa. His gaze slides along my face as he slowly studies me with an unreadable expression. We’re close, so close, like we were outside of the bar.
“You tell me if you’ve had sex with anyone but me, and I’ll tell you if I’m going to help you with your barn.”
I blink several times. How often does he think about my sex life?
“Have you lost sleep over this? Do you lie in bed at night, imagining me in my bed, thinking of you—my one and only sexual encounter? And when you think of yourself as my one and only, how does that make you feel?”
“It makes me feel how I always feel after a woman I’ve had sex with can no longer imagine another man giving her such pleasure. Powerful. But you know what they say. With great power comes great responsibility.”
“Voltaire,” I say.
He wrinkles his nose. “Uncle Ben. Spider-Man.”
I roll my eyes. “Voltaire coined the phrase.”
“Good night, Everleigh. It’s been painful chatting with you.”
Gah!
I want to grab his shirt and make him kiss me. I’m not seventeen anymore. And I’ve accomplished a lot over the past decade, but I haven’t stopped thinking about William Landry, my first.
“You did,” I say on my way to the back door.
“I did what?”
I don’t answer before closing the door behind me. A few seconds later, the door clicks open, and I bite my lip to keep from grinning even though my back is to him.
“You can’t breadcrumb me like that.”
I giggle. “Breadcrumb you?”
“What would you call it?”
I turn just before opening my door. “Strategic ambiguity.”
“You’re such a fucking nerd.”
“How about a cliff-hanger?” I ask.
“How about you just tell me?”
“You. Did. You left me with the feeling that no other man could give me such pleasure. But”—I turn and open the shed door—“that was a long time ago. You were much younger. And I was a virgin with nothing and no one to compare you to. You know how when you’re young everything seems better than it really is? ”
I close the door and lean my back against it before he can respond. It’s such a fucking amazing feeling.