Ever Over After (The Over Duet #2)
Page 15
“It happened … it happened back then, didn’t it?” he asks, as he lays us down on the bed, side by side, forehead to forehead. Looking into his eyes, I see confusion, anger, and unimaginable sorrow. For a moment, I think back to that night in the dorm when he’d lost his brother. It seems horrifically fitting that he’ll lose someone else today. The question is, will it be me or Remy?
God, what will I do if it’s me? I don’t know if I can survive it a second time.
I nod, and his head sags as his face crumbles. It’s my hurt, but I’ve been living with it for the last eight years. I’ve had time to let it settle in and fester, becoming more like a dull ache rather than a piercing, all-encompassing pain. I slide my fingers through Ever’s hair, knowing this revelation is like a baseball bat to the face. His eyelids slowly open, tears swimming as he watches me.
“It’s why you left, wasn’t it?” He pulls me into his neck, one arm at my waist and the other cradling my head, bracing for the answer he already knows.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, that’s why I left.”
“Fuck,” he cries, his voice strangled, the truth after all these years feeling like a torrential downpour of anguish, but somehow bittersweet. Whatever the outcome, however it all ends, there’s nothing left to hide.
Instead of feeling dirty and exposed, I feel free.
“Who was it, Low? Who in the hell did this to you?”
And just like that, the fear creeps back, smothering any feeling of relief from before.
This is it. Right here, right now, it’s either the beginning … or the end.
“It was … it was Remy.”
His body goes rigid, my words delivering a crushing blow, one more on top of a litany of gut punches. He recovers, more quickly than I would have imagined possible, cradling me, kissing my head, grasping at my clothes to get me as close as he possibly can.
“I’m so sorry … I’m so sorry … I’m so sorry,” he whispers like a healing chant, like his words can wash away all the bad. And maybe, just maybe they can.
I clutch onto him just as tightly, relief flooding through my veins, fear seeping away with every kiss. “Just don’t let go,” I whisper. “Please, just don’t let go.”
I feel the shake of his head on top of mine as he releases a strangled breath.
“Never.” He pulls away and meets my eyes, expression steely. “You hear me? Never.”
My eyes drift closed as he whispers promises and declarations, my heart wrung out and full all at the same time. So many tears … so many emotions… so many years. Can one night wash it all away?
When I wake in the morning, Ever is gone.
Marlo
FIVE TEXT MESSAGES, three voicemails, and more calls than I care to admit, and Ever is a fucking ghost. I sit in the middle of my disheveled bed, completely dumbfounded, fisting the note he must have scribbled before he left.
That man and his goddamn notes.
“Well, what did he say, Jeb? I can’t imagine he left his restaurant behind and just vanished,” I say, irritated, exhausted, and downright pissed.
After everything that had happened last night, after all I’d shared with him, to wake up to an empty bed feels like a slap in the face. Last night was so freeing—like a year’s worth of therapy crammed into one gut-wrenching conversation. But now, the morning after, I sit here alone and lost. How can he just walk away … again?
“First of all, Cruella, Moelle is not his restaurant, it’s our restaurant, and I’m perfectly capable of running this place on my own,” he says with a dejected sniff, the sound of clanging pots in the background. “Well, with the help of some guest chefs, but that’s beside the point. I lined these guys up within hours, because I’m a rockstar restauranteur. Turns out a guest appearance at Moelle is a much coveted position.”
I groan and fall back onto my pillows, exasperated. Eddie takes that as an invitation to curl into my side and purr. I give her a little scratch behind the ears, and she swipes at me when I stop. After several failed attempts, Mr. Biscuit finally jumps on the bed and settles in on the side opposite of Eddie. Well, I guess I’m not alone anymore…
“Not important right now, Jeb. You know I think you’re great,” I say, hearing a mumbled, “Fucking skippy,” through the phone. “What did Ever say when he called you?”
“He only said there was something he had to do right away. That there was no way around it, and I needed to cover for him. I said I would, because I know my boy, and he’d never take off if he didn’t have a good reason. He lives and breathes this place … well, and you, of course. You and Moelle are his top priorities,” he says, matter-of-factly, then stops. “Hold on, there’s nothing wrong here, so I know that’s not the issue. So this has got to be about you. What the hell happened, Low?”
I let out a frustrated sigh, not excited in the least about Jeb turning the questions around on me. I pinch the bridge of my nose, wishing this throbbing behind my eyes would just let up. “Let’s just say the shit finally hit the fan. I thought we were good. I mean, really good, when we fell asleep last night, but then I woke up to him gone and this fucking note.”
I raise the fist holding the note in the air and shake it, cursing the paper it’s written on.
I hate leaving you, but there’s something I have to do.
I love you, Low. So fucking much.
“Honestly, who really knows? I love him like a brother, you know that, but he can be a broody motherfucker when he wants to be. I know you don’t want to hear it, but you may have to wait this one out. Let him do what he’s gonna do and see where the chips fall.” The clanging gets louder, and I hear shouting in the background as I let out a frustrated groan. “Look, I need to run, Low. Keep me updated, yeah? And I’ll do the same.”
“Sure,” I say, then call out to him before he hangs up. “You don’t think he would … he wouldn’t take any drugs, would he?”
“Hold on,” he says, and I hear his muffled orders as he presumably covers the phone on his end, then it gets quiet. “Sorry, I had to step away. Look, I guess there’s always a chance, but I just don’t see it. He’s solid, Low, and I mean that. Just … have some faith and give him some time. I don’t know what’s going on, since you haven’t told me, but I know Ever. He’ll get through whatever this is.”
When I think of the man I know now, I tend to agree with Jeb. He’ll get though this. But the question is, will we?
“Thank you so much for watching our babies. Cain refuses to kennel Mr. Biscuit, and Eddie is persona non grata at the boarders,” Celia says as she gathers up her pet supplies.
“The boarder won’t take her?”
Celia shakes her head and shrugs. “Something about her incessant hissing and howling affecting the calming atmosphere for the other animals. Messing with the doggie milieu, if you can believe it. Eddie’s just … easily excitable.”
That’s a nice way to put it.
“Well, I have to admit, they weren’t all that terrible. Definitely better than I thought they would be, after their exciting entrance,” I mutter with a smirk.
“Um, Marlo, why does Mr. Biscuit have his ThunderShirt on?”
“Turns out my presence isn’t soothing enough for the hound. He wore that damned ThunderShirt the entire weekend.”
“Oh my,” Celia whispers, as she crouches down to pet her frazzled dog.
“I can’t imagine why I’d be a ball of nerves this weekend, can you, Celia?”
Celia sighs and stands up, shoulders slumped. “I guess it’s time to pay the piper,” she says, looking away guiltily. “I’m sorry for making such a scene Friday night. I thought … well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, since I was obviously wrong. It was my mistake, and I apologize.”
“You’re forgiven,” I say, not making her sweat it for even a second. While it sucks the way it all went down, Celia had given me the shove off the cliff I’d desperately needed. No matter how things turn out, I’m glad everything is out in the open with Ever.
“Yeah, you most definitely were. Well, you know there’s usually a good guy and a bad guy in every fairytale. He’s the good guy … or at least I think he is now. Back then, he was the lost guy, but that’s a story for another day.”
“Hmmm … this is interesting,” Celia says, circling me, arms crossed with a finger to her lips. “My pessimistic friend, just referenced her fairytale life. I think I may pass out from the shock.”
“Hold on—”
“Bup, bup, bup,” Celia interrupts with a shake of her finger. “Just let me enjoy this moment. Let me savor the glitter and rainbows.”
“Christ,” I mutter under my breath, cursing myself for saying too much.
“Don’t get all broody with me, Marlo Rivers. That man is F-I-N-E, fine,” she says with a girly squeal, and I cringe at the sound. “He’s the reason spayed kitties howl. It’s not about the babies … It’s all about the boom boom.”
“Okay, stop right there. You are dangerously close to killing me with the girly talk. D-E-A-D, dead,” I say, as she giggles, her tiny body vibrating with excitement. “Girl, you are too much.”
Before she can respond, both of our phones start ringing.
I grab mine first, seeing the main hospital line blinking on the screen. I know it’s my manager, going through the employee list, asking for help. “Sorry Shonda, I can’t pick up overtime today. I’ve got a lot going on at home right now.”
“Hey Caroline, what’s up?” I hear Celia say beside me.
“Marlo, this is Evie from the emergency room. I have you as the SANE nurse on call this weekend. Is that right?”
“Oh, hey Evie. Sorry about that—I thought you were my manager on labor and delivery. Yes, you’re right, I’m on call. What’s up?”
As Evie continues talking, I meet Celia’s gaze and know she’s receiving the same information. We both gather our things, including Eddie and Mr. Biscuit, and head for the door. It looks like it’s going to be a long day.
Marlo
EVIE GREETS US at the entrance of the ER and brings us into the nurses’ station before handing us a file.
“Laurel Breaux, age 25, married and living with her husband in the condos on Hebert Street. She went out for her usual morning run, and kissed her husband goodbye in the parking lot when she got back—regular weekly basketball game. The guy walked right in. She must have forgotten to lock the door before she went upstairs to take a shower, she says. He pulled her out of the shower by her hair and roughed her up a bit. Wore a mask the entire time. He pushed her to her knees and tried to make her perform oral—” Evie stops and mashes her lips together. She inhales deep and blows it out slowly, shaking her head. “Anyway, she was crying too much and had started screaming, so he gave up on that idea and covered her mouth instead. He raped her … he did not use a condom … and I’m hoping you two can keep it together for her better than I can, because I’m a damned mess.”
Evie’s eyes flood with tears, and Celia grabs her hand. “Now you know better than that, Evie. Compassion for your patients is what makes you a great nurse. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Evie nods and tries to pull herself together as Celia looks behind her.
“Where is she? Is her husband with her?”
Evie shakes her head. “He’s in the back hallway with the police. They’re just having a preliminary discussion. No one has questioned the victim yet. They called in one of the female detectives on the force, in an effort to make Laurel more comfortable.”
“Good call,” I mumble, although I know nothing will be of much comfort to Laurel today. Or for a very long while, for that matter.
“Ready?” Celia asks, and I nod, knowing I’ll never be fully ready for what’s behind that curtain, but pulling it together, anyway, for Laurel.
“Do I have to talk to the police?” Laurel asks, her voice shaking as she clenches her eyes shut. “I don’t think I can do it.”
Her dark hair is clumped and matted on top of the pillow, still partially wet after being dragged from the shower. Her hands fist into her sheet, her scratched and bloody knuckles on full display—defensive wounds. Her lip hasn’t stopped trembling since we walked in.
Celia had taken the lead when we’d approached Laurel, as she often does, comforting her and doing her therapist gig. My certifications qualify me to counsel rape victims, too, but my talents in that respect pale in comparison to Celia. I don’t know how she does it, but she knows when to be strong and when to let go and cry with her patients.
Today, she cried.
I take a step closer to the bed and sit in the chair beside Celia. Laurel pins me with her hollow gaze, the life and fight sucked right out of her. For a long time, today will define her. I imagine that, like me, it will always be a part of her in some small way; but hopefully one day, it’ll become a footnote rather than the main story.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Laurel. You can be treated and walk out of here, if that’s what you want. But I’d like to talk to you about collecting some samples, taking a few photos,” I say, and she’s shaking her head violently before I finish. “Nothing has to come of it, I promise, if that’s what you want. The evidence can be filed, and that’s all, if you decide you don’t want to press charges. But what if you change your mind in a month, six months, a year? This evidence can only be collected now. I don’t want you to make an irreversible decision today. Will you just think about it? Only Celia and I will be in the room.”
“Honey?”
The curtain pulls open, and a man, presumably Laurel’s husband, steps inside. He rushes to the bed, grabs her hand, and lays a hard kiss on the inside of her wrist. She pulls him closer and buries her head in his chest as he runs a soothing hand down her back. His face crumbles as Laurel releases a muffled sob.
After gaining some semblance of composure, he nods at both of us. “I’m William, Laurel’s husband. Are you the rape counselors?”
“Yes,” Celia says with a gentle smile. “I’m Celia Lemaire, and I’m a therapist. This is Marlo Rivers, and she’s a SANE nurse.”
William shoots me a curious look, so I explain.
“Mr. Breaux, I’m here to help Celia in any way I can, and also to perform Laurel’s medical examination. She’s experienced unimaginable things today, and I’m so sorry for that. I can promise you, I’ll do my best to assess her physical injuries in a way that I don’t add to that trauma needlessly, while also obtaining necessary evidence should she decide to press charges,” I explain.
Laurel is shaking her head before I even finish. “No, please, William. I don’t want to press charges.”
He pulls away and cradles her face. “Honey, why? Whoever did this needs to pay,” he spits out, his voice cracking with emotion.
“I can’t,” she sobs, fisting his shirt in her hands. “Everyone will look at me and know. Know the disgusting things he did to me.”
She tries to shove her head into his neck again, but he stops her. “Look at me, Laurel. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You did nothing wrong, and when I look at you, I see the bravest woman I’ve ever known. Don’t you hide—from me or anyone else. You hear me?”
I take Laurel’s silence to mean she’s thinking it over, and move on to the next sensitive topic.
“Since your attacker didn’t use a condom, pregnancy may be a concern. The morning after pill is available to you, should you choose to take it, Laurel. I want you to know, there’s no right or wrong answer, here, and should you opt to take the pill, I’ll go over all the side effects of the medication with you.”
“We’ve been…” William starts, and then looks down at Laurel. “We’ve been trying to get pregnant. What if she’s … what if she’s already—”
I nod and give him a reassuring smile. “One of the tests I’ll perform will be a pregnancy test. If
it’s positive, we’ll know Laurel was pregnant prior to the attack, and you would be the father. If Laurel’s attack resulted in pregnancy, we wouldn’t know that for a while yet.”
They huddle together, him powerful and protective, and her, weak and battered, but far from dead. She’ll get through this, and she’ll borrow from William’s strength until she replenishes her own. It’s not always this way—not everyone knows how to be what their partners need.
As I watch them clinging to each other in grief, I wonder about the chance I didn’t give Ever to stand by me all those years ago. Would he have rushed to my side, or was he too lost to see anything past his own pain? Could I have been the wake-up call he’d needed, years earlier? I shake my thoughts away, knowing “what-ifs” only fester and burn. Nothing good comes from dwelling on what will never be.
“Can we have some time to discuss things in private, please?” William asks, and Celia and I stand.
“Of course, take all the time you need. We’ll be here,” Celia says.
We’re halfway to the nurses’ station when a gut wrenching cry erupts from behind the curtain. She’s letting go, giving the pain to him. I only pray that William can take it.
The sun lowers behind orange and purple tinged clouds as Celia and I trudge through the hospital parking lot. A vending machine sandwich and Doritos toss in my stomach like a wayward bowling ball. It’s a far cry from the shrimp and grits of yesterday, but desperate times and all that. At the six-hour mark, Celia and I had to forage for food. It had been a long day, but we’d made great progress in Laurel’s case.
After a long conversation with William, she had agreed to be examined and allowed me to collect samples for the police department. With both Celia and her husband at her side, she had given a statement to the police, and, with any luck, my samples will yield a DNA sample of her rapist. The day had been a struggle, to say the least, but Laurel took the first step today. That’s all anyone can ask of her.