Forever & Always: The Ever Trilogy (Book 1)

by Jasinda Wilder

  I watched Will sleep. His hair was long, brushing his shoulders. He’d let it grow the past year and a half, and he’d been cultivating a carefully trimmed goatee. I didn’t like it, but didn’t hate it. He was still hot as hell, just in a different way. We were in my room, in my one-room apartment in Birmingham. He was attending U of M on a music scholarship, double majoring in music and business. He came to see me on the weekends, and we filled Friday evening, Saturday, and Sunday with dinner at expensive restaurants, concerts, long walks through downtown Birmingham, and sex. It was…idyllic, on those days.

  Then, when he left to go back to Ann Arbor, I wondered. About everything. About Will. About our relationship. About myself. About the secret stash of paintings I had in my closet, hidden from Will and from myself.

  He’d found my letters from Cade a few months ago. He’d freaked the hell out, said it wasn’t fair. Yelled, shouted, scared me pale as snow. He hadn’t listened to a word I’d said, hadn’t given me an opportunity to even speak. He had no secrets, he said. He hadn’t come down the next weekend, hadn’t responded to texts or calls, but he’d shown up the following Tuesday with a bouquet of silver roses and a bottle of champagne that I’d imagined was insanely expensive. He’d spent an hour apologizing, then got me drunk and cooked me an effortlessly perfect chicken cordon bleu and made love to me on the sofa, slow and sorrowfully apologetic, whispering that it was fine, he forgave me, we were fine.

  I’d never apologized. I’d also never forgiven him.

  I’d held on to his shoulders as he moved above me and watched the way his hair fell across his face and wondered if I really dared call it making love, if I loved him, if he loved me. I’d come quietly, shallowly, slowly. Drunkenly. Sloppily.

  Now I watched Will sleep and wondered what he would do if I showed him the packet of letters, now thicker by three (only three in the last six months, how sad, how strange, how remote my dear Caden was, and I wondered but didn’t dare ask him why he seemed so far away) and I wondered what Will would do if I got up right then, still nude, and pulled the twenty-six paintings from the walk-in closet where they hid beneath my pile of old coats and a ragged Harvard stadium blanket that had belonged to my great-grandfather.

  Twenty-six paintings, ranging in size from four inches by six to six feet by six feet. All of them were of the same thing. Various takes, colors, poses, lights, stages of realism. Caden. All faces of Caden. Serious, thoughtful, sad, laughing, looking away, looking directly at me. In one of them, he was gazing at me in a soulful and seductive way, as if he was beside me in bed staring at me with afterglow eyes.

  I couldn’t seem to help painting Caden’s face. When I was stuck on a particular piece, or stressed out by a paper or a deadline for an assignment or by Will’s increasingly jealous and possessive behavior, I would find myself painting Caden. It would start out with his eyes, always. The expression in his eyes and eyebrows and then his mouth, and the rest would fall into place. It helped me stabilize emotionally.

  Will turned in place, rolling to face me. His eyelashes were full and dark against his cheeks. His sculpted arm was draped across my hip, and his mouth was open slightly. He was handsome, oh, yes, he was. My breath still caught sometimes, just looking at him, like I’d gotten caught in a daydream. Sex with him was a dream. Dates with him were a fantasy, each one a textbook example of Hollywood perfection romance.

  Yet…I was discontented. Unhappy. Off balance and confused.

  He would call me at random times to see what I was doing. He would demand to know my schedule, hour by hour, day by day. Once he even asked me for a written schedule of what I was doing and when. If I deviated from what I told him I was doing, he would act as if I’d betrayed him.

  I would sometimes catch him sending surreptitious text messages, after which he would tuck his phone in his pocket and act nonchalant. “Plans for Monday,” he’d claim, eyes shifting away.

  He was lying to me. Oh, yes. I knew it. I painted my conviction of his dishonesty once. It was a dark piece, floorboards stretching into the distance, a door standing ajar. A distorted likeness of Will stood partially out the door, looking back at the viewer, lit by a streetlamp on the other side of the door, out of sight. His eyes were haunted, in the painting. If you looked closely, you could see he was clutching his cell phone in his right hand.

  Why would he lie to me? Cheat on me? What had I done wrong? I’d devoted all the time and energy to him that I could. He didn’t make me happy; I didn’t love him. But I cared for him, I enjoyed him. He was my friend. He was my only real companion. Except Eden, of course, who had her own apartment a few blocks from mine, and she went to Cranbrook as well. For now, at least. She’d mentioned Julliard and the Boston Conservatory and other exclusive musical academies and conservatories. We had lunch every day and often would watch movies together at night at my place or hers, eating too much ice cream and being giggly girls.

  But Will? He didn’t make any sense to me. I lay beside him, watching him sleep, feeling some indefinable ache in my chest erupt and grow and spill out until I couldn’t lie still anymore.

  I crawled out from beneath Will’s arm, wrapped my purple fleece robe around myself, went into the kitchen. I set a pot of water on to boil, stared out the window at the orange glow of a streetlight, watched a black Mercedes slide into the pool of light and out of it, vanish. When the pot whistled, I dunked two bags of peppermint tea in it, and tiptoed back into my bedroom. Will was sprawled out across the entire bed, snoring gently. I stopped in place, watching him. I saw his pants on the floor, a pair of artfully faded and ripped True Religion jeans. I searched the pockets; no cell phone. He rolled over on the bed, onto my side. I checked under the pillow. Yes, there it was. A black iPhone 5 in a black protective case. I held the phone in my fist, watching Will, waiting for him to wake up. Nothing.

  I left the bedroom, closing the door with a near-silent snick behind me, and poured a mug of tea. Steam curled, and I tapped the “home” button. A photograph of Will with Wynton Marsalis appeared, taken in New York City when Will was seventeen. Will had performed at Lincoln Center and met Wynton, who was one of his heroes. I slid my finger from left to right. I knew his code; I’d watched him type it in enough: 1-3-9-5, his birthday.

  I found the green icon with the white quotation balloon symbol in the top row of apps, second from the right, next to Instagram. The list of text message threads dizzied me: Aimee, Jay, Dolly, Jake, Ben, Julie, Mackenzie…and, at the very top? “Sweetheart.” I assumed the thread under the name “Sweetheart” was me. Only, when I opened it up, it wasn’t a conversation with me:

  OMG Billy I can’t wait for you get back here and fuck me I want your cock inside me. If you come home right now I’ll blow you so hard you won’t be able to see straight.

  jesus Kelly, youre gonna get me in trouble if she catches me with a hardon she’l know somthing is up.

  I don’t care. Let her find out.

  Not yet.

  Why?

  I’m not ready to get rid of her yet.

  You promised Billy. By Thanksgiving. You promised you’d come back to Arlington with me and meet my Dad.

  It’s not that simple. You wouldn’t understand. She’s…delicate.

  WTF is that supposed to mean? And am I supposed to care?

  She called him Billy. She wanted him to meet her dad? She knew about me, and wanted Billy to dump me. He thought I was delicate. Delicate?

  She gave him blowjobs. He’d asked me once, and I’d refused. He’d been upset, irritated. I had wanted…other things. He’d…not quite begged, but nearly. I didn’t want to, I’d said, not right then, maybe another time. He’d gotten up and left the room, and he’d never asked again. And I’d never offered.

  Maybe that was part of why he’d gone to her, because she did that for him when I didn’t.

  Something else about the thread niggled at me, but it took me half a cup of tea worth of rereading to figure it out. If you come home right now… the message said.r />
  Home.

  Where she was, was home to him, and her.

  When he came here, he brought a backpack with a change of clothes rolled up tight. Jeans, boxers, a T-shirt, socks. Cologne, a toothbrush and toothpaste, hair paste, and deodorant, all kept in a leather Armani Collection toiletry case. He never left anything here. Never took a shower, unless it was with me, for sex. He came on Friday, stayed Saturday, left Sunday evening.

  I wasn’t home. She was home.

  My head was spinning, breaking. My heart was…numb. I wasn’t sure how my heart would react, how my soul would react, when reality caught up to me. I didn’t care. I finished my tea, sipping calmly, and then poured another cup. While that one was cooling off, I put Billy’s phone back under the pillow. But not until after I’d changed two tiny little things. “Sweetheart” was now “COCKSUCKER” and “Ever” was now “GONE”.

  It was 4:30 a.m., and I finished my tea, dressed in comfy clothes, tied my hair in a bun, and left. I drove to Cranbrook, went straight for the private studio. Locked the door and pulled the blinds and turned on the ventilation fan and changed into my paint shirt, just the shirt. No bra, no underwear, no pants, just the button-down shirt, bare feet. Sleeves rolled to my elbow.

  And I painted. Caden’s face appeared, sad for me. Angry for me. Needing me.

  And I painted Will, as a twisted demon all black shadows and flames. And Will’s blue eyes. No. Not Will. Not anymore. Billy. Billy fucking Harper.

  I painted without seeing what I was doing. Shapes and colors, back to abstractions, back to what excised the demons from my soul. Hard reds and angry yellows and burning oranges, swathed across the most massive canvas I could find, a ten-by-ten I’d stretched, intended for a self-portrait project. Raw anger on canvas, confusion and rage and some strange sense of…freedom.

  A key scratched in the lock. I didn’t turn around; only Eden had a key.

  “Felt you needing me,” she said, wrapping her arms around me from behind. “Is it Will?”

  I slapped a vivid path of blue so hard it spattered on my shirt and cheek. “Billy. It’s Billy.”

  “What’d he do?” Eden didn’t sound surprised. She’d met him a few times and didn’t like him. She’d said he reminded her of Adam Levine: a quintessential hot douche.

  “I’ve known he was lying to me about something for a long time. All the signs, you know?”

  “Jealous? Possessive? Hides his phone?” Eden had dated a guy her senior year, the first-chair violinist. Rob. She’d found out after a year and a half of dating that he’d cheated on her with the second-chair violinist, a bitchy, acne-scarred, insanely eccentric girl named Nina.

  “Yeah. So I’m not surprised, really. Just…pissed off.”

  “Who is it?” Eden did her usual thing, strolling around the room flipping through my various drying canvases.

  “Some girl named Kelly. That’s all I know. And I think he lives with her.”

  Eden stared at me in shock. “He what?”

  “I went through his phone. Found a text message conversation with ‘sweetheart,’” I emphasized the word with as much sarcasm as I possessed, “and she said if he, quote, ‘comes home now,’ she’d blow him until he can’t see straight. ‘Comes home’ being the operative phrase here.”

  “Shit. What a douche-nozzle.”

  I snorted. “Douche-nozzle isn’t strong enough.”

  “Douche commander?” Eden suggested.

  “That might work. Commander of all the douches.” I tossed the paintbrush into a sink and rinsed it, scrubbed the paint off my hand and face.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Shove his trumpet up his ass?” I rested my forehead against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “What should I do?”

  Eden turned me around and pulled me into a hug. “Come stay with me for a while. We’ll watch Notting Hill and eat a gallon of pistachio ice cream.”

  “Hugh Grant usually cheers me up.” I pulled away and gathered my clothes. “Love you, Edie.”

  “Love you too, Ev.” She watched me dress. “I honestly expected you to be crying when this happened.”

  “You knew it would?”

  “Not knew. Just suspected. Like you would have listened if I’d told you?”

  I huffed a laugh. “True. I’m not going to cry. I’m not sad. I don’t know what I am. Angry, more than anything. Confused as to why.”

  “’Cause guys are all assholes.”

  “True.”

  I told Eden I’d meet her at her place. I had to get a few things. Namely, my dignity back. And some clean panties.

  Billy was still sleeping when I returned. It was seven in the morning, Sunday. He normally slept until eight on Sundays. I wasn’t quiet as I packed clothes into a bag, my phone charger, some toiletries—but no makeup—and then, finally, he woke up. Rubbed his eyes with a fist. Naked, sexy as hell with his hair mussed and falling in his bright blue eyes, morning erection bulging against the sheet. And a douche commander.

  “Whassup, babe? Going somewhere?” He stretched, letting the sheet fall away, pushed at his erection, stretching it, too. I couldn’t look away, because hot was hot.

  In an effort to exert control over the conversation, I tossed his jeans at him, covering him. “Over to Eden’s.”

  “Why?” He went still, hearing the ice in my voice.

  “How long have we been together?”

  He didn’t even have to think. “Two years in July.”

  “And how long have you been fucking Kelly behind my back?”

  He hung his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shit.”

  “I read the texts between you and your sweetheart.” I put so much vitriol into the term that it dripped poison. “I hope you have fun in Arlington.”

  “Ever, listen—” He stood up and shoved his legs into the jeans. He winced as he did so; he hated going commando. He found his shirt on the floor and put it on, too.

  “Don’t. Just tell me why.” I set my bag on the floor in the doorway, and went back to my closet, unearthing the paintings of Cade, one by one, ranging them around the room.

  “What is that? What are those? Is that—? That’s him, isn’t it? That asshole you write those fucking letters to.”

  “You don’t get to talk to me about Cade. Just tell me why. I would have understood if you’d said you’d met someone else. I would have made it easy.”

  “It’s hard to explain, Ev.”

  “Try.”

  “Honestly? I don’t really know. I like you. You’re funny. Weird. Hot. Amazing in bed. But…you’re—you’re cold. Closed off. Like there’s this barrier just beneath your skin that I can’t get past. You don’t let me in. You don’t tell me anything about yourself. You just hang out with me, fuck me, and that’s it. There’s no emotion to you. You’re just…ice.”

  I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words. I tried anyway. “You—in the text. You told her I was delicate.”

  “You are. Ice cracks easily. Even the thickest ice will crack under enough pressure. If I dumped you, I thought you’d—”

  “Crack?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “So instead you shack up with some whore, and don’t bother to break up with me? Spend the weekends with me, the week with her. Twice the pussy for the price of one.” I clenched my fists at my side, refusing to crack. I was close. He knew me all too well. This was too much pressure. If he’d just dumped me, it wouldn’t have cracked me. I would have refrozen and been fine. This…this was too much.

  “It’s not like that—”

  “Then what’s it like? You just stayed with me for the sex? Why else? If I’m so cold, so closed off, that’s the only reason, right?”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “No, Ev. Like I said, it’s hard to explain. I didn’t want to hurt you.” He was staring at the floor. Lying.

  “God, you’re such an asshole. Just get out. Don’t come back.” I grabbed m
y bag and whirled around.

  He followed me, yelling. “Quit acting so innocent. You and that Caden guy. The letters. And you were painting his face? Like, seriously?”

  “Oh, like it’s even close to the same thing?” I shoved him, hard, slamming my palms against his chest and shoving him backward so he tumbled over the back of the couch. “I met him one time, almost five years ago. We write fucking letters. And barely that anymore. So don’t even try to make out like I was cheating on you with a piece of fucking paper.”

  Billy righted himself, scrambled around the couch, and rushed me, rage on his face. I felt panic race through me as he raised his fist, closing in like a freight train. I cringed, shrinking back against the wall. He stopped at the last second, his fist still raised, face a rictus of rage, blood trickling down his face where his cheekbone had been cut open by the corner of the coffee table.

  He sagged, backing away, turning in place with a shocked and horrified expression on his face. He leaned against the window, fists on the sill, forehead against the glass. “You know what, Ever? The truth is, I stayed at first because I hoped you’d open up. I thought maybe you and I could really be something. Like we could fall in love, if you’d just open up a bit. And then I met Kelly, and she was…everything you’re not. She had these…emotions that you just won’t show. I’m a guy, I know I’m not supposed to care about emotions, but there it is. She was open. She talked to me. She has friends, Ever. A life. She doesn’t have secret pen pals, secret paintings.” He shot a glance at me, turning slightly to look at me. “You want truth? Yeah, by now it was…habit. I was afraid of breaking up with you. You only had your sister, and I was…worried. And plus, yeah, it was also the sex.”

  “But mostly, it was the sex.”

  “Does it matter?” he demanded, yelling. “Does it really matter?”

  I stood up, collected my bag, and stuffed my feet into my UGGs. “No. I guess it doesn’t. I’m leaving. Just get out. Get out of my apartment, out of my life.”

  He grabbed his bag and his shoes. “That’ll be easy. I was never really in your life to begin with.” He sat down, put on his socks and shoes, spoke as he tied the laces of his Nikes. “You wanna know something? You act like I’m so evil for cheating and lying. And maybe I deserve that. Sure, I’ll take that blame. But ask yourself why you stayed with me all this time. If you were never going to really let me in, never really give me any of yourself, your heart, then why were you with me? Why did you keep me around? You could have ended it anytime. You never did. Ask yourself why, and if it was really so different from what I did. You may not have spent time with this guy in the letters and the paintings, but it was still a part of yourself you were hiding from me and giving to someone else. And that, if you ask me, is the real down-deep definition of cheating.”