Everly After

by Rebecca Paula

  “This might hurt.”

  She nods, her hands wrapping tight around my middle. The quilt slips down onto the sink counter, pooling around her waist. She’s sitting in front of me in that shirt, revealing her hot pink bra, the plane of her flat stomach. Her legs brush against my jeans, and I have to make myself think of something ugly or cold—anything to focus me. She’s wrapping herself around me, half-naked, gazing up at me as if we’re strangers who’ve known each other forever.

  I feel it, too. I know her without knowing anything about her at all.

  I swallow and dab the alcohol wipe over her skin, cradling her head in my hand. She leans into my palm because she’s set on fucking undoing me. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it, but bit by slow bit, I’m unraveling before her. I don’t want her to be like this. I don’t like the way she trusts me so blindly right now. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth because it’s the same attitude that landed her here in my bathroom, half dressed with a gash in her head.

  Before she leaves my flat, I’m going to have a list a fucking mile long of all the things that piss me off about Everly.

  She grimaces as I wipe away more blood, and our eyes connect. “Sorry,” I say.

  “It’s fine.”

  I make a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat and keep cleaning up her face until I’m certain it won’t get infected when I close the gash up.

  “Are you a nurse?” she asks, attempting to be cheeky.

  “No.”

  “I bet you’d look good in the uniform.” She sighs again before adding, “I was just trying to make you laugh. You look so serious right now.”

  I crack a smile, but I’m annoyed. I can’t figure her out. She’s sun and shadow, evasive and familiar all at once. “I’m a journalist,” I confess.

  Was a journalist.

  I didn’t want to tell her because of what she’s doing now—drawing back, stiffening up. “A war correspondent,” I clarify and stop there. She doesn’t need to know the rest, and that’s the last fucking thing I want to think about right now.

  Her fingers tug and twist in my shirt in anxious fists. “Do you know who I am?”

  Everly Tallis Monteith—heiress to an oil fortune, socialite, accident waiting to happen.

  I nod. I don’t really care, but I guess she thinks it’ll change everything. Everything? It’s nothing. It’s nothing, right?

  “Breathe, Everly.”

  She looks up at me, her blue eyes still bloodshot. They must be gorgeous when they’re clear. I bet they’re dark and deep, exactly like Everly.

  “You know all about me, I bet.”

  “Nadine told me.” I lean over to throw the alcohol wipe in the trash, careful not to back away so she can’t stand up and dash out. I can sense the tension in her limbs without even touching her. “I know nothing about you.”

  She’s quiet again, so I rip open the liquid stitches packet with my teeth and push the raw skin of her gash together. Carefully, I lay the seal and keep my fingers there, softly blowing over her wound while it sets. Her pulse is racing beneath my fingertips. If my touch hurts, she gives no hint that she’s in pain.

  I feel her studying me again and keep my eyes focused on the drying glue. “I’ll leave it to you, Everly. To tell me who you are. I don’t care about the stories.”

  My fingers slip down her face tenderly, as if my touch can soak up the bruised skin and make it disappear, make her whole. I can’t, though, so I swallow and tip her chin up so we’re looking at each other. I mean to say something, to tell her she can go and to be careful, but the words stick in my dry throat. My eyes are pinned on my thumb running over her full, bottom lip.

  “Are you going to kiss me now, Beckett?”

  Yes.

  My palms start to sweat, but we both don’t move away. “Do you want me to?”

  I feel her answer under my thumb—the small twitch of her lips, the way they part slightly and she holds her breath. It roots me to the floor, and I can’t stop watching her, feeling her spiraling around me until I’m caught up in the idea of what it would be like to kiss Everly.

  “I think you’re set,” I say instead, like a total coward. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

  She lies to me again without words. It’s that damn smile of hers that spreads across her lips and erases the bad that’s happened, brushing it away as if it meant nothing, as if my heart isn’t racing in my fucking chest and she isn’t still tangled around me.

  I don’t want to kiss her this way, with her vulnerable and bruised. I don’t want to kiss her and have her turn my summer upside down. I’m in Paris, but I’m not staying. I’ll do my therapy and return to reporting. I’m not going to be forced to take on a desk job. I’ve handled worse in my life than what happened in Afghanistan.

  Everly doesn’t hesitate when I step away. She twists around me, jumping down, and then sprints out of the bathroom.

  I don’t stop her. I’m not one to offer help, and I’ve helped her more than anyone in my life. I flick off the bathroom light and grip the counter, listening to her search for her shoes and purse in the living room.

  The door shuts, and as if nothing happened, I’m left alone. But that’s not true now.

  I’m alone in my flat, but my entire life just changed.

  Everly

  It’s three in the afternoon, and I’m still in bed, wrapped up tight in Beckett’s quilt. It smells like him and his apartment, and I can’t let it go. I’ve tossed it out of my bed every night this week, and yet every morning I wake up with it tucked tight around me. I haven’t heard from him, haven’t seen him, but I have his quilt. I think it’s what has kept me together this week.

  The night I was supposed to go to the opera with Hudson never comes back to me. I can’t remember, and maybe that’s for the best. If I wasn’t so used to spending my life this way—living without remembering—I think I’d be more upset or ashamed. Regretful, maybe. But it’s been like this since my brother Nathan died when I was in prep school. The company I keep is terrible, so I get into trouble.

  Case in point? Hudson.

  I knew better than to let him back into my life. I had actually been behaving myself until he kissed me here in Paris. Now I can’t remember how I’ve spent my days and nights with him, but he’s seen that the rest of world does.

  There are pictures of me undressing in the bathtub of his hotel suite. Very NSFW photos I never realized he was taking. And because he’s a heartless bastard, Hudson decided not to keep them for himself, but to break the little quiet I had in this world and announce to the Internet that I’m in Paris.

  I die a little more thinking about Beckett and how he knows the truth. I’m guessing he’s seen the pictures. I bet Nadine even showed him since they’re so close. If he’s seen them, then maybe he’s Googled me and seen the others. It’s not the first time I’ve graced the gossip blogs. I’m their favorite disaster. It’s easy to judge when they’re only looking at a picture.

  I sniff back my disgust and the stupid tears on my cheeks. Crying won’t change it now. Nothing can. I could call my dad and get a lawyer, but I’m sure my parents wouldn’t be looking forward to hearing from me after I’ve embarrassed the family again. I’m just a slutty fuckup to them.

  What I need is to get out of Paris—if I can ever get out of this bed. I can’t keep myself locked away forever. I’ve never been one to cower because of someone like Hudson. It’s not a new thing for people to take advantage of me.

  What I wouldn’t give to take that night back. I wonder if that’s why Beckett didn’t kiss me. I bet he hates me. I hate me, so I can understand if he does, too. But to be able to hear his voice wouldn’t be a bad thing right now, even if he is mad at me again. I don’t care. I just want him around for some reason.

  My phone buzzes beside me on the mattress. I hug the quilt tight and open up Hudson’s message.

  I miss you.

  I wait, not sure how to answer. Earlier this week, my answers were angrier. Now
I’m just sad and defeated, and I miss someone else entirely.

  Are you at your place? Let me see you, he texts.

  I stare at my phone, waiting for my bed sheets to swallow me up.

  You can’t hide away forever, Ev.

  I furrow my brows, scratching my head. I should probably take a shower. I don’t like who I’ve become this past week.

  I can, I text back. From you, especially.

  I didn’t mean anything by it.

  This is the closest he’s come to admitting he’s responsible for leaking those photos. He tried claiming someone else at the party found his phone. I know it was him. I may act stupid, but I’m not. I graduated from Columbia a semester early. Last summer I even won an anthropology fellowship for my fieldwork in Costa Rica. I’ve busted my ass to be taken seriously. For the most part, I’m even convincing. I mean, not lately, but I can study. I can pretend I have my shit together sometimes.

  Stay away from me, I reply.

  My phone goes quiet, and I close my eyes, convincing myself I can get out of bed and take a shower, maybe go to the market down the street to make myself something for dinner. My cupboards here are bare except for the cabinet full of prescription bottles in the bathroom. As much as I like eating pills, it helps to have something in your stomach every now and then.

  When my phone buzzes a few minutes later, it sounds like a warning siren in my ear.

  No. We’re in this together.

  I roll over and chuck Beckett’s quilt to the ground. I pull the pillow over my head and lie still until I fall back to sleep. It’s easier this way.

  Beckett

  I scrub my hand over my face, four days’ worth of stubble grating against my palm.

  “You should shave.”

  I’ve forgotten that Nadine is here. Again.

  “Probably.” A decent guy wouldn’t forget a naked girl in his bed.

  “I can help.”

  I rest my chin in my hand, looking over at Nadine, who has the sheets pulled around her chest. I wish she would leave. I don’t want her here with me.

  “I have a lot of work to do, so…”

  “Maybe we can go out tonight? There’s this new bistro in Ménilmuche. I’d love to go.”

  I’m back to staring at my computer, already forgetting what she’s said.

  “With you,” she says a few minutes later. “I would like to go with you.”

  What I would like is for her to remember a reason to get out of my bed and leave. And stop talking to me in French. And stop being here in my apartment when I’m trying to write. I’d love for her to forget that I own the café she manages and that we share this convenient arrangement that’s not convenient for me any longer. It’d be more convenient if she forgot me. It’d sure as hell make it easier for me to get back to writing this damn book.

  I tap my pen against the edge of my keyboard, faster and faster, until the nervous rhythm breaks and I chuck it across my room. I’ve been staring at the same paragraph on my screen for thirty minutes now—maybe longer. Probably longer.

  I’ve been glaring at the words, but they’re not connecting with me. Instead, I’ve been arguing with myself about asking Nadine about Everly instead. To ask after the bruise on her face without it revealing too much. And that quickly spirals into the memory of Everly standing in my doorway, wrapped up in the quilt she took from me. The sad look in her wide eyes when I wrenched my door open because I thought the building was burning down.

  “Beckett.”

  “What?” I snap. I wince as soon as I hear the tone in my voice. I am really shitty company. “What?” I repeat again, lowering my voice.

  “Stop staring at the computer and come back to bed.”

  I push back in my chair and toss the notebooks off my desk onto the floor. I’m tired of being told what to do. My body tenses up, and the urge to send a fist through the wall is clawing at me from the inside. I should throw on my trainers and leave, race until the air is burning in my lungs and I’m too tired to deal with the brewing mess inside of me.

  “Are you upset because…” She lowers the sheet to her waist. “We can try again. You don’t have to…”

  Nadine is sexy as hell this way, especially when she licks her lips. Any guy with half his wits would be taking her up on the invitation, but I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t crave her; my body isn’t responding. Which was half the trouble when we tried earlier.

  “We can talk about what happened if it’ll help. If that’s what’s bothering you. It must be hard coming home…”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “You’re so angry.” Her voice is full of pout. “Are you going to sell the café then? Am I going to be out of work?”

  That’s her real concern. I know it, and she knows that I know it, too, by the way she avoids my eyes when I stretch and start for the door. I’m too afraid that I’m going to hurt her by saying what’s heavy on my mind, so I walk out.

  “Where are you going?”

  I scratch my neck, pausing just outside my doorway. “I’m taking a shower.”

  Nadine starts to get out of bed. “Need company?”

  I can’t look at her face, so I turn back around and head for the bathroom. “No.”

  What I need is to get the fuck out of Paris.

  I slam the bathroom door and turn the water on in the shower until it’s almost scalding. I stand under the stream for a long time, leaning against the bleached tile, my hands splayed out in front of me. I shut my eyes and see Everly’s staring back at me, her lips beneath my thumb—waiting for me to kiss her.

  My skin burns, the steam filling up the bathroom, fogging up my head until I realize she’s not here. I can forget Nadine, but I can’t dream up Everly.

  Dreams have a funny way of erasing themselves as soon as you open your eyes.

  Everly

  My bruise fades, the liquid stitches slowly peel off, but nothing else changes. I’m still the idiot who got trashed and allowed Hudson to take pictures of her undressing in a bathtub. Still the girl clutching onto paper maps like they’ll be the answer to a new life.

  After Hudson’s last text, I switched off my phone so I didn’t have to deal. He stopped by once, but I ignored the banging until it was too much and then I climbed up to the roof. He hasn’t come back since.

  Of course, by ignoring Hudson, I’m ignoring work. I need the money, but I can’t show up with my face looking like an Impressionist piece that should be in the Musée d’Orsay. Not when the world knows I’m here in Paris. I don’t want to deal with the photographers. I don’t want to deal with the attention and questions.

  God, the questions. Those are the worst.

  It’s easier to hide away in my apartment, so that’s what I’ve been doing.

  I climb up onto the rooftop ledge and dangle my bare feet off. I lean over, my hands gripping tight as I watch the cars drive on the road below. They look like toy cars, like I’m playing house and moving my dolls along for another busy day of collected nothings.

  I don’t have an answer for the question I asked Beckett that night at the rave. I don’t know if I have anything worth thinking of before I die. I had a whole new life ahead of me last time, and that still couldn’t save me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it would be over before I could think of anything. I think it’d be a little late to start then, anyway.

  My hand trembles at the thought of him. It’s been doing it a lot the past week. I haven’t seen Beckett or heard from him, but somehow he’s worked his way into me and I’ve got a trembling hand like a drunk.

  I scramble off the wall, accidently scraping the scab off my knee so it’s bleeding again. The blood pools and beads up. My finger hovers above it, waiting for the right time to wipe it away, but I decide to let it be. Let it bleed. I’m good at that.

  I lie down on the roof and smoke a cigarette and spend the next hour staring up at the sun because I’ve got nothing better to do than to wreck myself a little more.

  Except I do. I stil
l have his quilt, and I need to return it. I can’t sleep with it anymore. It only makes me remember the way I wrapped myself around him, the heat of his body around mine, the way he traced his thumb over my bottom lip.

  I needed him to kiss me. I don’t know if I’d ever wanted anything more. But he obviously didn’t feel the same way because he let me leave.

  Good guys like Beckett don’t want anything to do with girls like me—the complications, the drama. I don’t intend for that to be my life either, but he never gave me a chance to explain.

  I’m not sure when or why I decide to do it, but a little later I’m climbing the stairs to his apartment, the quilt tucked under my arm. My hand hovers above his door, but I can’t. I can’t knock and have him answer, waiting for me. I know that’s ridiculous. I huff out a deflated breath and spin around.

  Beckett is standing in the alley, watching me.

  He’s dressed up, wearing a blue collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and tilts his head up to me. He’s always waiting me out. It’s annoying.

  “I’m returning your quilt.” I point to it as if to prove I’m not lying, but I am. “But I’m leaving,” I add on a rushed breath. I start down the stairs, looking past him into the alley so I can walk away with my head held high.

  “You weren’t going to knock?”

  I stop two stairs above him, my hand gripping the railing to hide my surprise. Before I say something stupid, I jump down the remaining stairs, shove the quilt hard into his chest, and walk away. He doesn’t want me around, and I shouldn’t want to be here with him. He can have his stupid quilt back, and I don’t need to see him. I’m pretty sure Nadine fired me after I decided not to show up for almost two weeks. I should go back to my apartment, figure out where I’m going next, and leave with the little I have saved up before it’s too late. Before Hudson drags me back down with him.

  He was a mistake. And I’m exhausted from mistakes.

  “You want to get some coffee then?” Beckett asks.