Everly After

by Rebecca Paula

  I do my best to scowl, but I think I end up grinning a little. I tug the phone out of his hand, surprised to see that Beckett’s put himself in my calendar, each day filled with some touristy destination. Each day, a reminder that he’s going to be there and that I’m going to be seeing him so we can visit Shakespeare & Company or see the locks of Pont des Art. That I’m not going to be alone in Paris if I don’t want to be.

  “You’re assuming a lot.” I’m about to stuff it back into my purse when my phone vibrates with a text from Beckett: Look up. I do and stop, barely avoiding a trash can. I whirl around, crossing my arms. “And you stole my number.”

  “What am I assuming?”

  “That I want to see you again.”

  “This isn’t a date,” he reminds me, spinning me back around. His hand still rests on my shoulder as he says, “Maybe I want to see you again.”

  I tense up and quicken my steps, putting a little distance between us. “No, you don’t.”

  It’s as if he’s forgotten the ugly disaster who passed out in front of his apartment two weeks ago. The same one who had a panic attack, hit her head, threw up all over his bathroom, bled over his T-shirts. That mess—me.

  I’m not the sort of girl who is ever chased for more than one thing. I don’t believe in magic, and I don’t believe Beckett wants me for any other reason than he thinks I’m easy. To his credit, I usually am.

  I stumble in my flats when my phone buzzes in my hand.

  Maybe I do.

  “Stop texting me. I’m walking right next to you.”

  “You’re running ahead of me,” he calls out.

  Huh, I guess I was putting a little more than a short distance between us. I go to pull my sunglasses over my face, but he races up and grabs them out of my hand.

  “It’s dark,” he teases, running backward over the cobbled walkway past Île Saint Louis, beside the Seine.

  I don’t stop him, maybe because his smile is too smug right then and I’d rather see the smile where the lines crowd around his eyes. I like that one better.

  He backs right up into a budding linden tree, knocking his head.

  I try fight back a laugh, but it leaks out anyway. “What’s your excuse?” He rubs the back of his head, his tawny hair sticking up awkwardly as he glowers at me. I bite back my smile and step closer, ducking low to meet his averted eyes. “Well?”

  “I want to see you again,” he says. I like the way his voice is so firm when I’m so caught up in the uncertainties of us. “Even if this isn’t a date. Even if it’s not a date the next time, Everly.”

  I hate that he’s so good at making me believe there could be more. I straighten and brush the hair away from my face, determined not to let him see that his words are melting my heart. “Maybe next time I need to let you stumble into the Seine.”

  Then it happens—the smile I do like. Beckett looks incredibly cool as he says, “You’re awfully cheeky, aren’t you?” He tugs at my shirt so I sway closer.

  “I’m a lot of things.” I tip my head near his as if I’m going to kiss him, loving it when I hear his breath hitch in his throat. But I’m not in a rush to destroy what we have. I grab back my sunglasses and twirl away, walking safely again on the sidewalk, minus one Brit.

  He jogs up beside me. “You’re trouble.”

  “Of course I am. You found me passed out on your doorstep. That should have been sign enough.”

  “I’m good at reading people…but not you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, so thanks.” The sun has dipped below the horizon now, and we’re both lost in the gentle light of twilight. I can’t help glancing over again. “How old are you, Beckett?”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  I never thought about it until now, but he looks older, acts older. It’s hard to tell how old someone is sometimes. “Twenty…eight.”

  “Do you have a thing for older men?”

  I’ve been with a lot of guys, some older, some younger. It never really mattered. “No.”

  “Good because I’m twenty-five,” he says. I tilt my head, fighting back a laugh. “But maybe I should start telling people I’m twenty-eight. I bet they take you seriously then.”

  No one takes me seriously, but Beckett actually looks and acts like an adult. I would expect…I don’t know. I just assume he knows his place in the world by the way he carries himself.

  “Do they not take you ser—”

  “How old are you?”

  I curl my hands into fists, staring down at the ground. “Twenty-one.”

  I sprint off toward the bookseller’s cart in front of us before it can get too personal. I need to stop running away from him. I close my eyes, ignoring the bookseller greeting me.

  I’m fine.

  “That’s a good movie.”

  He’s right behind me again. Beckett is really good at ignoring my attempts at trying to be friends. I can be friendly. I can tease and flirt. But to have him so close—it blurs the line I’m trying very hard to draw between us. We won’t be good for each other. And I’m leaving—soon—if only I can make up my mind about where I want to go next.

  I open my eyes and see that I’m holding a French edition of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. “Have you read this before?” I turn to him, my hands curled tight around the water-stained paperback.

  “No.”

  “Well, don’t.” I return it to the stack of books and flash a fake smile to the bookseller. “It’ll ruin your happy ending,” I say to Beckett over my shoulder.

  He thumbs through the aged pages of another book I’ve never heard of, makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, and sets it down, his blue eyes assessing me again. He’s determined to learn my depths today, I swear it.

  “Are you still at school then?”

  I frown. I thought it would be easier to push him away. “No, I graduated early.”

  “I knew there was more to you.” He grabs my hand before I can think of a comeback and tugs me forward. “Come on. There’s one more place I want to take you tonight.”

  We stop off at a small convenience store and Beckett buys us a bottle of champagne. He grabs my hand, and even though I should let go, I keep mine tucked tightly in his. I’m about to ask where we’re going when we round the corner.

  I drop his hand and step away, my hands clutched to my chest. I’ve seen it before, but never like this. I’ve never had Paris given to me like a surprise present. It’s beautiful.

  We’re standing at the gates of the park, staring up at the Eiffel Tower as it sparkles.

  “Do you want to go up top?” Beckett asks. I look between him and the lights again, speechless. “I’m guessing you’ve never been up to the top before.” He scratches the back of his neck.

  I shake my head, my chest tightening. He’s doing it again—being thoughtful. I don’t deserve it. I do one nice thing like return a quilt, and now I’m standing in the dark, in Paris, with Beckett and a bottle of champagne beneath the Eiffel Tower.

  Le sigh.

  “This isn’t a date, Beckett.”

  “That’s what you keep reminding me.”

  “But it isn’t. I need you to understand it isn’t. You can’t…you can’t like me.”

  He marches closer and bumps his hand under my chin so our eyes meet. “Maybe I like spending time with you.”

  “As friends?” I ask. His fingers cradle my face, and I don’t pull away.

  “Sure.”

  Do you believe that? That we’re friends?

  I hold back those questions. I’m afraid that if I say them, this really will become a date, and I’ll end up kissing Beckett in the most romantic place in the world and lose myself again. It’s so easy to get caught up in things—school, plans, guys. I want to stop losing myself and live.

  His thumb is flush against my bottom lip, the look in his eyes melting me to the sidewalk. My resolve doesn’t even last ten seconds. It can’t when our eyes are locked and I think I’ve forgotten to b
reathe.

  “Are you going to kiss me, Beckett?”

  Please kiss me.

  He drops his hand, tracing his fingers over my arm until my hand is in his and he’s leading me toward the Tower. It looks like it left Cartier, dripping in diamonds. The lights are beautiful. So beautiful, and so is Beckett.

  I can pretend if that’s what he wants. We can pretend to be friends if I can have him around me until I leave Paris.

  Beckett

  Everly hugs the vinyl to her chest and sways in the middle of the living room. The trumpet plays slow, sexy notes while the piano softly cascades in the background. I feel like I’m at a smoky bar, lusting over the beautiful lounge singer in an old movie.

  I slump back in my chair, biting my fist, soaking all of this in. The music is intoxicating, but watching the way her hips gently swing back and forth is fucking killing me. She’s playing me like that steady pluck of the cello.

  The snare drum hisses, and her eyes open wide, meeting my stare. Everly licks her lips, never stopping her soft sway. She’s looking at me like the first night I met her—when she caught me watching.

  “Have you heard this before?”

  Fucking hell, her voice is even husky now.

  Her lips slowly widen into a tempting smile when I don’t answer. I drop my fist, knocking it against the table for a beat. I feel like I’m thirteen again, afraid to open my mouth because my voice might crack. I shake my head, but I don’t look away.

  She tips her head back to the ceiling and laughs. “I think I want to listen to this every day. It’s just…”

  There’s this thing between me and Everly—these tiny moments like this one that seem to pull me closer, open me up. I feel it. It’s like my body has been zipped up in a body bag, DOA, since I’ve been in Paris, but not now. Because with her I believe maybe there’s been a mistake. I’m surprised to discover there is still a part of me that’s alive—happy, even. Just another guy falling for a girl.

  I can almost forget it all, sitting here, watching Everly dance.

  “This is the song I want played when I walk down the street.” She shimmies her hips and mimics waving hello at passersby.

  I can picture it, too—her all dolled up, shopping bags in her arms as she strolls down the sidewalk. The cheesy montage when she rounds the corner and knocks straight into me and we accidently kiss.

  “It’d be a bit noisy if it was playing out loud. Lots of people in Paris with different soundtracks.”

  She waves off my logic and walks back over to the stack of records. “These all belonged to your aunt?”

  “Mmhmm.” I like the way her fingers flip the albums against each other with a definitive strike of curiosity, eager to see the next. “You would have liked her. She adored Coco Chanel.”

  Everly peeks at me over her shoulder, the apples of her cheeks rounded as if she’s hiding a smile from me. She narrows her eyes, but I’m not sure whether I’ve said the wrong thing. Again. She turns back to scrutinizing the record collection.

  The clock on the wall tells me it’s late, but it doesn’t feel that way. It was nine when we left the Eiffel Tower, and Everly’s been playing records for a few hours now at least. Time has a funny way of blurring into one long moment with her. I like that, too.

  Everly takes the needle off the record, and the room falls silent. “This was all hers? The apartment, café?”

  I expect my palms to start sweating or my heart to race, but everything beats on as normal. I’m so surprised that I confess everything. “It was until she fell in love and I showed up on her doorstep.”

  She spins around, her head cocked to the side. So much for secrets. The longer I sit in this room with her, getting drunk off a night of simple pleasures, the more I’m in danger. She’ll know my National Insurance number soon enough.

  I spin my glass of water over the table, an exhale rushing over my parted lips.

  “You can’t stop there.”

  I laugh in spite of myself and rub the back of my neck. “She won a hand of poker, and it changed everything.”

  For a moment, Everly is quiet. She drops the needle, and Louis Armstrong croons into my suddenly too-small flat. Even though I’ve just taken a drink, my mouth is dry again.

  She lowers herself on the floor, swinging her long legs out in front of her and resting back onto her hands. “There’s more.”

  I nod again because I’m tongue-tied watching her hair sway over her shoulders, along her waist. This is going to be our new game? Pretending to be friends? I’m going to be a terrible friend because all I want to do is crawl across the floor, take her face in my hands, and kiss her senseless. I don’t see that ever changing.

  “Well?”

  I drum my fingers over the table, sucking in air through my nose so I keep it together. I lost my aunt while I was recovering in the field hospital. It’s hard to untangle the two events from each other.

  “My mum died when I was young.” I blow out a breath, one sentence closer to the end of the story.

  Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t react like everyone else does. She doesn’t coddle me or say “I’m sorry.” Doesn’t ask after my fucking father, either, which is a relief. I like her a little more for it.

  “After a few foster homes, I came to live here with my aunt. I don’t think she was ready to look after a ten-year-old boy, but she tried. She was seeing this guy—Étienne, I think. He was a count or something. I always liked his suits.”

  I remembered him, the way he would burst through the door as if he’d just brokered world peace.

  “Anyway, he was in love with my aunt. He had asked her to marry him for a while, but she never agreed. One night, they bet on a hand of poker. If she won, she owned his family’s chateau. If he won, they would get married.”

  “And she won?”

  “She ended up with the chateau, at any rate. I found myself at a fancy boarding school soon after, and she moved out of Paris to make the place a bed and breakfast.”

  The question plays out in her eyes, but she never gives voice to it, thankfully. Talking about dying would be a waste right now. It’s not exactly a good time to share my past—more so than I already have. An abusive father isn’t something to toss into a conversation lightly.

  “Can I stay?” Her voice is small, a thin whisper against Louis Armstrong’s raspy vocals. “For a while longer?”

  I raise my arms above my head and stretch, my body buzzing at her words.

  She’s going to break you.

  I leave her on the floor, head into the kitchen, and prop my arms on the refrigerator, resting my head against them. I can do this. I can let her stay. It doesn’t need to mean anything.

  It does.

  The record screeches to a stop, grating my ears. I wince, waiting for the sound of her grabbing her purse and shoes, but it’s quiet for a time. Long enough for me to realize I’m being daft. I grab two beers from the fridge and twist off the tops.

  She’s searching through the stack of records again, her back to me, when I return to the living room.

  “I can go. You’re probably sick of me by now,” she says, her voice sounding unnatural.

  My hands shake as I walk closer. I nudge my shoulder against hers, dropping my voice to a low whisper. “You can’t leave. I just opened a beer for you.”

  Everly glances at me, then back to the record player. She drops the needle and wraps her hand around mine, our fingers lacing together. Her skin is so soft. Her dark eyelashes flutter before she looks up at me with those killer blue eyes.

  She’s going to break you.

  “Thanks.”

  I hate it when she pulls her fingers from mine. I nod, taking a sip of my beer without backing away. Her lips curl around the neck of the bottle, and I swallow when she does, fighting back the way my body aches to hold her, kiss her, taste her.

  My phone vibrates on the dining room table—two long beats, then one short. Nadine can wait.

  Spring rain strikes against the op
en windows, earthy and cold. The city rush outside filters in, a quiet rhythm mixing with Jackson Browne playing the piano. Everly’s side presses against mine, her sweet perfume filling each breath.

  She might break me, but it’s too late. I’m all in.

  Wisps of hair coil around her face. My fingers ache to tuck it behind her ear, but a friend wouldn’t do that, so I hold back.

  “We should listen to records all night,” she whispers.

  I’m having a shit time trying to sleep lately anyway. I hate the sleeping pills I’ve been given almost as much as the anxiety pills I never take. “Okay.”

  Everly walks over to the couch and grabs the quilt she held hostage for a couple of weeks. The one my aunt made for me to take to boarding school. She wraps herself up and lies down, her hands pressed together like in prayer, her face resting on the backs.

  “I think I like being your friend, Beckett.”

  I almost miss it—the quick dreamy upturn of her lips, the way she narrows her eyes when she realizes we aren’t going to be friends.

  I’m glad I don’t.

  Everly

  I keep my job, even though I don’t deserve it. I’m not thankful, either. I have to deal with tourists who’ve heard that their favorite socialite is in Paris waiting tables. I have to deal with the guys who take my picture while I bus away trash and empty plates or try to slide me their number as if they’re hot shit. I have to deal with Nadine, who hates me but continues to schedule me because I draw a crowd.

  I feel like a caged tiger at the zoo.

  There’s a certain guy I have to deal with now, too, who’s waiting for me on his stairs when I leave work.

  I wipe the smile off my face a second too late. He returns it with one of his own, looking so casual with his arms draped over his knees. It’s been three weeks of us trying to be friends. I think we’re good at it, too. Mostly.

  “Are you stalking me, Beckett?”

  “You have enough stalkers, I think.”

  It’s true. Since Hudson and his asshole photo leak, everyone who was at my apartment for the party knows where I live. I’ve caught a few people hanging around looking for me. I’m waiting for my parents to show up any day to drag me back to Manhattan, but I’m not sure they care much that I’m gone. They’ve already lost the child they loved the most. I’m the backup who’s a fuckup, so my being missing is better for them. I hurt the family’s name with last spring’s debacle enough as it is. The headline “Monteith Heiress Hospitalized for Suicide Attempt” didn’t sit well with the rest of the board members. The gossip blogs ate it up, though, just like those nasty pictures of me that Hudson sold.