Everly After

by Rebecca Paula

  She’s told me a lot of lies, but this one hurts the most. I’m left in the middle of her living room as the rain slants inside and gathers in a puddle, drop by drop.

  Live and let die, right?

  I race out into the downpour, ditching my car, running until I’m soaked through and miles away from where I should be heading. But I don’t care.

  I don’t fucking care anymore.

  Everly

  I wake up the next morning to an empty bed with no word from Beckett. Or Hudson.

  I have a giant lump on the back of my head, and my hair is a crusty mess of dried blood. I’m used to this though—the ugly aftermath of my recklessness. It hurts, but I don’t mind the pain much.

  The balcony door is still open when I go out into the living room, and there’s a pool of water in my living room from the rain. The sad coffee table is even sadder, crushed from the fight last night. Its splintered legs stick up like the Himalayas.

  A pigeon flies in and pecks around the floor, drinking from the puddle like it’s in the middle of a park. I guess I do live in a zoo.

  I wave my arms for it to leave, but it carries on ignoring me with another coo. Apparently only the male half of the human population will pay attention to me. Most of the time, anyway.

  As if I need another reminder of last night, a shard of glass pierces the bottom of my foot, and I hop into the bathroom, frowning once I notice the medicine cabinet has been raided. I limp into the shower and pry out the jagged piece, watching the crimson spiral down the drain.

  Part of me wants to stay in bed for the day. I can hide under the covers and pretend to be someone else. Anyone else. Anyone other than me, stuck in Paris again—left broken, my heart confused.

  I don’t like this feeling, what Beckett does to me, how I feel like I’m the realest version of myself after our trip to London. It’s funny, but for so long, I wanted to feel something. That’s why I led Hudson back to my apartment back in April. That’s what started this whole mess. I wanted to feel things, but now that I do, I think it’s easier to shut everything out.

  I’m fine.

  I am going to get out of this city and spend the summer with Beckett. And if it turns out we have something, then we’ll figure it out together. And if not, I’ll find another place to go—a new job, a new life. I can be reborn until I find the one version of my life that I like.

  I text Hudson before I get dressed, but I never hear back. Maybe he’s just coming down. I mean, I should leave him alone, but I never do anything I should do. I doubt that’s going to change now. I decide to see him at the hotel and straighten out what happened last night. Maybe even return my ticket to Italy so he understands that we’re through.

  I don’t want him in my life anymore. I won’t let him kill me.

  I throw on a black bandage dress that’s more suggestive than I want Hudson to see, but it’s clean and I’m out of Febreze. When I flick on the bathroom light, I gasp. Hudson’s hand is visible across the right side of my face. As soon as I touch it, a painful throbbing starts its beat.

  I cover it up the best I can. I tussle my hair, smear on some lip gloss, and pull my dress just a bit lower. I’m not letting him touch me this time. He’s not going to talk me into his bed, and I sure as hell won’t be going to Italy with him for the summer. I want him to see for the last time what he’s messed up. To show him what he’s done to me. How he broke my heart when I needed a friend. I’m not sure if I can admit that, but I want to try.

  He still hasn’t answered his phone by the time I reach the hotel. He’s not answering the door, either.

  I dig through my clutch and find the hotel key he’s given me, knocking one more time before I open the door. I close my eyes at first, expecting to see him passed out with a few girls in the sitting area, but it’s eerily quiet. I trip over his dress shoe as I let go of the door and hear it shut behind me with a loud click.

  “Hudson?”

  There’s a bloodstained towel, a ring of wet around it staining the expensive couch.

  I call his phone, a nervous flutter in my stomach. Something about this is off. I hear the echoing ring farther back in the suite, behind closed doors. My heels click over the floor as I walk closer to the drinks on the table. Most are empty, but there’s still one left that smells like tequila.

  Sun pours in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The chandeliers above cut up the rays until the room sparkles. His laptop is on the dining table, posed beside his briefcase like he’s a respectable businessman. His wallet and hotel key are scattered on the floor.

  I knock at the doors to the rest of the suite without really knowing why. “Hudson?”

  It’s quiet on the other side. I won’t let him do this to me. I won’t let him get away with wrecking me.

  I yank back the door to a smaller sitting room. There are a few lines of coke on the table next to his precious box of syringes. Both are untouched, and I don’t see anything else around.

  I glance up, catching his reflection in the mirror across from me.

  “Hudson?”

  I edge closer, everything inside numb, his reflection shattering around me into a hundred different Hudsons hunched over.

  It’s too much. I shut my eyes, the ground swaying beneath me as I pause, then edge a few steps closer. His name is stuck in my throat. I’m too cold to speak now, and I think I might be sick. I have to repeat to myself to look, to open my eyes. I have to open my eyes.

  Then I do, but my world goes black anyway.

  Beckett

  My phone won’t stop ringing. My clothes are still damp, and I’m sprawled over my bed, dead tired. I squint my eyes and focus on the clock. It’s nearly three in the afternoon. What the hell am I still doing in bed?

  I reach for my phone, feeling like I was hit by a truck. I look at the missed calls from Everly, and I remember why I have a fucking hole in my chest where my heart used to be.

  It buzzes again in my hand, and I take a deep breath before I answer. She must think I left without her. “Everly?”

  A man answers. He’s speaking French, and I can’t keep up.

  “You’re the only other number,” he snaps at me, this time in English. “I’m with the BSPP.”

  “Where is she?” I ask this over and over because he’s not telling me. “Is she okay?” I’m up now, pulling a clean shirt over my head as I try to get an answer out of this guy.

  Shit, Hudson’s dead? And Everly is missing? The phone slips from my hand. I fumble to grab it and switch it to speaker as I race around my room to get dressed. A firefighter tried sedating her at the hotel. They’re asking me where she might have gone. They’re asking me a shitload of questions, and I can’t think of anything except for finding her.

  I don’t really remember anything else until I’m pushing open the door to her apartment to see the few things she had are overturned. My stomach sinks.

  I hear the shower, so I edge toward the door, cautious. “Everly, pet? Are you okay?”

  It’s such a stupid question. The hair stands up on the back of my neck when I don’t get an answer. “I’m coming in.”

  She’s curled up on the floor of the shower in a black dress, the curtain open, water pouring over her shivering body. She stares blankly up at me, her lips trembling, her sunglasses clutched in her hand.

  I shut off the cold water, not sure what to do. I bend down and hold her face up to mine, searching for something to say. I don’t know the words to make this better.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper. “Do you understand?”

  She doesn’t do anything. Nothing. She’s a ghost slipping through my fingers.

  “We’ll get you warmed up, yeah?” I frown when she doesn’t answer. I’m not sure how long she’s been sitting under the cold water, but she’s shivering. “You’re going to be okay, Everly.”

  Her breath hitches, and her lips tremble. I think she’s going to speak but she doesn’t, so I lift her and awkwardly strip off her dress. It hits the
bathroom floor with a wet slap.

  I have her in my arms when I call the officer and let him know I’ve found her. He hassles me about interviewing her; they need a statement. I convince him that it can wait, they can come by in the morning.

  I climb into the shower with her and take the first shot of cold water until it warms. I position us under the spray, and slowly, I knock the lever over until it grows hotter. I move my hands over her arms, studying her face, searching for color, for some sign of my Everly. But she’s blank, unresponsive.

  Like an idiot, I start humming Otis Redding. She blinks a few times, then tries to open her mouth. I’m patient and wait. At her first attempt, her words are inaudible. She’s warmer now and I think she’ll be okay, so I get us out of the shower and dry us off. I’m toweling her hair dry when she says it.

  “I killed him.”

  It’s a choked whisper that stumbles out of her. My stomach rolls, but before I can respond, Everly takes a long, shuddering inhale that sounds like glass splintering. The noise wedges itself into my heart and splits it open as she exhales a wail and sobs.

  I draw her tight against me because there’s nothing else you can do when someone breaks apart like this. I don’t know what I can do. Fuck, I wish I knew. I hold on to her, though. I can do that.

  “It’s not your fault,” I tell her over and over. “It’s not your fault, pet.”

  The steam swirls around us in the bathroom, or maybe it only feels like it’s swirling around us. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I try to fix this, try to help, but I can’t. All I can hear is her crying and my heart racing in my ears. I set us on the floor, propping her against the wall so I can watch her.

  Her hands tremble in front of her as she stares at them, her eyes wide. Tears are streaming down her face, and her voice has gone hoarse. “Fuck…I’ve killed him.”

  Nothing works and I can’t make this better. I can’t fix this, and I can’t fix her. I can’t stop her tears. I can’t stop her pain. I’d do anything to make it stop.

  Instead, I carry her to bed and whisper over and over, “Breathe, Everly.”

  Everly

  I wake up a few days later or weeks or hours. It doesn’t matter. Not really. Not while I’m here, in Paris, and Hudson’s parents are having his funeral in New York. At least I think they are. My parents left a few voicemails that I never finished. They said they’re coming to bring me home. They think I need to be with them after losing Hudson. That maybe I need to see someone to help me.

  But I don’t want them near me, and I sure as fuck don’t want another doctor like the last one.

  I’m fine, anyway.

  Beckett’s been staying with me. I can smell him on my pillow. Some of my things are packed, and I wonder if he thinks I’m still joining him at his aunt’s for the summer. We don’t talk about it. If we do, I don’t remember.

  I don’t know what I want besides not wanting Beckett close by. I don’t want his kisses or his arms around me or the pity in his fucking perfect eyes when he looks at me. I want nothing to do with him.

  He’s not here now, so I make a few phone calls and throw a party.

  It’s dark when Beckett returns. I’m hanging upside down from the chair, my legs in the air as I clutch a nearly drained bottle of champagne. He looks funny from the floor.

  “Hey, you.” I smile, waving him, in but he just stands there.

  The blood’s rushing to my head and I’m dizzy, but it’s not just because I’m upside down. I giggle when he frowns at me again because it looks like a strange grin from my view. I push my sunglasses up to the bridge of my nose, but they keep slipping toward the floor.

  “So serious.” I wave him in again, but it doesn’t seem like he wants to be invited into my party. Well, fuck him. I don’t need him babysitting me, watching me like I’m going to slip into some large crack and disappear. I don’t. “Come in.”

  “I heard you, Everly.”

  He’s a fucking buzzkill. I roll my hips so I’m facing the rest of the crowd. Someone shoots a glitter cannon off, and it rains down around me. I reach up for the glittery sparkles and forget I’m holding the bottle of champagne. It crashes onto the floor, and I hear the rest spill out.

  Party foul.

  I reach up into the air again to watch the glitter around my fingers, but it’s gone. “Do it again,” I shout. “More glitter. I want to fucking bleed glitter.”

  “Everyone out!”

  His voice scares me. I jump and slowly slide onto the floor. I’m too messed up to stop myself. More glitter rains down as people start to file out. It’s cold down here. And wet. I stare up at the ceiling and watch the glitter fall and fall.

  The disco ball shoots off skewed sparks of light around me. It’s a mad whirling of brightness, spinning and spinning, and I feel myself drowning in the way it strikes and sparkles, then disappears into the shadows of the room.

  I don’t hear much, but I see him glaring down at me, his body crowding above mine. The disappointment. The light bends around Beckett, and he remains solid like he won’t ever go away.

  “Hello, pet.” The words are sticky to say as I try to mimic his stupid accent. I paste a fake smile on my face and wait for him to speak. At least I think I smile—my face is numb. When he doesn’t say anything, I ask why he’s staring at me. He’s not moving. He’s not going away, but I want him to go. Just go away and leave me alone. Let me watch the lights twirl and twirl around me until they wrap me up tight and bring me with them into their fractured darkness.

  “I wasn’t gone long,” he says, sounding confused. It doesn’t make sense to me either, and I don’t know anything about time. I know that Hudson’s being lowered into the ground today. They’re going to bury him, and I won’t be there.

  “I’m fine.”

  I don’t know what I’ve taken, but I feel fine. Perfectly, perfectly fine.

  I paw at my face, pushing the sunglasses up so I can see, but I must throw them instead because they crash against the floor. I should be mad, but I’m too empty for that. Instead, I blink a few times, trying to focus on the room around me and Beckett, who’s still standing above me, studying, judging. I bring my hand up to my forehead and try to swat away my hair, act normal or something. It’s not as dark now as I thought.

  He moves like he’s going to touch me, but I can’t have that. Not now. We can’t go back to how it was before. Before Hudson. There’s Everly and Everly After, and I’m Everly After now. I’m what happens when you lose too much of yourself.

  I’m living, but it’s not for another day. I’m living and he’s dead and I killed him.

  Like I killed the love I have for Beckett. Like how I’m slowly killing myself.

  I smile up at him, tears in my eyes. “I’m fine.”

  Beckett

  I don’t leave Everly, not even when she flinches away. I know it’s not me she’s mad at. That doesn’t mean it’s easy.

  I’m waiting for something to happen. For her not to be so reckless now. For me not to want to run away so badly. For her to want to kiss me again. For me to get my job back so I can leave this city. For her to…

  Anything. I want Everly to do anything but act how she is now. She pretends to be happy. Fucking chipper, even. And then she goes quiet and drifts away, leaving me alone.

  It’s been two week since Hudson was buried back in the States, but Everly keeps pretending as though nothing has changed.

  She sits on the floor by the balcony, her knees tucked tight to her chest, smoking. I hate it when she smokes. There’s a lot I hate about Everly. You don’t think you can use that word when you love someone, and I do—love her, I mean. But I hate things about her, too.

  Her selfishness. Her lies. Her smoking. That fake smile she puts on her face for me. The way she keeps saying “just” and telling me she’s fine when I know she’s in trouble.

  But I love her, so I stay and wait. And wait. I have the sickest hope that, someday soon, she’s going to break down and real
ize that she’s not okay and she needs to do something about it.

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  I’ve packed her things for our trip to Nice. Some charity event for her parents. I don’t think she’s moved all morning. The toast I made for her is still sitting on the plate.

  Everly makes some noncommittal noise, grabs the toast, and flings it over the balcony.

  “That was for you, not the birds.”

  She shrugs and grinds out her cigarette.

  This whole trip is a terrible idea. She’s supposed to give a remembrance speech about Hudson. I scoff. The girl can’t remember her name right now. Forming a few coherent paragraphs is going to be a stretch. “If we’re going to make the plane…”

  She waves me off, standing up to shut the balcony doors. “Give me a minute.”

  I wait as she grabs the camera I gave her. She goes into her empty bedroom, then comes out and goes into the bathroom, then walks around the kitchen. “I think…” She shakes her head and motions for me to follow.

  “We have to go.” I need to go. “We’ll miss the flight.”

  She slumps against the doorjamb, picking at her arm. Someone wrote “Return to Sender” on it in marker at the impromptu party she threw, and it won’t come off. I caught her trying to scrape it off with a butter knife last night.

  “I don’t think I want to leave now.”

  It’s her event, her terrible idea. “We don’t have to go. We can stay here or go to Étretat. But you asked me to take you, remember?”

  “Sure, sure.” She’s so thin that her arms shake when she tries to open the stuck bedroom window. I tell her to move since I can’t touch her now. That’s a new rule. If I want to be around her, I have to forget everything between us. Like she has. Because whatever Everly wants, she gets. Apparently.

  I hate her for this, too.

  I want her to let me love her. I want that because I’ve never had that before. She takes it away and then flaunts it around as if she doesn’t have my heart in a fucking death grip.