I’m running when the first strike hits up the street. The rocket whistles, and then the earth shakes as it explodes. Dust ripples and billows up into a consuming cloud. The screams pierce the air, and I stop, peering over my shoulder as more gunfire breaks out behind me in a tinny chorus. Pleas for help come from the smoke ahead of me. And me… I have nowhere to go.
I survey the alley to my left—a dead end. If I turn around, I’ll be in the middle of what sounds like a fucking nasty firefight. I race forward into the black cloud, my eyes and throat burning. I run into the tenebrous darkness ahead, chasing the ghost of Everly.
Then the ground shakes, and I’m knocked off my feet and everything goes black.
Beckett
I see her face all the time—the way the sun hit her cheeks and lit up her hair when we spent the afternoon at the lake, back when her hair was still blonde. I hear her honest laugh as we raced through the rain in London before we made out in the back of that taxi. I remember the soft sigh she made when I kissed the inside of her elbow. The warmth of her lips over mine until we’d both ran out of air. In the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep, I phone her just to listen to her voicemail because there’s nothing left of Everly for me except memories.
It’s the recollection of her blue eyes that make mine open. Noise fades in and out, and I can’t see shit. I half-expect to be dragged out of here and held for ransom. I half-expect another mortar shell to rain down from the sky to kill me for good. I’ve come to anticipate dying, and that’s no way to live.
Black smoke churns around me, the air thick with debris and dust. I’m suffocating and slow to move, the shock of being knocked to my feet too much of a reminder of last time. I could die now, and I might, but my mind is freaking the fuck out. I rub my eyes, trying to clear away the image of bloodied bodies and lifeless eyes.
And then I feel the weight of Everly’s near-lifeless body in my arms—the beach, the salty air, the fear that I’d lost her. I push to my feet and run.
Fire rips through the debris cloud, and shadows of people come into focus. Sound warps in and out, the impact of the rocket still rippling through my body. I follow the crowd, my hearing slowly returning to greet me with screams and crying and angry yelling. Gunfire spirals around me. Arabic words, but the universal sound is of misery. It feels like the world tilts, or maybe it’s the rush of adrenaline.
In the middle of the burning rubble and flesh, in the middle of insanity, I notice a small boy pinned to the filthy street. No one notices; it’s chaos. His small arm is severed from his body. I know I should keep moving. It goes against all my training, but I can’t walk past and leave him alone to die. There’s a story to file after this attack, words to write, pictures to take. Except the pain and the fear of the day washes over me. I sink to my knees and fashion a tourniquet for his arm, but it’s no use. He’s lost too much blood. He’s bleeding out in the street. I stay by him and gently whisper reassurances. I ask for his name and tell him I won’t leave, even as I flag for help, trying my best to appear calm for him. I hold his remaining hand and search for his family through the dust and smoke. No one comes.
In a few minutes, he passes.
It’s almost four in the morning, and his face still stares back at me whenever I close my eyes. I carried his body to the makeshift hospital, hoping that someone would give his body a name. I left after that, taking my chances with a truck of rebels who were driving farther north, not far from Turkish border.
I’ve stayed up because I can’t sleep. I wish Ollie wasn’t on special assignment, I want to talk to him, hear something familiar. I’m shattered and gutted, rubbed raw from too many days like today. I wrote a bit, but even that’s pointless now.
Everly. I miss her so much it hurts.
I glance at my keys on the table, my wallet and passport, and then at my door in the bombed-out hotel where I’m staying. I have to keep moving so I don’t have much of anything with me. I should be wearing the flak jacket slung over the back of the empty chair, but it’s stained with blood. I’ve listened to my interview with a local rebel commander over Otis Redding on loop to try to make it bearable tonight.
In the distance, more gunfire pierces the night’s dark skies.
Fuck this.
Some bridges are better left burned. I’ll file the material I have, but I’m finished. I don’t belong here. I’m not sure where I belong actually, but it sure as hell isn’t constantly on the edge in a war zone. I’m too young to be this disillusioned with the world. I’m too young to give in and be lost. What I do know is that I have something to fall back on now, for a little while at least. I need to take care of my aunt’s estate, sell the café and her house. I need to get my feet back on the ground. And I need to find Everly.
I barely survived her the first time, but I’m not ready to let her go. I’m not accepting that we broke apart in that hospital room. I’m not ready to let this be my life, either.
It takes three planes to touch down in Naples the next afternoon.
I jump into a cab waiting outside the broken-down pink airport. The driver smiles, mocking me with a very Italian laugh before throwing a worn black book of English phrases into the backseat at me.
“I learn English.”
I look and feel like shit, still covered in dust and sweat. I couldn’t care less about trying to bridge the language difference between us politely like I should. I brush him off with a curt nod. “Molo Beverello, per favore.”
“You take boat?” His head spins around to me, the car swerving toward the thick concrete divide as we race down A56 toward the busy Naples center.
I’m never going to see her again. I’m going to get killed riding in this fucking cab. I’ve survived war zones with high casualty rates but put me in an Italian cab and it’s a damn death trap. “Yes.”
“Yes—” A car pulls out from a side street, barely missing us. “Vaffanculo!” he yells at the offending driver, shaking his hands in the air, the wheel completely untouched as we barrel forward. “No one knows to drive.”
We speed down some alleyway, cars parked on either side, taking corners fast enough to almost flip us over. A car careens toward us, and I brace myself for an impact. He hits the brakes, swearing and beeping the horn. I wince and open one eye, sure that I’m going to find nothing left to the car, that I’m going to wake up mangled on the sidewalk.
I take the next hydrofoil over to Capri, but I’m not sure where to go when we dock. I came this far on the bet that Everly would use the ticket Hudson bought for her. It could still be sitting in my old flat, boxed up. She could be anywhere, but my gut led me this far, so I start walking from hotel to hotel asking if she’s a guest.
Of course, they won’t tell me, but I keep walking until I happen down a small pathway to a hotel perched on the rocky shore of the island. Bougainvillea clings to the stone walls to my right; the faraglioni stand tall in the bay to my left. I have travel whiplash, recoiling when someone shuts an iron gate behind me. I watched a boy die yesterday, and now I’m walking in what seems like paradise. Maybe I did die on that sidewalk.
I expect the woman behind the counter to respond like every other desk clerk, but she holds her hand up for me to wait while she takes a call. She ducks down behind the counter, riffles through a bin, and slides a phone with a shattered screen across the desk to me, turning her back at my confusion.
I pick it up, flipping it over in my hand to see the familiar pink, bedazzled case, and my pulse starts to race. This is Everly’s phone.
Nothing happens when I turn it on. I don’t know what to expect, either. Maybe some context from the clerk, but she’s arguing on the phone.
There’s pile of missed calls from me. It must have been in this bin every time I called, praying she’d pick up so we could talk. But she’s gone, and I missed her. Except I notice there’s a saved draft in her messages. The floor moves under my feet as I read it over.
For now, let me go. If I can find you once, maybe I can fi
nd you again when it’s time. When I can be what you need, too. I know I’m going to be okay now. Until then, listen to Otis Redding and think of me.
Below there’s a picture of Everly blowing me a kiss, her hair blonde again as she sits on a beach, her skin tanned. She looks happy, her dark eyes shining bright, no sunglasses. My eyes settle on the caption below it: And I love you, too.
As if she needs to tell me to think of her. You can’t erase a girl like Everly from your life.
I was wrong that day when she returned my quilt—she’s not the bright flash of green. She’s not the secret murmur of anticipation for a natural phenomenon, either. Everly isn’t fleeting. When you love someone—love them as much as I love her—they become the scars you carry, the battle wounds from when you took a risk. I think the messier bits of life should be worn like a badge of courage sometimes, a sign for you to say you’ve lived—are living.
I don’t know why, but I open a new message. It’s not as though she’s here. She might never see what I’m about to do. A part of me wishes, though, that she’d walk through the lobby entrance and race over to throw her arms around me.
I type: Take care of yourself, Everly. I erase it and try again: You are the realest person I know. That’s the truth you’ve been searching for. Don’t give up. I pause, my thumb hovering over the backspace key. I hit it until the screen is blank and write: I’ll be waiting.
I save it to the drafts folder, then hand the phone back to the woman behind the counter. I don’t ask after a forwarding address, even if that’s the only thing I want. I can wait if that’s what she needs.
I walk down to the beach and climb up the steps to the rocky outcropping of ledge jutting out into the turquoise water. The sun is warm against my skin, the sky a brilliant orange, as I lie down and listen to the waves slosh against the weathered stone. I think I’m dreaming when saltwater starts dripping on me, soaking my T-shirt and jeans.
I open one eye, but it’s hard to make out the shadow hovering over me.
“I’ve never kissed you in Italy before.”
I tear off my aviators and push onto my elbows as I drown in the sound of her voice. Everly leans down and kisses me before I can move, straddling me in her wet swimsuit. Her arms slip around my neck as I sink back to the ground, her body against mine.
Around us, life spins on. Even as we lose ourselves to another kiss, the waves keep crashing, the sun keeps sinking, our hearts keep beating. It can all keep moving. Life can keep changing and throwing shit our way, but me and Everly? We’ll keep on moving, too, together. And it’ll be okay with time.
Truth.
Everly
Three months later
I pull the sash tighter on my trench coat and step out of my small office building in the East End. The air is still heavy with the scent of rain, and the streets are mirrors—pools of sky and clouds covering the roads as the sun peeks out for a quick hello. For all the gray and rain, London and I have gotten along splendidly since I arrived in September.
It’s much too nice out to take the Tube, so I decide to walk back to the flat I share with Gemma and her roommate in Dalston. Julia and I are still mending that relationship, but we do have dinner together every couple of weeks. I like having her and Gemma in my life. I like having girlfriends again.
The smile on my face has been an accessory today, much like my red lipstick. Happy looks good on me, I’ve discovered. Funny that it’s taken twenty-two years to figure that out. The letter in my purse is burning a hole there, the secret too good to hold back any longer. I’ve been in and out of meetings, had an appointment with a new therapist at lunch, and then back to work. I’ve liked having my days busy. I’ve liked working to make other people happy.
I dial my favorite number and wait, a nervous flutter in my stomach as it rings and rings. And then his voice breaks through, and I toss my head up to watch the sky, moving over so the rest of London can get home to their suppers. I’m never in a rush if Beckett’s on the line.
“Yes, darling?”
As always, as ever, his voice is smooth, maybe a bit breathless. I chuckle to myself, unable to find the words I wanted to say at first. “I could get used to that name,” I say finally.
I hear his thundering footsteps in the background. He’s been a one-man army since I left his aunt’s to start work in London. We stayed in Capri for a day and then took a flight back to France and packed his car up with the few boxes left at his apartment. He stayed to finish up in Étretat before he joins me here in London—well, hopefully.
“You should. I’m not going anywhere,” he says. My grin widens. “I’ll call you darling all day if you’d like.”
I know it’s early yet for us. I know that things happened quickly, that we fell for each other ass backward and we’re still learning about one another. I get that—I do. I know it won’t always be easy. We both still have so much to figure out on our own, but there’s time to sort out the rest.
“I miss you,” I confess, pushing past that ugly feeling in my gut, the voice that suggests he doesn’t miss me. I’ve been learning to ignore that voice more and more. It hasn’t been easy. I hear a large crash over the line and stop, someone bumping me from behind on the sidewalk. “Are you packing and talking to me?” I hear him swear in the background and then the sound of something being kicked. “Beckett?”
“I’ve hauled enough up and down these fucking stairs that I think I’m qualified as a Sherpa now.”
He says these silly things, and I swear he’s my favorite person.
“So packing…how’s it going?” I lower my voice as I enter the boutique, waving at the girl behind the register. A few others mill about, but my eyes find what I want from across the room.
“The place is nearly empty. I heard back from the estate lawyers today, and it looks like I’ll be able to join you in London soon. If you’d still like that…” He’s teasing me. I close my eyes and envision that grin of his. I miss being able to reach out and run my hand over the curve of his lips, see the way his eyes crinkle when he truly smiles.
“Maybe.” I brush off his comment and run my fingers over the navy wool. I can be a tease, too. “Beckett, do you think I need a few sweaters for winter in London?”
“Jumpers?”
It’s been our thing lately. I say the American words, and he gives me the British equivalent. Even faced with the possibility of me going to school back in the States, it’s been our way of enjoying the time we have together now.
“Are you planning to stay on, then?” I don’t get the chance to answer before he asks, “Where are you?”
“Oh, in some boutique.” I flip over the price tag on the sweater and wince. I have enough money for school, but my trust has been terminated. “I’m right around the corner from my place.” I put the navy sweater back and step closer to the front of the store. I do need sweaters. And lots of tea. “Thought I’d call.”
“Everly?”
The pink sweater—jumper—is cuter. I lift it up with my phone wedged between my ear and shoulder and hold it up against me. “Hmm?”
“Buy the damn jumper.”
“You’re very boss—” My words catch as I turn and see his profile through the shop window, those blue eyes of his shining, reminding me of finding him on that beach in Capri. My hearts stops, and I trip over my feet, nearly forgetting to set the sweater down. I rush out the door, run, and jump into his arms. We almost tip over, but he holds tight, like always.
“Hiya, pet.”
I pepper his face with kisses. Three long weeks of being apart. “Why are you here? How? What are…?” His lips trap mine for a few minutes, quieting my questions. “You tricked me.”
“There’s something you need to tell me, I think?” he whispers into my ear. “Gemma told me I should get to London today, that you have news.”
And then I remember. I remember and wiggle out of his arms and dig through my purse. I grin as I take out the admissions envelope and shove it at his chest.
He makes such a spectacle of opening it on the sidewalk on a busy London evening. Behind him, the sun glows orange as the night chases away the day. He’s a strong silhouette anchored before me, grounding me to the present. The rest of the world carries on, rushing past, and we’re stuck in this one moment. His reaches out his hand for mine, his grin turning into a full smile.
“You’re staying here in England? With me?”
He’s been accepted to finish up his undergrad at London School of Economics and Political Science while he works part-time at The Guardian. I’ll only be an hour away at Oxford, studying for my master’s in social migration.
I take back my letter and fold it up, placing it in my purse. I wrap my arms around his neck and lean into him. For everything on this crazy journey of ours, this moment might be my favorite.
“I’ve never had a boyfriend in London before,” I whisper, my lips brushing over his neck.
He kisses my forehead, and we stumble home, drunk on each other and the giddy promise that tomorrow we’ll have another day and another after that. That we have endless tomorrows if we’re lucky. And for that, I’m thankful he crashed my party that April night in Paris.
I like my chances.
The End
-NOTE TO MY READERS-
I want to thank you, yes you, my lovely reader! I hope you enjoyed Every After.
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Everly After Page 23