“That choker is beautiful on you, Low,” she says with a soft smile. “Wear that choker with those beautiful waves piled on top of your head, and Ever will be itching to kiss your neck all night long.”
I smile at the thought and finger the edge of the cameo. “He pretty much wants to kiss me all night long as it is.”
Evelyn sighs and takes a sip of her wine. “Young love. There’s nothing like it in this world. It’s the stuff dreams are made of, isn’t it?”
“I think so.” In truth, Ever makes my blood rush more than any dream I could conjure.
“My grandmother used to tell me young love is old love, only with wings. Before all the doubt and insecurities creep in. But it’s no less real. Do you think that’s true?”
She looks through me more than at me, introspective, but also a bit cloudy. My eyes flick to the buffet table, taking in the two bottles of wine, one empty and the other well on the way.
“I don’t know. It feels real to me. I’m probably too young to be a judge,” I say with a chuckle. “I didn’t grow up seeing old love. I mean, not in the husband and wife type of way.”
“But you knew a great deal of love growing up.” It’s a statement, not a question. It’s true, so I only nod. “What was Marcus like when you were growing up? I imagine he was a wonderful father.”
“He was,” I say, without a moment of hesitation. “He’s strict, but never cruel. We’ve always understood the rules and why we have them. I don’t think he’s ever uttered the words ‘because I said so.’ He just isn’t that kind of dad. He’s always there for me, but never close enough to smother. He always leaves enough rope for us to either hang or save ourselves. It depends on the day which one we choose. But he loves us regardless.”
She brings her glass to the buffet for a refill, but not before I see her glassy eyes. She keeps her back turned and rests both hands on the buffet, head lowered.
“From the very beginning, when you were a tiny baby who nearly fit in the palm of his hand, he knew what to do. There was an ease about him I can’t explain. I was in awe.” She turns and shrugs, visibly holding back tears. “I was also envious. What was second nature to him was like clawing through quicksand for me. I tried to be the mother you and Declan deserved, I truly did, but I was such a disappointment.”
Watching her lip quiver, feeling her shame pulsing through the room like an electric current, is agonizing. These are the answers to my questions, but I never imagined it would be so painful to hear them. Instead of resolve, I feel heartache.
Without thinking, I blurt out the question swirling in my mind. “Is that why you left? Because you thought you were a disappointment?”
She stumbles back to her chair, rubbing her chest like her heart physically aches. “It was part of it, certainly, but things weren’t as simple as that. Your father is a special man in so many ways. He saw me … he saw too much.
“I told you before, Marlo, I didn’t come from a happy home. The only thing my father ever taught me was how to keep my door loc—” She clutches her blouse and gasps as if the words are stabbing her in the gut. “Marcus saved me all those years ago. I’ll always be grateful to him for that. At least I thought he did at the time. God, when I left with him, I could finally breathe for the first time in my life. But once I stopped moving; once we settled into our quiet life, I realized I’d never be free from those nightmares. I would always be ruined, and I couldn’t hide from him. I loved him too much, and he knew me too well.”
Thankfully, I’ve never lived with the type of demons Evelyn talks about, but I can imagine how having children of her own would drudge up old memories and unresolved feelings. And I know one thing for certain about my dad—he tackles problems head on. I’m sure that posed a problem for a woman intent on hiding.
When I look at Evelyn, even now, years later, I see her covered in steel armor held together with Elmer’s Glue. One misstep, and it all comes tumbling down. She’s a strong woman, but she’s held together with nothing but glue and metal.
“He doesn’t like to ignore problems, does he?” I offer with a knowing smile.
“I felt like an open book with him. And for me, hiding is how I survive, even now. Without it, I’d fall to pieces.” She meets my eyes with a determined expression. “It’s not an excuse. But it is an explanation … an apology. I’m sorry, Marlo, for not being the mother you needed. I wish I were a different person. I wish I could have been that for you.”
“I had a good life,” I say, hoping to ease her mind. I reach over and grasp her hand. “I have a good life.”
I squeeze her hand gently and nod. She returns the gesture and swipes at the tears on her cheeks.
“Yes,” she whispers, and takes another sip of wine. “Thank God for that.”
Fresh tears fall onto her cheeks, and she stares out the living room window, stoic and still. I’m afraid all of this may have been too much, too fast for Evelyn, and I’m not sure how to console her. Before I can figure out what I should do next, I hear keys jingling in the foyer, and Oliver peeks around the doorway.
Evelyn startles and frantically wipes her cheeks. “Oliver, I didn’t expect you until tomorrow. What a wonderful surprise.”
Her tone betrays her words, visibly reluctant to have an audience to her tears. She rises from her chair and straightens her clothes as she slowly walks to greet Oliver, one unsure foot in front of the other.
“My darling,” he says, hands in her hair and thumbs brushing her cheeks. “What’s wrong? What’s upset you?”
He searches her face, concern etched in his expression. He bends his knees to meet her eye level and she buries her face in his neck. When he looks to me with a questioning expression, I fumble with the rings and necklaces, stuffing them back into the jewelry chests.
“I-I should go,” I say, standing and waving awkwardly.
“I thought you were staying the night, Marlo. You’re more than welcome to sleep in one of the guest rooms,” Oliver offers, but I shake my head.
“I should get back. It’s been a long day, and Evelyn’s tired.”
Oliver slides an arm around her waist and guides her through the living room, toward the stairs. She stumbles beside him, head resting on his shoulder. When she reaches the stairs, she turns to me.
“Thank you for spending the day with me, Marlo. I’m sorry for being so emotional. I don’t know what came over me,” she says, touching her forehead and shutting her eyes.
If I had to guess, two drained bottles of wine are at the starting line of what came over her, but I don’t share.
“No, thank you, Evelyn. I had a good time. See you Thursday?”
“Yes,” she says with a smile, but then it falters. “Wait, not this week. Oliver and I are leaving Monday morning for one of his conferences. We’ll be gone the entire week. But feel free to use the house should you need it. Next Thursday?”
I smile and nod.
“Marlo, please wait for me here. I’ll be down in just a few minutes to drive you home,” Oliver says, starting up the stairs without waiting for my response.
Elevator music flows through the speakers of the Porsche Cayenne, and I fight the urge to doze. This isn’t classical—it’s straight up muzak, and I scowl at Oliver for his terrible taste in music.
“So things got a bit tearful tonight, did they?” he asks.
His eyes flit between me and the road, which is not the greatest idea on city streets littered with cavernous potholes. I grab onto the “oh shit” handle and hope he didn’t leave a piece of his tire in that last crater.
“They did. She shared a little bit with me about her past, and what things were like for her when I was a baby.” I try to keep my answer as vague as possible, hoping I’m not betraying Evelyn’s confidence.
“That’s huge, Marlo. I know you don’t realize this, but those are things she never discusses. In the ten years we’ve been married, I can count on one hand the amount of times we’ve talked about her past. She had some liquid co
urage coursing through her veins tonight, but even then, she’s usually silent about those things.”
“Does she ever talk to her father?” I ask, wondering how much he knows. The small snippet I learned tonight feels like a Rottweiler gnawing at my insides as if they’re his favorite chew toy.
“No, absolutely not. I’d never allow it,” he says, jaw clenching at the mere thought. It’s obvious Oliver is in the loop about Evelyn’s childhood with that one answer. “We all live in a world of bumps and bruises. No one lives on this Earth for very long without collecting a few scars. That’s the meat of all of us—what makes us who we are. Evelyn’s life didn’t start out with just bumps and bruises. That man left a rotting, festering wound in his daughter, and nothing would make me happier than to make him pay with my bare hands.”
Oliver’s knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel, trying to hold his temper in check. He comes to a slow stop in front of the dormitory, and shifts in his seat toward me.
“It’s hard to love a person who isn’t able to show themselves to you. But I love her the best I can. I love the parts she lets me see, and I pray that it’s enough for her.”
What a difference a week makes. Not long ago, I barely suppressed the urge to junk-punch this man, and now I’m fighting the overwhelming need to hug the shit out of him. It’s clear to me that Oliver is the glue that keeps Evelyn from falling to pieces. I can’t imagine it’s an easy job.
“Thank you for taking care of her,” I say as I reach out and pat his arm.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe I owe you another apology. I always seem to forget that you’re only a teenager, and I tell you things you shouldn’t know … that you may not understand. I forget you’re the child in all of this.”
I open the door, and one foot hits the sidewalk before I turn to him. “I may be the daughter in all of this, but it doesn’t mean I’m a child. I appreciate you being honest with me. I can take it, Oliver. Trust me.”
And with that, we say goodnight, feeling a bit more connected than we did before.
Marlo
I CALL EVELYN right after breakfast on Sunday morning to check in and make sure she’s all right. I’m surprised when I find her upbeat and almost chipper. No one would suspect just last night, she was crumbling under the pressure of her past. Whether it was the mistakes she’d endured or the ones she’d made, I can’t be sure. I imagine it’s a mixture of both. But today, there isn’t even a hint of sadness in her voice as she chatters on about hundred-pound suitcases and shopping marathons she has planned for her week in New York City with Oliver.
“They’re gonna leave without us if we don’t shake a leg, Delilah.” I cross my arms and lean my head against the doorway as I watch her curl her eyelashes between mascara applications. “It’s church, not a night on Frenchman Street.”
She rolls her eyes, a difficult feat with the eyelash curler in the mix, and pouts her crimson-stained lips.
“Baby Jesus doesn’t care what you’re wearing,” I whisper, but she ignores me. “You could wear granny panties and he wouldn’t mind.”
That gets her attention. She whips around, grabs her purse, and meets me toe-to-toe in the doorway. “Let me find a pair of granny panties in this dorm room, and I will have a public bonfire in the courtyard downstairs. And I’ll be sure to invite Ever.”
She stomps down the hallway to the stairs, and I follow closely behind. If she cared half as much about keeping a boyfriend as she does about our panty situation, maybe somebody would last longer than a carton of milk. Really, what can I expect from the girl who coined the term “monogamish”?
We catch up with the group, right as they’re leaving school. I’ve been going to St. Louis Cathedral every Sunday since the first week I moved to New Orleans. It’s become part of my routine.
“I still don’t get why you keep coming with us to church, Low,” Delilah says as we trail behind the others. “You’re not even Catholic.”
I shrug. “It’s relaxing—the ritual of it all, I guess. It’s so ceremonial. My church at home wasn’t like that.”
“Ceremonial is just another word for boring. Sit, stand, sit, kneel a couple times, sit, then leave. I barely even have to tune in anymore. I just go through the motions, half-conscious.”
I see what she’s saying, but the customs are still intriguing to me. It’s interesting, a priest covered in intricate robes, surrounded by crystal and brass, preaching to a businessman and homeless man together. The difference in patrons at the cathedral is staggering, and they all look comfortable and welcome. There are rich and poor in my little town in Texas, but I’ve never seen such disparity displayed in plain sight. It’s disturbing and humbling at the same time.
“Oh,” Delilah says, “I hope we get there a little early. I need to go to confession.”
I laugh. “Now that’s a ritual I can’t understand.”
“What? I tell the priest my sins, and he absolves me. Pretty simple, if you ask me.”
“He absolves you?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, I have to say some Hail Marys, some Our Fathers … how many depends on how much fun the week was, but yes.”
I shake my head and laugh. I imagine Delilah spends most of mass saying her penance, but what do I know? I’ve never received punishment prayers for my sins.
“Are you actually sorry?”
She thinks on this for a moment with a quirky smile on her face. “Sometimes, yes.”
And we both burst out laughing. She sounds so ludicrous.
“Look, I’m always sorry that I’ve committed the sin, even if I have every intention of being a repeat offender.”
I nod my head in understanding, even though I don’t think that’s how it’s actually supposed to work. Seems to me God would want you to be sorry and try not to do it again.
“Why not just talk to God? Can’t you tell him you’re sorry yourself?”
“I guess I can, but I like to do it this way. It feels good to do it.”
“To do what?”
“To give it to someone. I give my sins to the priest, and take my penance. I feel lighter. Weird, I know, but it’s true. Plus, it’s the rules, and we Catholics like our rules,” she says with an eye roll.
It’s an interesting concept, giving your sins to someone. I think about it throughout mass as I watch the family two pews ahead, little girls with lace veils and perfectly pressed smocked dresses, and the haggard woman across the aisle, greasy hair, black fingernails, and wrinkles on her cheeks and forehead that look like they’ve been chiseled with a carving tool.
Can we give away our sins, just like that? And what if we could give away our hurts just as easily? What if Evelyn could walk into that confessional and hand over the sins of her father and be done with it? Would she feel lighter?
I can imagine it. “Here Father So-and-So, I need to give you the baggage of my life to hold for a while. It’s too big of a burden for me to carry, so have at it, man.”
Yeah, right.
It seems like this system works better for the sinner than the victim…
Ever sucks my bottom lip and groans, hand eagerly twisting in my hair. I knead the strained muscles in his neck and shoulders, feeling them loosen under my fingers.
“I wish I hadn’t gotten back so late. It feels like I’ve only seen you for seconds, and it’s already time to go,” he says with a frown.
I’d run up to the roof as soon as he’d texted, about thirty minutes ago. I’d found him elbows to knees, head tipped to the sky, already lit joint to his lips. I’d taken a drag or two here and there, but the vast majority of the smoking was done by Ever. Sunday nights seem to be the hardest for him, like leaving his brother each week fills his body with enough tension to snap his muscles in two.
I smile and tilt my head, letting the hazy feeling flow through me like a gentle, rolling wave. “We have all week together. You’ll be tired of me by Friday, just watch.”
/>
His squeezes my neck and runs his nose over my cheek, soft and slow. I lean into him and inhale, a smile playing on my lips.
“Not a chance,” he whispers, as he kisses me once, twice.
“We’ll see,” I say, running my hands through his hair and gently tugging. “Oh, you get me Thursday night, too. Evelyn and Oliver are gone for a conference, so no dinner this week.”
He grabs my hips and pulls me closer until I’m straddling him. He slips his hand underneath my shirt and runs his fingers back and forth across the small of my back. I shiver.
“What if you have Thursday dinner at Evelyn’s anyway … with me?” His expression is hopeful and sweet, his voice barely a whisper, as if he’s worried what I’ll think of his suggestion.
“Yeah?” I scoot in closer, craving the friction of his body against mine.
“I could cook,” he says, widening his heavily-lidded eyes in suggestion. “Or not … whatever you want.”
“I want,” I whisper before rolling my body into his, tipping my head back at the pleasure, the tension it builds. “I really, really want.”
Ever
MARLO AND I walk hand in hand down the sidewalk, stealing nervous glances at each other along the way. It’s funny, we spend most nights alone together on the roof, but this feels different, more exciting and real. We’ve both been looking forward to tonight all week long.
I carry the groceries from the market, while she holds a pastry box of her already-baked honey bourbon banana cupcakes. The market smelled like a little slice of heaven all afternoon, thanks to her, and I’m surprised there were any cupcakes left for us to take at the end of the day. My other hand is laced with hers, and we feel like any other couple walking home after work. Just for tonight, I want to pretend that’s exactly what we are. No school, no outside pressures, no parents—just Marlo and me.
“How about you cook the pasta, and I’ll sauté the shrimp and garlic sauce?” I bump her shoulder as she nods, but she doesn’t meet my gaze. “Hey, what’s going on in that head of yours?”
Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) Page 14