by Elle Tyler
I held her tighter. “You’re not defective.”
She argued, “Twenty years’ worth of defectiveness would disagree.”
“Nineteen,” I corrected sarcastically.
“No, I’m twenty.”
I pulled back to see her face. “Since when?”
She was quiet, and then said, “Don’t worry, you gave me a present.”
“When?” I pressed.
“The day I took you to church. When you asked me to be your girlfriend.”
My mind swam. “Why didn’t you tell me? Wait—that’s why you were grumpy? Hell, Ev, I had no idea. And I would have gotten you something better than me, that’s for damn sure.” I laughed, but she remained serious.
“Birthdays are not celebrations in my life,” she explained. “I remember very clearly hearing Timothy tell Andrew, ‘If she reaches three, she won’t see twenty-one.’ Because anyone on record with CIPA usually didn’t live to see age three, and if they did, they were dead by twenty-one.” She looked at me, her face so close to mine as she sat in my lap. “So here I am, gasping for breath in your arms, one year before I’m destined to die. Aren’t you glad I’m your girl, Callum Andrew?”
I stared at her deeply as I dug for courage inside of myself. I couldn’t tell her I wasn’t afraid, because that was too big of a lie. I followed where my heart led, and that was to what I knew I was capable of doing—letting go. I had been here before. I’d watched Julep’s life fall away each day like dying rose petals, one by one, until all the beauty withered into memories. I was capable of this. Afraid? Yes. But still capable. So I did what I knew best. I distracted her with a story.
“My mother’s parents were immigrants when they first came to America. She learned to speak English watching Bugs Bunny cartoons, so I’d always make fun of her and ask, ‘What’s up, Doc?’ But it translated funny. She’d always get confused and think I was calling for my pop. So she stopped talking to me in English as payback, and I got to feel how confused she was. But then I learned a few Italian words and liked it, so she taught me.” I stroked my fingertips light as a feather across her cheeks. “Do you want to hear some?”
Everly kept her eyes on me, deep and engaged. “I’d love to hear you.”
And I confided softly, caressing her cheek, “Sei l'unico Paradiso in cui credo, l'unico che abbia mai sentito. Mi sono innamorato di te, Everly Anne.**”
A part of me hoped she had never learned Italian. Another part of me wished I had told her in English. She watched me as if waiting for translation, but I just leaned my mouth to her shoulder and kissed over her sweater then boldly to the curve of her neck and behind her ear, as if I could press the words into her skin and have them sink inside of her so she’d know it was true.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
“I am.”
“On my lips,” she expanded. “You never kiss me anymore.”
I smiled against her neck. “You forbade me, remember?”
“I thought you weren’t going to be strong-armed by a ninety-pound girl?”
“So, it’s like a dare? I don’t think I’d like to kiss you based on a dare. Feels too empty... And that’s not what I envision when I think about kissing you, Everly Anne.”
Her chin rested on my shoulder as she turned silent for a moment. But then I was given another secret as she unveiled, “I want it to be you.” She curled her fingers into the nape of my shirt. “All of it to be you.”
My mind stuck on the “all.” My fingers strummed her ribs as I thought about all of the possibilities. But her words only rested on my chest. They felt like they had a home there. I didn’t feel an urge or rush. I didn’t want to leap and worry about all the repercussions later. No matter how little time existed between her life and mine as a whole, fast and effortless weren’t an option—and those were the only options, as we sat on that couch.
“There’s a problem with that, Everly.”
She closed her eyes. “I know.”
“I mean it’s twenty minutes ‘til you have to be home.” She opened her eyes, and I kissed her cheek. “And that’s not nearly long enough... for anything.”
“You do understand what a simple kiss is, right, Future Graduate of Cornell?”
“Simple,” I mused, before leaning in to kiss her neck again behind her ear until her eyes closed. My lips trailed down to her shoulder, and I slid away her sweater, revealing her skin for my mouth. I swept over her collarbone with feather-light kisses. Against her throat I asked, with my hand pressed against her stomach, “Any butterflies in there yet?”
She shook her head. “More like these monster fish my Granddad used to curse when he went catfish’n—they’d leap out of the water and smack you right in the face.”
I cradled her cheeks. “I can’t kiss you twenty minutes before I need to take you home because, once I start kissing you, I’m not gonna want to stop any time soon. I practically wrote an entire differential about kissing you. Please understand my dilemma. There is nothing simple about kissing you, Topolina.”
She fell against me and buried tired laughter against my shoulder. I held her to my chest, warming her back with my hands, circling across her sweater. Any attempt to ignore her bones against my palms was futile. She was withering away... and I had no idea how to stop it from happening.
“You’re undoubtedly my favorite,” she said, small. “Mio stella.*”
I smiled against her shoulder. “Only women are stars, topolina.”
“Then next time I’ll tell you in English.”
“No,” I continued. “Even in English. You’re the star. Trust me in this knowledge.”
“Then what are you?” she asked.
“The man looking up at the star in amazement as she hangs high.”
“You see,” she said, hugging her arms tighter around my shoulders. “You’re my favorite.”
And to me, that was grander than any “I love you” she could have returned.
**You’re the only Heaven I believe in, that I’ve ever felt. I’m in love with you, Everly Anne.
* My star.
ANGELS SING
HALLELUJAH
21.
WHEN I TURNED EIGHTEEN, my father gave me a savings account that was a few cents shy of a million dollars. He never told me what to do with the money (small exception: become a lifeguard), and I always assumed it was for med school, but when tuition was due, he had a check ready. I concluded it was a lure. He wanted me to run away from my plans of becoming a doctor—not go down the same path he’d found himself hating—but the money had never swayed my choice.
I liked anomalies and puzzles—sure—but there was something else that I couldn’t explain about why I wanted to become a doctor. Something a bit like that invisible cord Everly Anne had tied around my ribcage.
What I didn’t know was that fate had stuck a dart between my childhood and my adulthood. The paper I was handed at eighteen meant very little, unless I looked at the money like it was a stack of coins destined for a wishing well. But I didn’t have the foresight or dreams yet to understand the importance of this rule yet.
***
Tatum stared at me as we split a brownie at Noelle’s café. “Georgia? But why?”
“Everly had a grandpa there. Whenever she talks about him or Georgia, she looks happy. I could apply for residency at a good hospital in Atlanta. What’s that look for? You don’t think I could handle southern-style livin’?”
She laughed around licking fudge from her fingers. “One does not simply move from New York, Callum.”
“I would fuckin’ miss New York.” I groaned. “You’ve got me there, Tot.”
She fell back in her seat. “And you’ll resent her, and your great love affair will …” She whistled our love-life plummeting toward earth, then caused an explosion with her hands.
“I can’t resent her if it’s my idea.”
Tatum pushed the rest of the brownie toward me. “What if she gets back home and decides she likes them b
oys with big ole muddin’ trucks and dip-stuffed cheeks. What if she wants to have bonfires and moonlit kisses by the creek, and you’re just this high-brow doctor who ain’t never home to scold them chil’ens and to go to church on Sundays?” She sat forward. “Man, I should write that down—it sounds like a great country song in the making.”
“You’re right, Tot. Everyone who lives in Georgia dips, has a monster truck, and canoodles in a creek. How on earth has Georgia survived with such simpletons running the state!”
“I’m just joking, Callum. Atlanta is just as good of a place to hate being a doctor as New York.”
“You know I hate that word.” I crumpled the pastry-paper as I shoved the last bite of brownie in my mouth. “It’s only an idea, anyhow. Truth be told, I’m not even supposed to be dating Everly, much less moving her to another state.”
“I thought she looked a bit young.”
I tossed the paper at her wise-ass grin. “She’s twenty. Fuck off, Tater.”
“So why are you barred?” she laughed.
“Well, for starters, you know Brighton is both my attending and her father.”
“And for the second course?” she encouraged.
I debated for a moment, but relinquished. “She has CIPA.”
“The hell is a sippa?”
I sighed. “It’s this rare condition—maybe three people in the whole country have it—a genetic disorder that affects her nervous system. She can’t feel pain, decipher temperature, or sweat. And then there’s other shit because of how it affects her mentally, emotionally.”
“Is... Forgive me for sounding dense... But is there a treatment?”
“It’s how she’s made. There’s nothing anyone can do about it except tailor her life around her condition, which brings us back to why I’m barred from dating Everly.”
“Her father won’t let her hang out with Andrew Trovatto’s son?” she balked. “I don’t think there could be a better choice if he had his pick of the litter, so to speak.”
“It’s not about me,” I explained. “He’s terrified of losing control. Of losing Everly.”
“Well, that’s understandable.”
I shook my head. “It’s not because he cares about her. He’s just scared shitless about the day she’s no longer alive. When he has nothing left to chase and rule.”
“And you want to change all of that by moving her to Georgia? Cal, you’re gonna ruin your whole life before it even starts.”
I sighed. “If only I could turn that into an amusing acronym, Tatum-Tot.”
She shoved away from the table. “First? Fuck that nickname. I’ve hated it since second grade. Second? Excuse me for interrupting this conversation, but I have to pee so damn bad.”
I checked the time on my phone and then lied so I could leave. “I need to get back to the hospital, anyhow.” I cleared our table, and, before we parted ways, Tatum turned and told me, “Nick is coming home for Thanksgiving. I want to have a big welcome-home party, but our apartment is too damn small. Think Marta would mind if we crashed Thanksgiving at your place?”
“Consider it done.”
“Callum.” She stopped me again. “Is she really worthy of your future... this girl... Everly? Even if her father wasn’t the problem—aren’t you scared of this condition she has?”
And I returned, “Are you afraid one day Nick won’t make it home? No, fuck that. What if you knew one day he wouldn’t come home—would you have married him? Could you stop loving him somehow?”
“Of course not.”
I nodded, “Then you have your answer.”
“Except I didn’t watch my mom die, Cal.” She touched my arm and then hugged me. “So I don’t understand why you would purposely put yourself into that scenario again.”
“I didn’t put me anywhere,” I snapped, but she hung on. She also had been here before. “I went to class one day and this is what life presented. I wish I could accept it as some cruel joke, but I love her too much to play it off so juvenilely.”
She held onto my hand when I stepped out of her embrace. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” I assured. “I’m not sorry at all that I love her.” I took another step and planned to keep going, but my mouth had other plans. “You know, I’m not him. What happened to my father—that didn’t happen to me. And it’s not going to happen to me. Why is everyone so stuck on the ending? What about the right now? You know why angels sing ‘Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah’? Because even they know this isn’t supposed to be so damn serious all the time.”
“Death is serious, Callum,” she almost cried. “So is denial.”
“I wasn’t talking about death. I’m talking about life. That’s the damn problem. Everyone is so focused on losing some unforeseen day in the future, they don’t even cherish what they have right now. Well, right now, I’m in love with this girl. That’s not denial. It’s the absolute truth. Worry Warts are in denial, believing every carefully-made choice won’t end badly. Guess what, Tot? We all die someday. So what if I get ten days or ten years with her? Are we all so concerned with quantity, we won’t even consider some of the best moments of our lives are the shortest-lived? I might end up spending more time in my life reminding patients to watch their cholesterol than I ever will spend tenderly with Everly Anne... But does that make her the lesser? Are those moments not worth having?” I breathed, wiped the frustration from my forehead, only to be reminded of the crease. “I’ll tell you one thing—if all this concern stems from Julep dying, well, guess what? I’ve had two mothers in my life. One of them stitched herself under my skin. I can’t even walk through those doors,” I waved to the café, “without thinking of her, because she had this thing with playing the radio while she baked. She wore an apron with high heels, and her hair was always this shiny black mess, but she never burned anything. She had a heart like a kite. My friends thought she was the coolest person because she drove me to school in that old Chevy. You remember that, Tot?”
Tears streamed down her dark cheeks. “I loved Julep. Of course I remember her. She let me call her Mom... She let everyone call her Mom.”
“How many times have you ever called Marta Mom?”
She wiped her face. “Never.”
“Yeah... Well, me fuckin’ either.”
“I get it.” She wiped my face, too. “I get it, all right?”
“I get it, too,” I apologized. “So don’t cry. I’m fine.” I hugged her, and we stayed like that for a moment. Until she snorted. “What?”
Tatum pulled away. “I think that guy just took a picture of us.”
“What guy?”
She pointed at the café window. Logan sat on the other side with a shit-eating grin on his face. He mouthed, “Bust-ed.” I gave him the finger, and he took a picture of that, as well.
“You know him?” she asked.
“He’s just some prick from school. He brown-noses Brighton and gets all the easy charts.”
“Why is he taking our picture?”
Logan snapped another one, and I realized my hand was still around Tatum’s arm. I looked at us together, and then back to Logan’s phone.
“Mother... fucker.” Eureka. “I’m gonna kill this fuckin’ kid. I swear.”
“Callum?”
“Brighton’s playing him. He’s using him. That’s why he gets the easy work. That dumbass couldn’t punch his way out of a wet paper bag, but he’s in the same class as me and not failing? Right.”
“But... for what?”
My mind swam. “Something with Everly. That’s the only reason he’d have.” I turned her away from the window. “I don’t want him to know I’ve figured it out. Let me test a theory?”
“What theory?”
“Just don’t knee me in the balls.”
I leaned in and kissed her quickly on the lips. When I looked over my shoulder, Logan had his phone raised. I pretended like I was trying to hide a second kiss.
“Okay, okay!” She shoved me away. “Enough
theory, Callum! Shit, you understand that Nick can kill a man with a bullet from two thousand yards, right?”
“I need to go find Everly.”
There’s this really good reason why I have loved Tatum Quade since elementary school. “Want me to knee this Logan bastard in the balls?” she asked.
And that was damn near close to it.
***
I was ten minutes late when I finally reached my house. She wasn’t on the steps waiting, and I hated the idea of her walking away, let down. I brought my books inside to drop them off, fully planning on sneaking into her window tonight, but we’d already had this talk about God and plans.
Everly was sitting on the middle of my bed.
Everly was sitting on the middle of my bed dressed in gray knee socks and a violet sweater-dress.
Everly was sitting on my bed dressed in gray knee socks, a violet sweater-dress, and new blonde hair.
I might as well have had taffy in my mouth as I stumbled toward the mattress.
“You’re late,” she accused.
“You’re …” My eyes scrolled over her again. I landed on my knees at the foot of the bed and rested my chin on the mattress. “Not real. It’s impossible that you’re real. So you’re not.”
She rolled on her stomach and put our noses close. “Have you been drinking?”
“I don’t drink, remember?” My fingers combed her long, baby-soft hair. “But I do feel incredibly intoxicated, topolina. Jesus Christ.”
“I knew you had a thing for blondes.”
My finger traced her cheek. “I have a thing for you.”
She smiled and turned her head slowly side to side, effectively causing my finger to play across her lips.
Her voice was smaller than her question. “Is there enough time tonight?”
I wasn’t dumb. It was just wiser to stall. “For?”
“A kiss.” She pressed into my hand eagerly. And it would have been so easy to lean in and place my lips on hers, but there was truth sitting on my tongue that I had to spit out first.