by Ella James
He nods.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, not fully meeting my eyes.
“No. I’m fine,” I lie.
He nods toward the couch. “I’m going over there.”
“Okay.”
For the rest of the night, I can hear him toss and turn atop the vinyl.
Eight
Evie
Landon’s lying on his side, his back to me, when my mom returns from surgery. Her colleague, Dr. Aims, has made it to the hospital to cover for her, meaning Mom won’t have to leave my room again. One of the ENT nurses, a younger woman named Bea, has offered to drive Landon home if he wants.
“Do you think he’s asleep?” Mom asks me in a murmur.
I shake my head.
A few minutes later, Landon is at my bedside, looking down on me in the dark, his face somber, his eyes unreadable, saying he’ll see me tomorrow—which, of course, is actually today. He leaves with Beatrice, and my mom takes the couch.
Sometime in the later morning, while we’re waiting for the medical supply company to arrive with a pair of crutches for me, Mom looks up from her magazine and says, “How close do you feel you and Landon are?”
My stomach bottoms out. I break into a cold sweat. “I don’t know. We’re friends I guess.”
She looks thoughtful. “Has Dad ever told you about Landon’s past?”
“Umm…I don’t think so.” I keep my mouth shut about what Landon himself told me. I want to hear my parents’ version of events.
“You know,” she says, “I was impressed with his behavior here. The way he stuck by you. Because…Evie, when he was very young, Landon was actually left here—in the ER.”
I widen my eyes, and Mom nods. “A woman was with him. She was probably his mother. She didn’t leave a name, apparently. For her emergency contact, she listed James Landon, aged two. And then it seems she just took off.”
I listen to my mother’s story, which matches Landon’s.
“I was aware of it, of course. We all were. It’s part of what prompted us to start our fostering. I never could forget his little face,” she tells me. “He was a precious child. One of the nurses in the ER took him home with her the second night. She was certified as a foster parent. I didn’t keep track of his name,” my mom continues. “I didn’t realize it was him until we got his updated paperwork, after he landed in our house. I didn’t want to mention it to you because it wasn’t relevant—and, you know, it’s really not my story to share. But I decided you should know…it must have taken a lot for him to sit out in that very same room.”
I mull that over while I get discharged, and Mom wheels me out to the car.
Thirty minutes later, Dad and Emmaline spill out the garage door to greet us. Dad carries me to the couch, which has been decked out in my bedding. All my pillows are in comfy-looking positions, and there’s a wicker tray set in the armchair, which has been pulled right beside the couch.
“I know it’s not your room, but you can’t do two flights of stairs right now,” my dad says as we try to prop my ankle up.
“If the light from all these windows bothers you in the mornings, we can see about a switch with Landon. He’s been so helpful,” Mom says.
I try my best to settle both my nerves and my ankle as my family fusses over me and a delivery person drops off balloons from Makayla. Sometime later, Em is playing Xbox while my parents cook my favorite meal—shrimp fettuccine and asparagus—when I look up and notice Landon in the doorway.
He wiggles his thick eyebrows. “Couch potato.”
I smirk at his rumpled, plaid lounge pants, his undershirt, and his wild hair. “You’re one to talk.”
“Some girl kept me up late.”
My cheeks burn and my pulse quickens, but my little sister doesn’t notice the sub-context—if there even is one.
I’m taking up most of the couch, and Em’s in the armchair right beside me. I watch Landon as he walks around the pool table behind us, looks out a window at the woods, then comes around and takes a seat in the small space beside my propped-up foot.
He looks down at it.
“How does it look?” I ask him. “Can you see in through the little toe-hole?”
“Just the painted toenails. How’s it feeling?” It’s the first time since he came into the room that he’s looked into my eyes. My face stings with unwanted heat, which I ignore as I say, “Not the greatest.”
He nods. “I have some memories of that pain. I’m glad they’re vague.”
“How old did you say you were?”
“Seven.”
Emmaline glances away from her game, looking wide-eyed and impressed. “Seven, like me?”
Landon nods. “Believe it or not, I was seven once, like you.”
“What did you break?” she asks excitedly.
Landon holds up his left arm. “Fractured distal radius.”
Em frowns. “What’s a distal rainius?”
“The wrist.” I look from her to Landon. He nods.
“How’d you break it?” Em asks.
“Slipped on a Lego on a hardwood floor.”
“Oh no, Legos are youchie.”
“It was very youchie,” he says.
“He still has a scar,” I tell Em.
“Oh no, they had to do surgery on it?” Emmaline walks over to peer down at it. “Daddy says wrists don’t get a lot of surgery. Not as much as flimsy ankles.”
I laugh at my sister’s excellent memory. Dad is always ranting about “flimsy” ankles.
Landon shrugs. His face looks slightly odd for just a second, but it passes, and our collective energy is redirected to Em’s game.
Dinner’s ready soon. My family brings it to the den with me, and we eat watching Wheel of Fortune.
Landon’s sitting by my foot again, so I can’t help but watch him. He’s a neat eater. He never seems to look at me during dinner, but I guess he must be watching me, because when I run out of water, he gets me a refill. I cling to his every comment as he guesses two phrases correctly, wowing both my parents, before he takes his dishes and mine to the kitchen.
My mom’s brows raise in obvious approval. Minutes later, he’s back, with his hands in his pants pockets.
“Food was great. Thank you.” He nods at my parents. “Sleep well, Evie. And Emmaline.”
“You too,” my dad calls from behind his newspaper. “You’re a good ’un, Landon.”
Emmaline hops up and down in her seat. “Byyeeeee, brother!”
Mom stands up from the desk chair where she’s seated. “Goodnight, Landon. I’ll leave your school excuse for today on the counter in the morning.”
I see him hold his hand up in a wave as he walks down the hall, back toward the kitchen and the stairs down to his room.
That night, after everyone’s in bed, I sit there on the couch, my back against one of the arms, my eyes on the woods through the window, and I think back on the last day. All I can think about is Landon’s mouth on mine. When I remember, I feel…restless. I want to do something, but I don’t even know what. I’m not sure how much I like the feeling.
Landon
She doesn’t go to school the next two days, and I’m relieved. It means I don’t have to see her outside dinner, which I keep brief. After school the first day, I avoid the family room, so I don’t have to see her in her silky, blue pajamas, with her hair down and her pink and green girl pillows all around her. I bring her homework to her after school the second day, and Evie tries to ask about my day. I’m evasive.
That night, I lie in my bed, not sleeping. I think about the night I told her all that shit. The night at the hospital. I wish I hadn’t talked about it. I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep at all, and had that fucking dream, which woke her up and clued her in. I wish I had been more discreet, and hadn’t talked about the dream or the newspaper ad once I got in bed with her. I should have known the bed thing was a bad idea. I should have known that if I talked about that shit, it wouldn’t go well. I should have kn
own not to touch her, especially her face when she was crying. Her skin was so soft, and I could smell her shampoo. I should have known, when I reached the last car on the dumbass train and lost my shit, to get out of the bed before she started touching me.
But, despite my GPA, I’m not very smart.
Later that night, I prove this to myself by walking quietly upstairs, through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the darkened family room. I stop in the doorway, my gaze slowly swinging to the couch. Of course, I see her shadowed form. Her foot is propped up on a bunch of pillows, her body covered with a pink fleece blanket. The armchair is pulled up right beside the couch, with Evie’s crutches propped against it.
I move more quietly into the room, watching her for signs of wakefulness. Her breathing looks steady. I think she’s asleep.
I look at the armchair. It’s leather, its back draped with a white blanket. I wonder, if I sit there, if I could go to sleep. I tell myself, if I sit down, I’ll only stay for a few minutes. Even if I could sleep here, it’s not safe to, but I’m here, I reason, so I might as well sit down for just a second. Search for flaws.
I can’t believe I once thought Ev was an ordinary girl. Now all I see, as I lower myself quietly into the chair, is her smooth skin, flawless and milky in the moonlight. I can see her long, thick lashes resting on her cheeks. Her soft lips. God, they’re soft. I can feel her slick, hot tongue—so tentative, and later, eager. The way her tears felt on my fingers. I can smell her hair: some sort of fruit. I can feel the weight of her against me when I had my arm around her.
I like how she drives, and how she walks, and how she talks (like she’s driving a race car, like she’s walking on stage at a concert, like she’s thought of every word before she says it).
I like how she tells me to shut up.
What I really like is how she opens her eyes. She blinks a little, and I know this is my cue to go.
But I’m so stupid.
I’m still there when her gaze shifts my way. Her blue eyes widen, and her lips form a little “o.”
“Hey.” She looks surprised, but gives me one of her sweet smiles. “You’re here.” She sits up a little bit, or tries to, as she peers around the room again, and then, again, at me. “What time is it?” Her voice is hoarse from sleep, making me want to kiss her.
“Nighttime.”
She grins. “Smartass.” Ev sits up more fully, then winces. I’m opening my mouth to ask if she needs something when she leans down to the floor, grabbing two cups I hadn’t even noticed: one with Advil in it, and another with water. I watch as she swallows the pills.
Then she stares straight through me for the longest, quietest moment. “I haven’t told, Landon. I’m not going to. So you can stop avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
She lifts her brows.
“Okay,” I mutter, looking down.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
“No.”
“Well, what are you?”
“Landon.” I can’t help the smile that takes over my mouth. Evie returns it.
“Why are you in here with me, Landon Who’s Not Nervous?”
I look at her, and she says, “Yeah. I kind of figured.”
What? I don’t think I said a word—but Evie’s eyes are knowing. That, and sympathetic. “You want to sit on the couch by me? I promise I’ll keep my lips far away.”
I shake my head and make myself stand up. “It’s cool. Sorry if I woke you up.”
“I miss you,” she says, as I near the doorway.
I guess that’s all I needed. Half an hour later, I’m asleep.
Nine
Evie
Silly Landon.
I guess he thinks I don’t notice his midnight drop-ins. He’ll come in sometime between midnight and two, stand in the doorway while I feel his eyes on me, and then, when he seems sure that I’m asleep, he’ll sink into the chair beside me.
Maybe it’s strange—the way he watches me, the way I let him—but if he knows I’m awake, he won’t come sit with me. He’ll toss in bed all night. I can’t stand to think about him tangled in his nightmares, in his lonely bed. I wish he’d talk to me again. I wish one night as he sits by the couch that he’d touch me.
But I can sense his reserve. Even when we ride to and from school together, he stays quiet and distant, flitting nearer to me only to do tiny things, like open a vent I hadn’t noticed had been pushed shut, or, one time, wipe some waffle syrup from my lip. Even that was quick and neat: utilitarian. When we arrive at school, he gets my crutches from the back of the car and brings them to my door. He holds his hands out, and I wrap mine around his, and he helps me out of my low-sitting Focus. Is it wrong that it’s the best part of my day, when Landon touches me?
He carries my bag to homeroom and pulls a spare chair up to my desk for me to prop my foot in. At lunch, he sits beside me, dealing with my crutches, which he props on the other side of him, and getting me napkins or condiments if I forget.
My good friends notice, and Makayla asks me twice about it, but I feign surprise both times.
“I think he’s just a really nice guy.”
Mak knows I’m full of shit.
I go to soccer practice, sitting on the bench, and later—after Dad gives me a boot for my ankle—doing stretches in the grass. I can’t keep my gaze away from Landon. The feeling I get when I watch him run, his strong body moving in a pack, when I hear a swatch of conversation with his low voice braided into the chorus, when I catch him glance over at me—it’s like a drug. I crave him.
When I reach my car and find him leaned against the passenger side door, my body sings with pure elation. Mine.
And every night, he reinforces that. Every night, he comes and sits there in the chair beside me. As time passes, he grows bolder, covering himself with a blanket, resting his forehead on the side of the chair, getting me more water before he disappears downstairs.
It’s not until one night when I wrinkle my nose to try to alleviate an itch that my eyes open accidentally, and I find his gaze on me.
I try to feign sleep, but Landon grins.
“How long have you known…”
“That you’re awake?” He laughs. I cover my face with my hand, and he says, “How long have you known that I come in here?”
I laugh. “For a while, maybe.”
His face is warm, his eyes alight. “Me too. Maybe.”
“You’re a rat.” I sit up, leaning slightly toward him.
“You use stairs at school.” His face goes solemn.
I nod.
“And yet…”
And yet, I’m still down here on the couch at night. “I know.”
He steeples his fingers, looking over them at me like an old-school psychoanalyst. “Why is that?”
My heart beats wildly. I whisper, “Because I want to see you.”
I can see my words hit his face. He looks surprised—and happy—and then, right thereafter, grave. “You can’t want that,” he says softly.
I’m surprised to find that I feel angry. “Why not? You do.”
“Yes, and I’m discreet, Evie. No one knows how much I need you. That I can’t sleep unless I sit here with you first. That I need the ride to school and home with you. I need to be near you. No one knows that. No one will ever find out.”
I reach for him, and Landon stares down at my hand before he takes it, cradling it in both of his.
“I know,” I whisper, looking into his gray eyes.
“I know you know. Because you know me.”
He leans down then, wrapping his arm around me, pulling me slightly up against his chest. He doesn’t kiss me, doesn’t even move, he just holds me up against him. I can feel his heart beat through the fabric of his T-shirt.
“Evie…please,” he murmurs into my hair. “We have to be so smart about this.” His arms hold me tighter, even as he says, “There shouldn’t be a ‘this.’”
I urge him closer to me, and because he
can’t—there’s space between his chair and the couch—Landon shifts onto the couch’s edge. He pulls me closer to him, and we sit there, wrapped up in each other, hugging with our cheeks side by side.
“I feel good with you,” I whisper.
“It’s not supposed to feel so good.” His words are groaned.
And then our mouths meet, frantic, our hands grasping, our chests panting. His hands cup my head and mine latch onto his thick arms. He kisses like a starving man, like he can’t wait another second—and it’s okay, because I can’t either. We kiss until my body is boiling, and his hand is underneath my shirt, stroking my lower belly, and he’s gasping. Then I start to moan and Landon rocks away from me. He puts some couch between us and regards me with strange, hypnotized eyes. His lids are low, and he looks almost drunk.
“Evie…” He looks down at his hands. They look like they’re shaking. When his gaze rises to mine, it’s somber. “Go upstairs tomorrow night. I can’t stay away from you.”
I feel like I’ve come undone. When he hugs me, tight and hard, then quickly leaves the room, I let him go.
Landon
For several days, we hardly talk. The rides to school and back are strained, and in the silence of the car, I ache for Evie. To have met her somewhere, anywhere, but here. To be able to touch her, talk to her, to know her, without consequences.
The first Monday in November, Evie’s father, Dean, takes me to get my driver’s license. He pays the fees and pats me on the back when I pass, and then buys me a burger and a milkshake. I feel like I’m being strangled by my guilt.
I might be stupid, but I’m not ignorant. I know it’s unwise, what I’m doing. And yet…it’s as if I’m living in an alternate reality where I can’t control myself. Where I don’t have real choices. Hell—where I don’t even want them.
I’m driving Evie’s car to school on Friday morning when I can’t stop myself: I pull over behind a gas station, look over at her, and, when I see her looking the same way at me, I lean over and wrap my arms around her.