“You were spying on me?” I refuse to let the organ in my chest be charmed by him, but it’s falling no matter what I internally yell at it.
“If you only knew how many times I’ve watched you through my window.” His eyebrow hitches up.
“Pervert.” A tiny smirk twitches at my lips.
“Come sit with me?” He extends a hand.
I don’t take it, but I do step toward him. If I allow Everett to touch me right now, I know I won’t stop it at that. Even for all of my talk, I’m so vulnerable when it comes to him. Case in point, I’m following him across the lawn and taking a seat next to him on the patio couch. The dark vibrates around us, and when I examine the back of both of our homes, all the lights are off.
“You look beautiful.” He breathes, and even though we’re not touching, I feel his words lick up my spine.
“You said that already.” I almost hate myself for staying put.
“I carried that picture of you around in my uniform the entire time I was in that fucking sandstorm.”
My heart flutters. “I forgot I sent that.”
In one of the letters, I’d included this candid photo Rachel had taken of me at cheer practice. I’m in the middle of a laugh, my hair blowing behind my ears, and sun-kissed freckles dotting my nose.
“I never forgot one of your letters. Each of your lines tattooed onto my brain.” Everett seems to be talking to himself more than to me.
And now my heart gallops, because he’s feeding it the exact words it’s always wanted to hear.
“You wrote a lot of things in those letters,” I whisper.
“I meant every one of them.” His response is so quick, I know its sincere. Everett didn’t even have to think about it.
How can I allow him to do this every time? Take a perfectly good night, one I’d almost gone without thinking of him once, and completely turn it into the Everett show? I always let him, that’s why. The charming things he’s saying are invading my heart, twisting it against itself until it’s convinced that it’s not even a part of me. That it’s … his.
I think of Logan, of the easy, fun time we had tonight. I think of how simple the homecoming dance had been, how there wasn’t a lump in my throat the whole time as I considered whether a certain boy would ask me to dance, or take someone else home.
“Or did you mean all the things you’ve said since you came home?” I cut my eyes to him.
From where we sit, our thighs almost touch. But it feels as if we’re oceans apart, separated by the bodies of water that used to come between us when he was shipped overseas.
“You don’t understand.” Everett’s expression pleads with me.
“No, I don’t.” I’m too tired to explain, to argue anymore.
“If I could, I would prove all the things I wrote to you. But that was another life. The things I’ve done …”
He trails off and yet again, hides another piece of himself from me. I don’t know what to say, or why I’m even still sitting here. The cold seeps in, making me shiver.
Everett must notice, because he shrugs out of his sweatshirt. The sleeves of his black tee underneath strain against his biceps, and my mouth goes dry as he leans over to envelop me in the warm material of his discarded layer. The sweatshirt smells like sandalwood and citrus, pure Everett.
“I’m sorry, Kennedy. For everything.”
The whole sequence feels like a dream. I’m silent because I can’t muster up a thought that won’t end in my heartbreak. If I try to confess my feelings again, he’ll only dash them, I know it. But if I forgive him for the things he’s said, I’ll also crack my chest wide open.
We sit on that patio for what feels like an eternity, both never saying all the emotions passing between our gazes.
15
Everett
“This is absolute bullshit.”
I hear Dad swear into the phone, and I’m honestly shocked to my core. And not a lot stirs emotion in me these days. But my old man doesn’t curse, and if he’s doing so right now, it’s because something is really pissing him off.
From where I lounge on the couch, as Mom starts dinner in the kitchen on the other side of our open concept house, I see him slam his cell down onto the table. The forks and glasses, which I set begrudgingly when Mom asked, rattle from the force.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks, her voice brittle.
She’s been jumpy and anxious since I got home. I know it’s my fault, that what happened has probably changed her to the root, and for that I feel guilty.
“The goddamn military in this country is crooked. The whole lot of them!” Dad runs a shaking hand through his hair.
If they only knew.
“Dad, calm down.” Even I’m concerned now, seeing him this fed up.
He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just … I don’t how they can actively deny you your veteran benefits. Every time I call, it’s a different excuse. Active investigation, paperwork being filed, some kind of active duty status still pending—”
“Are they going to send me back?” Until now, I hadn’t really thought this was an option.
Because if that’s so, I’ll flee. I’ll off myself. I will do anything to avoid going back to that sandstorm.
“No. You’re staying right here. Anyone who tries that will have to come through me.” I’ve never heard my father so fired up.
Taking a shaky breath, because it feels like a train hit my chest when he said active duty, I press my fingers against my temples. A headache is forming, and I need to hold it at bay.
The only reason Dad has been calling instead of me is because I won’t muster the energy to do it myself. Not only do I want nothing to do with the Marines for the rest of my life, but talking to strangers and lobbying for myself isn’t high on my list of priorities anymore.
“This is ridiculous. After what our son has been through …” Mom breaks off, clamping her lips shut like she’s trying not to let a sob out.
So, I’m captured by the enemy while serving my country and now they’re going to try to deny me my veteran benefits? They’re probably right to do that. If they knew what I’d done, what had really happened the night I was captured, they would do much worse than revoke my right to a free college education and the likes.
Not that I necessarily want the benefits. The therapy, the free education, the insurance, does any of it matter? I’m not planning on making something of my life, no matter how hard Dr. Liu or my parents try. What’s done is done, I’m damaged goods.
“Let’s all take a breath. There isn’t more we can do about it now. I was lucky enough to pull your General’s information out of the lowly desk guy this time, and I’ll try to get in touch.” Dad tries to move us past the tense moment.
“Everett, can you help me peel the potatoes?” Mom asks, taking his lead.
Huffing, I almost don’t rise from the couch. But then I see their faces, and I know I can’t disappoint them tonight. I’ve turned out to be such a letdown, such a loser, that I can do them this one small gratitude.
Joining Mom at the counter, I take the peeler from where she holds it out to me, and begin peeling the brown skins off the lumpy circles.