Everett wears a smug, shit-eating grin that I want to punch off his jaw.
“Here I was, thinking you were actually changing. That we’d come to some sort of truce. I thought I saw a glimpse of the guy I used to know. But you’re still that angry, shell of a man who returned to Brentwick. You promised me a kiss, you promised me so much that you’ve never followed through on. That was it. Our first kiss. Out of a moment of spite. In all the times I ever dreamed about it, that would have never been the circumstance I picked. Hell, I wish I could erase that moment, make it like it never happened. That’s not the kiss I wanted.”
“Guess I’m not the man you wanted, then.”
“I guess not.” My voice is dangerously close to breaking.
I whip around, not wanting him to see the tears I’m about to let loose.
“Wait, Kennedy, I-I didn’t mean to. FUCK! I’m such an idiot—”
When I turn back around, rage singeing my veins, Everett is pale and his are eyes full of fear.
“You didn’t mean to kiss me? You didn’t mean to do it in front of people? What, Everett? Is there more you’d like to sling at me? Have you not torn me down enough?” I go into attack mode.
And immediately, the one shred of humanity I saw tonight is locked up tight, disappearing from his eyes.
“You got it, your fucking kiss. Now can you stop whining about it. It wasn’t good for you? Well, it was a hell of a lot crappier for me. So much for all the pomp and circumstance leading up to it. Now we can both move on knowing there was nothing there anyway.”
His words cut so deep, I’m surprised I’m not bleeding when my eyes drop to the pavement.
That’s the thing, though. There was so much emotion, so much confirmation of what we could be, packed into that kiss.
Into that stupid, public, spiteful, half-a-second kiss that shouldn’t even be allowed on the tally board.
That I have to wonder what would it be like if our lips really met in the way we’ve always deserved?
20
Everett
Droplets of wetness from the pavement hit the back of my calves, the cold darkness surrounding me as my legs pump.
When I could no longer stand the sound of my own thoughts, shut up in my room once more, I decided to come out and exhaust myself physically. Maybe if I run a full fucking marathon, I’ll be able to pass out.
Though my body, limbs and muscles have been put through the ringer, they miraculously healed with little disability. Every time my left foot hits the roads of Brentwick, my ankle cracks. There is a lag in the fingers on my right hand, from being crushed under the weight of a brick in my hole. My right knee also aches for days at a time, where a bullet was shot clean through the flesh. Thankfully, my kneecap was intact, because with broken bones like that, I probably would have died.
So I’m able to run, now that I’ve returned to normal life. My lungs burn with the frigid air pumping in and out of them, and the dark streets of my hometown close in around me. I’m so fucking pissed at myself, at the predicament I’ve landed in, that I want to drown it out with the death metal screaming in my ears.
A fucking idiot, that’s what I am for doing what I did at the diner the other night. I’m not sure what came over me, but I saw red when I spotted Logan and Kennedy in that booth. I wanted to drag her out of there, over my shoulder again. She is mine, even if we’ve been doing this dance around each other, circling closer and closer.
But I shouldn’t have kissed her like that. I wasted it, our first kiss, on an angry whim. I was so numb, so reactive, that I spoiled the one thing I’d been promising her for years. The kiss wasn’t even particularly good, though that hadn’t stopped the sparks crackling between us. And the raw, primal feeling in my gut that it would be the kiss to end all kisses.
No, it should have been special. After I’d taken her on a date, or in a field of fucking fireflies or some shit. Instead, the scent of overdone hamburgers and Logan Myers’s sweaty football jersey tainted the whole thing. So yeah, I’m an idiot, and that moment is one we’ll never get back.
I’ve been running for probably an hour, not counting the miles or minutes, but my innate sense of time calculated to a science. It’s way past the time when anyone would be out here, maybe close to midnight, so when I get to Main Street, I know what I’m headed for before my feet even process where they’re taking me.
I come to a dead halt when I spot it, my own face taunting me from above the square that houses the most popular staple stores and restaurants in town. At my ankle, my knife calls to me, held in the strap that I haven’t been able to take off since I got home. If someone ever comes for me again, I’ll be ready.
The banner hangs above the town square, my face plastered on one side, the words Brentwick’s Real Life Hero, Welcome Home Corporal Everett Brock, next to it.
They’re lies, each and every word. I’m no hero, especially not for the people of this town. I never earned that corporal title, it was honorarily given to me because of my many months in captivity. And it was all fucking bullshit.
The reason I got captured, the real reason my unit was in the place we were in. If anyone in this town knew that, they’d call me a traitor and a murderer. Rage suffuses my blood, and I’m ready to rip out someone’s throat, but I’ll settle for the next best thing.
Luckily, my military muscles still work like they’re supposed to, and I shimmy up the light pole, until I reach where the banner is tied. Pulling my knife from its holster, I cut into the twine, releasing the lying banner from its prominence above the square. It flutters down, landing on the wet pavement still damp from this afternoon’s rain.
My sneakers hit the sidewalk, and I stomp to it, grabbing a fistful of banner and stabbing my knife through it. As I cut, my hand shaking as I pull jagged edge after jagged edge, the fury seeps from my bones into the knife. Slicing through every piece of my personality that people believe they know.
“What are you doing?”
Someone hisses behind me, and I stop, my knife paused in the banner as it divides my face down to the nose. I know the voice, because of course, she’s here to witness this. To see just one more of my failings as a man, as a rational human.
Turning slowly as I push the blade of my army knife back into its handle, Kennedy stands on the street. Her eyes are wide as her jaw hangs open. She’s in her EMT uniform, one I’ve never seen her wear since I wasn’t here when she got certified.
“Doing this town a favor. This banner is bullshit.” I point to it, as if the banner ruined my entire day.
Which, it kind of did.
“Everett, it’s not. This town is so proud of you.” Her eyes flicker, looking sideways, as if she can’t address me directly.
God, she’s such a good person. Even with what I did, with how mad she must be at me, she’s calling me a hero.
“Well, they shouldn’t be. I’m fucked up.” My voice raises a notch.
“You’ve been through something traumatic, but it doesn’t mean you have to be dramatic. You served your country. Your town wants to honor that.”
Did she just call me dramatic? Inside, my blood begins to boil. Because Kennedy, with her perfect fucking life, can’t understand just how tragic mine is.