I flinch and pull away, making her full lips turn down at the edges. “Sorry,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “Just a little jumpy.”
“A little distracted, too,” she says. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Sure,” I lie, scrambling to recall what we were talking about before I zoned out on Evie pounding whiskey. When I can’t, I decide it’s best to change the subject. “I’m just worried about Evie. I’m not sure she realizes an old-fashioned is pretty much all hard alcohol.”
Whitney sighs. “Yeah, well, she’ll figure it out. We’ve all had hangovers in our early twenties. We’re still alive.”
“Right.” I chew my bottom lip for a beat before I add, “But she probably only weighs like…a hundred pounds. And she’s not eating any of the flatbread they ordered.”
“Oh my God,” Whitney mutters. “Stalker much? What’s with you and that girl? It’s like you’re obsessed with her. Should I be worried?”
I rip my gaze from Evie, a frown clawing at my forehead. “What? Of course not. She’s my best friend’s little sister. I’ve known her since she was a tiny little kid. I just care about her, that’s all. I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“Must be nice.” Whitney crosses her arms and sits back in her chair, clearly winding up for a prolonged pout. “Seems like you’re just fine with the rest of us getting hurt.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
I’m so tired of having this same argument with her, over and over again. Honestly, I’m so tired of most of our relationship.
Things haven’t been good since last Christmas, when Whitney didn’t get the engagement ring she was apparently expecting she’d find under the tree. Ever since, she’s acted like there’s something wrong with me, with us, because we missed some benchmark I’m not sure I ever want to reach.
My parents have an incredible marriage, but they’re abnormally sweet, laid-back, optimistic people—which I assume is the only way they were able to stay sane while raising eight children—and they’re the exception when it comes to happily ever after, not the rule. Most of my friends’ parents are divorced and the ones who aren’t don’t seem very happy about being together.
As far as I can tell, the institution of marriage isn’t in a healthy place right now, and I’m already trapped in one unhealthy institution with a team that refuses to act like one, so I’m in no hurry to join another.
“I’m not fine with you getting hurt,” I say with as much patience as I can muster. “Of course, I’m not. I’m not trying to hurt you, Whitney. I’m just not ready to get married. It has nothing to do with you. It’s me. I just need time to decide if that’s something I want for my future.”
“And while you’re doing that, what am I supposed to do? Sit around with my fingers crossed hoping you’ll finally decide that I’m good enough for you?” Her lips pucker into a cat anus of irritation.
Whitney is a gorgeous woman, but that face is the worst.
But how to ask your significant other to stop making cat-ass shapes with their lips? That’s not something I know how to do any more than I know how to stop having this same fight every seven to ten days like clockwork.
“This has nothing to do with you being good enough for me,” I say for at least the dozenth time. “If anything, I…” I trail off as a sharp clatter and several sharp gasps sound from Evie’s corner of the beer garden.
I look over to see Evie on the ground with her wrought iron chair on top of her and mutter a curse beneath my breath.
“I’m fine, nothing to see here,” Evie calls out, flashing a thumbs-up as her friend Cameron lifts the chair. A beat later Jess and Harlow are on either side of her, helping her to her feet, but she winces in pain and quickly lifts her weight off her right foot.
She’s hurt.
That’s all I need to see to get me out of my chair.
“Where are you going?” Whitney demands sharply.
I tuck my chair under the table. “I’m going to check on her. I’ll be right back.”
“If you leave, then I’m leaving,” Whitney says, her hand balling into a fist on the table. “I’m serious, Ian. I won’t let you ditch me for another woman in the middle of a date.”
This time I can’t control my eye roll. “I’m not ditching you. I’m going to help a friend. And you know it. But do what you need to do, Whitney. I’ll catch up with you later. Or…not.”
I turn, leaving her making outraged huffing noises behind me as I cross the garden. A part of me is shouting that I can’t end a three-year relationship like this, that I have to go back and talk to Whitney, make her understand where I’m coming from and assure her that I’m taking her hopes for our future under serious consideration.
But I’m so tired of fighting and making up, so tired of reassuring her about things she shouldn’t need reassuring about.
Like this insanity with Evie. Yes, I love Evie, but not in that way. My chest gets warm and tight when I’m with her because she’s my first and most loyal fan, the little girl who stole my heart the day I met her.
I’d swung by her house to pick up Derrick for practice our sophomore year to find Evie curled up in a ball on the sagging couch on their front porch with tears streaking her cheeks. I’d asked her what was wrong, she’d told me her dad had taken her crayons away because she forgot to clean her room, and I’d pulled out a pack of colored pencils I’d bought for art class and handed them over.
I’ll never forget the way her face lit up or the reverence in her voice as she said, “Oh thank you so much. I’ll be so careful with them, I promise.”
“You don’t have to be careful with them,” I’d assured her. “Just enjoy them. Have fun.”
She’d nodded seriously, her green eyes wide and her mouth trembling as it pressed into a tight line. “Okay. I’ll try.”
By that point I had six little brothers and sisters and another on the way. I had loads of experience with little kids, and I’d never heard one say he or she would “try” to have fun.
Having fun, as far as I knew, was something kids did naturally.
Looking back from an adult’s perspective, it’s obvious that Derrick and Evie’s dad was a neglectful, and occasionally mean-spirited, jerk. But at sixteen I didn’t know much about their family or how to tell if an adult was truly bad news or just doing the usual, fun-killing things adults do in the name of keeping their kids safe. I did know, however, that Evie’s sad, serious, and oh-so-determined face touched something inside of me that hadn’t been touched before.
From that moment on, she was under my protection. If anyone wanted to hurt that little girl, including Derrick when he complained about letting her tag along to all our games, they had to come through me, first.
And that’s still true. I hope she knows that, even though we’ve grown apart since she went to undergrad in Virginia.
I arrive at their table just as Harlow is looping Evie’s arm over her shoulder and hissing, “It’s fine, just keep your head high and don’t cry.”