“I seriously doubt that’s what happened, sweetie,” Harlow says as the elevator arrives on the first floor. When the doors part, she extends an arm to keep them open as I step through with Evie.
“What do you mean?” Evie asks.
“We’ll talk about it later, love,” Harlow says, casting me a hard look. “When we’re alone.”
I clear my throat. “I figured I’d come along in the cab, help you guys get her up to your place.”
Harlow waves a breezy hand as we step out onto the sidewalk where their friends, Cameron and Jess—both of whom I remember dimly from when they were all in middle school, hanging out at the ice rink on free skate afternoons—are waiting next to an SUV with an impatient-looking older man behind the wheel. “It’s fine. Cameron’s big and strong, right, Cameron? You can carry Evie up the stairs to the apartment.”
Cameron, who is now a couple inches taller than my six foot two, nods. “Totally. But thanks, man. I appreciate your help.”
“I don’t need to be carried,” Evie says as I set her down beside the car waiting at the curb. “Oh God, not again.” She bends over, dry heaving into the gutter.
“No way, not gonna happen,” the man behind the wheel says. “No pukers. I don’t get paid enough for that shit, and you young people never tip.”
“I tip all the time,” Harlow shoots back. “And she’s not going to be sick. See, she’s just…convulsing. Not actively—”
“I’ll get her home,” I assure them. “I’ll get her sobered up and—”
“Nope,” Harlow cuts in. “Not going to happen. We don’t leave fallen soldiers on the field of battle. Evie’s coming with us.”
“Not in my vehicle she isn’t,” the older man says, reaching for the gear shift on the wheel, clearly intending to bail.
“Five hundred bucks. Cash,” I say, reaching for my wallet in my back pocket as I help Cameron hold Evie upright with the other. “It’s yours to keep, no matter what happens on the ride. And we’ll do our best to keep her from being sick in the car. I’ll catch it in my hands or something if I have to.”
“See, Harlow, he isn’t Hitler,” Evie says. “He’s the nicest and the best.” Evie lifts bleary green eyes to mine. “I’m sorry I’m gross right now, Ian. Please don’t tell Derrick, okay? You know how he freaks out.”
Harlow huffs as she reaches past Evie, snatching the bills from my hand and passing them over to the driver. “Fine, you can come with us, but you have to leave as soon as we get Evie upstairs.”
“Okay, fine,” I say, but I have no intention of leaving until I know Evie’s okay and doesn’t need to be taken to the emergency room for alcohol poisoning.
Her friends may not believe in leaving “fallen soldiers” behind but I don’t believe in trusting the health and safety of my nearest and dearest to other people. Evie may have been out of my orbit for most of the past four years, but she’s back in it now, which means she’s back under my protection.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at a five-story walk-up in the West Village and I learn these lunatics live on the fifth floor. By the time Cameron and I drag a still groggy, but no longer gagging, Evie up the stairs between us, we’re both covered in sweat and smell like whatever repulsive meat-and-onion dish their downstairs neighbor is whipping up for supper.
“Okay, I’ll take it from here,” Harlow says, ushering Evie into the bathroom off the combination living room and kitchen. She casts me a pointed look. “Goodbye, Ian. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
She slams the bathroom door, leaving Cameron and I standing in the buzzing silence in the living room as Jess hurries into what I assume is Evie’s room to fetch her fresh clothes.
“I’m sorry,” Cameron says softly, dragging a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “I don’t know why she hates you. I know why she hates Derrick. Sort of. We all hate Derrick a little, except Evie, but you…I don’t get.”
“Really?” My forehead furrows. “Why? I mean, I know Derrick can be a little bossy sometimes, but he’s devoted to Evie. Always has been.”
Cameron’s brows shoot up his forehead. “Um, yeah…that’s one way of looking at it.”
“What’s the other way of looking at it?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“He’s a control freak,” Cameron says. “Who bosses Evie around like she’s still five years old. It’s disrespectful. She’s a grown woman with a good head on her shoulders.” He winces and lifts a hand in the air. “Usually. Tonight was just a bad night. Vince really did a number on her.”
“She was into him, huh?” I ask, vaguely disgusted by the thought. That guy was so cheesy. Evie deserves so much better than a douchebag with a cartoon beard.
“No, not really,” Cameron says, moving into the kitchen and opening one of the cabinets to fetch a glass. “I mean, yeah, she liked him, but they weren’t to the ‘I love you’ stage or anything. It’s more what he said to her on his way out the door, if you know what I mean. It fucked with her head.”
I’m about to ask what he said when Harlow calls from the bathroom, “Cam, where’s that water? Our drunk pumpkin is coming around in the cold shower and would like a drink, pretty please.”
“Just a second,” Cam calls out, filling the glass and moving around me to head toward the bathroom.
I’m left alone in their kitchen, staring at pictures of the four friends throughout the years stuck to the fridge with donut-shaped magnets, feeling like an interloper.
I should leave—the rest of them clearly have Evie well in hand—but for some reason I linger, studying each photo, marveling at how little Evie has changed since the shot of her and Harlow on the boardwalk when they were kids. She still has the same halo of blonde curls, the same bright, but slightly anxious light in her eyes, even the same paint-splattered overalls, though the ones in the photo are obviously a much smaller size.
I’ve always assumed that was just Evie being Evie—she found her signature style at a young age and stuck to it, nothing wrong with that. But what Cameron said, combined with Evie’s words at the beer garden, about having to choose between being a “good girl” or a “hot girl,” make me question that assumption.
Memories of Derrick giving Evie shit for wearing lip gloss in seventh grade and telling her to go change when she tried to get into the car wearing a short skirt one morning not long after drift through my head, making my stomach tighten.
Maybe Derrick has been overstepping with Evie. And maybe that’s been happening for longer than I realized…
I reach for my cell to send Derrick a text asking if we can get together for a talk—I’ve found it’s better to confront problems with friends right away than to let them fester—but when I pull out my phone, I’m confronted with several missed texts from Whitney.
I can’t believe you’re leaving with a girl who just puked all over the place in public.
That’s it, Ian.
I can’t do this with you anymore.
If you decide you’re ready to grow up, let me know. Maybe I’ll still be single by then, but maybe I won’t. You aren’t the only one who can find someone else to go home with, but my new guy won’t be a kid who can’t handle his liquor.