Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

We stop at the back of the pie line, and Ever speaks in a low voice. “Your father doesn’t know?”

“She asked him not to look.” I don’t know why I’m having such a hard time explaining the damn situation. It’s not like I haven’t had almost two decades to acclimate to having no mother around. There isn’t some big drama surrounding what happened. People grow up in single-family homes all the time, right? “Look, she didn’t have anything to stick around for. If you want the truth, we were awful to her. She cooked and cleaned and took my brother and me everywhere . . . and we just made more messes and fought all the time.”

Ever’s forehead creases. “Of course you did, Charlie. You were six.”

“Yeah, well, I still knew better.” The sun seems hotter and more intense than it had when we arrived. “My father told me that . . . I should have known better.”

The tote bag drops off Ever’s shoulder, but she just leaves it dangling near her ankle. “Hold up.” She chews her bottom lip and studies me. “Was he implying that if you’d acted better, your mother wouldn’t have left?”

“Yes.” Why is she acting as though this is some huge revelation? I can remember my mother slamming cabinets and weeping over the sink while Greer and I acted like dickheads. I remember giving her some shoddy Mother’s Day card I’d made in school and nothing else, even after everything she did for me. Of course she’d blown the Burns Popsicle Stand as quickly as humanly possible. Why wouldn’t she? But the way Ever is staring at me, as though she’s holding her breath? It is one of those moments where you realize you’ve been pronouncing a word wrong your entire life, except this is trying to hit me much harder. “She had to get away from me, from us, she said. I heard her talking to my father . . . and he let her go. He understood.”

“No. Oh no, Charlie.” Ever pulls me out of line, leading me to a pathway beneath a fall of trees. I can’t account for the numbness as she wraps her arms around me, but her fingers messing with the ends of my hair makes me feel better. Makes me feel anchored in the present again. She presses her ear to my chest for a while, before glancing up at me. “I have no experience with kids, but I know from the Internet that parenting is hard. For everyone. And you don’t just get to walk out and never look back. You wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t, either. That was wrong of her, Charlie. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And nothing about it was your fault.” Her breath expels in a rush. “I’d like to smash something so hard right now.”

Is she right? She seems so sure. My heartbeat sounds like it’s being amplified through a loud speaker. I need something to drown it out. The way Ever makes me feel is the only thing that can do that. “Will you kiss me instead of smashing something?”

Ever doesn’t just kiss me . . . she cares for me. I stand up the entire time it happens, but mentally I watch it happen from flat on my ass. Her lips tug on my bottom one as she makes a sad noise. Maybe it’s crazy, but that little noise of hers kicks something free inside of me and then, I’m sad, too. I can’t remember being sad before. Not like this. I can’t control it and don’t know the source. It drags me down and stabs me between the shoulder blades, but Ever doesn’t leave me there to flounder. She props me up, stroking my face and kissing me. Right there in the park, the way couples do.

“Not your fault,” she murmurs against my mouth. “Not one bit.”

Here’s the problem, though. I don’t know if I believe her. As bad as I want to swim into the cool lake of comfort Ever is beginning to represent, I’ve lived with this certainty too long that I wasn’t enough. Or worse, I was too much. For so long, these memories of loss and guilt and shame were suppressed. Now they’re riding in with guns blazing and I’m totally unarmed. My father was there when it all went down. Ever wasn’t. She can’t know it wasn’t my fault. Not when I remember so differently.

Oh God, I will avoid having something and losing it—again—at all costs. So why am I clinging to Ever like a drunk with his last forty-ounce? She’d been the initiator, but the engine of desperation inside me is in overdrive, and I’m practically mauling her mouth in public, yanking her onto tiptoes so I can get her from every angle, even underneath.

“Charlie.” Her whisper is shaky and I want to feel that tremor, so I kiss her with suction, dragging, dragging, her into my lungs, until she twists free. “Charlie.”

Breathe. Breathe. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for. Or to whom. I’m caught up in a confusing slide show of past and present, and Ever’s eyes are the only concrete things I can grasp. I woke up this morning with renewed determination to get Ever back the way I had her before. The world made sense. Now I’m veering into a place I don’t recognize.

My goal was to be Ever’s friend with benefits. To lure her back to the perfection we had together, while allowing myself to get safely closer to her. To understand her better. Am I fooling myself into thinking that’s realistic? I’m pretty sure friends aren’t supposed to make you feel as though you’re drowning without them around. What happens if we get even closer, then she cuts me off? The burn of being cut off from someone I loved is so unnaturally fresh right now, and it hasn’t been in so long. I should walk away now. Leave Ever to find someone who doesn’t resent her for having the ability to leave.

I resent her for having the ability to leave?

Has that insecurity been shoved down so deep, I couldn’t even see it?

I feel unclean, just knowing it exists. That someone could hold anything against this amazing, optimistic girl. Especially something out of her power. I should go. I shouldn’t play any more games with her. But when she holds out her hand and says, “Come on. We’ll buy a pie and go home. I have some vanilla ice cream in the fridge.” I thread our fingers together and promise myself a little more time.





Chapter 15





Ever


Charlie looks as if he’s just disembarked that creepy ride at Willy Wonka’s factory. His eyes are glazed as we walk into my apartment, his step lacking its usual confidence. God knows I’m the furthest thing from maternal, but I have this impulse to bundle him into bed, wrap him in my comforter and guard him from the world with a metal bat. I do none of those things, though, because I’m not sure what he’s thinking. I’m not even sure he wants to be here.