I see him hold his hand up in a wave as he walks down the hall, back toward the kitchen and the stairs down to his room.
That night, after everyone’s in bed, I sit there on the couch, my back against one of the arms, my eyes on the woods through the window, and I think back on the last day. All I can think about is Landon’s mouth on mine. When I remember, I feel…restless. I want to do something, but I don’t even know what. I’m not sure how much I like the feeling.
Landon
She doesn’t go to school the next two days, and I’m relieved. It means I don’t have to see her outside dinner, which I keep brief. After school the first day, I avoid the family room, so I don’t have to see her in her silky, blue pajamas, with her hair down and her pink and green girl pillows all around her. I bring her homework to her after school the second day, and Evie tries to ask about my day. I’m brief with her; evasive.
That night, I lie in my bed, not sleeping. I think about the night I told her all that shit. The night at the hospital. I wish I hadn’t talked about it. I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep at all, and had that fucking dream, which woke her up and clued her in. I wish I had been more discreet, and hadn’t talked about the dream or the newspaper ad once I got in bed with her. I should have known the bed thing was a bad idea. I should have known that if I talked about that shit, it wouldn’t go well. I should have known not to touch her, especially her face when she was crying. Her skin was so soft, and I could smell her shampoo. I should have known, when I reached the last car on the dumbass train and lost my shit, to get out of the bed before she started touching me.
But, despite my GPA, I’m not very smart.
Later that night, I prove this to myself by walking quietly upstairs, through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the darkened family room. I stop in the doorway, my gaze slowly swinging to the couch. Of course, I see her shadowed form. Her foot is propped up on a bunch of pillows, her body covered with a pink fleece blanket. The armchair is pulled up right beside the couch, with Evie’s crutches propped against it.
I move more quietly into the room, watching her for signs of wakefulness. Her breathing looks steady. I think she’s asleep.
I look at the armchair. It’s leather, its back draped with a white blanket. I wonder, if I sit there, if I could go to sleep. I tell myself, if I sit down, I’ll only stay for a few minutes. Even if I could sleep here, it’s not safe to, but I’m here, I reason, so I might as well sit down for just a second. Search for flaws.
I can’t believe I once thought Ev was plain. Now all I see, as I lower myself quietly into the chair, is her smooth skin, flawless and milky in the moonlight. I can see her long, thick lashes resting on her cheeks. Her soft lips. God, they’re soft. I can feel her slick, hot tongue—so tentative, and later, eager. The way her tears felt on my fingers. I can smell her hair: some sort of fruit. I can feel the weight of her against me when I had my arm around her.
I like how she drives, and how she walks, and how she talks (like she’s driving a race car, like she’s walking on stage at a concert, like she’s thought of every word before she says it).
I like how she tells me to shut up.
What I really like is how she opens her eyes. She blinks a little, and I know this is my cue to go.
But I’m so stupid.
I’m still there when her gaze shifts my way. Her blue eyes widen, and her lips form a little “o.”
“Hey.” She looks surprised, but gives me one of her sweet smiles. “You’re here.” She sits up a little bit, or tries to, as she peers around the room again, and then, again, at me. “What time is it?” Her voice is hoarse from sleep, making me want to kiss her.
“Nighttime.”
She grins. “Smartass.” Ev sits up more fully, then winces. I’m opening my mouth to ask if she needs something when she leans down to the floor, grabbing two cups I hadn’t even noticed: one with Advil in it, and another with water. I watch as she swallows the pills.
Then she stares straight through me for the longest, quietest moment. “I haven’t told, Landon. I’m not going to. So you can stop avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
She lifts her brows.
“Okay,” I mutter, looking down.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
“No.”
“Well, what are you?”
“Landon.” I can’t help the smile that takes over my mouth. Evie returns it.
“Why are you in here with me, Landon Who’s Not Nervous?”
I look at her, and she says, “Yeah. I kind of figured.”
What? I don’t think I said a word—but Evie’s eyes are knowing. That, and sympathetic. “You want to sit on the couch by me? I promise I’ll keep my lips far away.”
I shake my head and make myself stand up. “It’s cool. Sorry if I woke you up.”
“I miss you,” she says, as I near the doorway.
I guess that’s all I needed. Half an hour later, I’m asleep.
Nine
Evie
Silly Landon.
I guess he thinks I don’t notice his midnight drop-ins. He’ll come in sometime between midnight and two, stand in the doorway while I feel his eyes on me, and then, when he seems sure that I’m asleep, he’ll sink into the chair beside me.
Maybe it’s strange—the way he watches me, the way I let him—but if he knows I’m awake, he won’t come sit with me. He’ll toss in bed all night. I can’t stand to think about him tangled in his nightmares, in his lonely bed. I wish he’d talk to me again. I wish one night as he sits by the couch that he’d touch me.
But I can sense his reserve. Even when we ride to and from school together, he stays quiet and distant, flitting nearer to me only to do tiny things, like open a vent I hadn’t noticed had been pushed shut, or, one time, wipe some waffle syrup from my lip. Even that was quick and neat: utilitarian. When we arrive at school, he gets my crutches from the back of the car and brings them to my door. He holds his hands out, and I wrap mine around his, and he helps me out of my low-sitting Focus. Is it wrong that it’s the best part of my day, when Landon touches me?
He carries my bag to homeroom and pulls a spare chair up to my desk for me to prop my foot in. At lunch, he sits beside me, dealing with my crutches, which he props on the other side of him, and getting me napkins or condiments if I forget.
My good friends notice, and Makayla asks me twice about it, but I feign surprise both times.
“I think he’s just a really nice guy.”
Mak knows I’m full of shit.
I go to soccer practice, sitting on the bench, and later—after Dad gives me a boot for my ankle—doing stretches in the grass. I can’t keep my gaze away from Landon. The feeling I get when I watch him run, his strong body moving in a pack, when I hear a swatch of conversation with his low voice braided into the chorus, when I catch him glance over at me—it’s like a drug. I crave him.