From the very beginning, there was an unspoken understanding between us that no one could ever know about our . . . situation. Especially not Jamie. I knew that if he ever found out that I was flirting with his little sister, or worse, spending time with her as more than just a friend, I’d be a dead man walking. He’s always been overprotective of Evie, and I understand why. She’s . . . fragile.
But the secrecy of it all heightened the fun for me. I started to crave the games we would play in secret. But that’s all it was for me—fun and games.
Until it wasn’t.
It all blew up in my face eventually. That was a chance I was willing to take, though. I was accustomed to playing with fire and walking away unscathed. Taking chances. Playing games. Breaking hearts. It was all familiar to me.
Despite what Evie might think, Ineverintended to take things as far as I did. I’ve always loved her, always cared about her. I never meant to hurt her. She thinks I couldn’t care less about what happened between us, but nothing could be further from the truth.
It destroyed me.
It occurs to me I’ve been standing in her doorway for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Evie?”
No response.
I push the door open. I’m about to announce myself when I pause. She’s lying prone with her mouth hanging open and her cheek squished against the pillow, limbs flailing out around her as her pillow collects a string of drool. I can’t help but smile at the sight. She looks like a starfish stuck to the side of a tank.
My heart floods with sorrow while I watch her doze, looking uncharacteristically peaceful in her slumber. She’s squeezing Frederick the Bear beneath one arm, her fingers curled tightly around his heart-shaped paw.
My smile fades. She still sleeps with that wretched thing. Most of its fur has worn away, and it looks like it’s never actually been washed. Its beady little button eyes gaze up at me in quiet judgment, and I rough a hand over the stubble collecting on my jaw, sick to my stomach.
God, what have I done?
“Evie?” I clear my throat, but she still doesn’t stir. Stepping forward, I set the tub of ice cream on the edge of the bed. She has a sixth sense for the treat, so I’m hoping it’ll rouse her.
It doesn’t.
Then I rearrange a bottle of ibuprofen and a box of tissues on her nightstand to get her attention. That only seems to lull her into a deeper sleep.
Sighing, I end up standing there and just . . . gazing at her. She needs her rest, but I’m loath to leave just yet. I want to spoon feed her ice cream while she tells me she hates me between mouthfuls. I want her to boss me around, make me her caregiver for the week.
For once, I want her to be the one who is being cared for.
After another moment, I resign myself to the fact that she’s not going to wake up. My foot bumps something beneath the bed as I turn to leave. Bending over, I slide it across the floor and realize that it’s a notebook, splayed open and face down. Without thinking, I turn it right side up.
As I go to close it and set it on her nightstand, something catches my eye.
My name.
I bring it closer to get a better look, and sure enough, my name is there . . . in this notebook. Marking the page with my thumb, I flip the journal over and glance at the cover. It’s purple and covered in pink daisies, and it dawns on me that this isn’t your regular, run of the mill notebook. It’s a diary.
And judging by the giant, cursive E on the front, it’s her diary.
My name is in Evie’s diary.
I blink as if I’m clearing my vision of a floater. Sure enough, I saw correctly. That’s my name. My eyes tick to the beginning of the line like a typewriter carriage returning to its baseline.
Brandon was here this afternoon.
Heart pounding now, I note the date. This entry is from the nineteenth of June, 2022—the week before Teddy was born. Reluctantly, I scan a few lines, knowing what I’m doing is wrong. But it’s been so long since Evie has opened up to me . . .
I’m aware that my obsession with those collectible little stuffed animals is slightly neurotic.
Hyper aware of the fact that Evie might stir any moment, I struggle to digest the paragraph I’m skimming.
Mom always got me them for Christmas when I was kid . . . I’m sure I could ask Brandon what it means, seeing as he’s a shrink . . . One mention of my absent mother, and . . .
At the mention of her mom, the Holy Spirit convicts me for snooping. These are Evie’s private thoughts. No matter how tempted I am, I can’t read her journal. It would be an unforgivable invasion of privacy.
