I look up from poking at my french onion soup, Everett watching me over the rim of his wineglass. He’s taken off his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of his chair, and he has his sleeves rolled up his forearm. He looks lax, a little undone. Even the way he watches me, pensive and observant, looks like he’s just taking me in rather than watching me with intent. And I wonder if he too notices the changes in me that I notice in him. The few strands of gray hidden in the waves of my hair. The fine lines fanning out the corners of my eyes.
“Good,” I tell him. “Settling in at camp and all. She just told me Mina asked her to sing something at their wedding, so that’s pretty exciting.” I smile softly, remembering a time when Sadie’s determination to learn how to play guitar and piano left me and Leo walking around the house with foam plugs shoved into our ears and how now, her music is sometimes the only thing that brings me solace.
Everett smiles too. “She must be really talented. You know, to be performing in front of that many people.”
“She’s amazing. She has this showcase at camp, and I can’t wait to see what she’s come up with.”
“She writes her own songs?”
I nod. “She’s getting more comfortable with it, and it just sort of flows out of her. I honestly don’t know how she does it. Or where she even gets it from.”
“You’re an artist too, Teen.”
My lips twist to one side. “Yeah. I guess I was.”
“You don’t paint anymore?”
“I haven’t. Not for a long time. I don’t think since college.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I guess I’ve just been too busy. At first, at least. And then, I just didn’t see the point, so…”
“You should again.”
“For what?” I wave a hand in his direction and roll my eyes as if to brush off this need to do something that used to breathe life into me. Something that used to breathe life intous. Everett and I bonded over my art. His obsession with watching me paint and him unexpectedly becoming my muse. We thrived on it. On what it meant for us, how our love used to translate into my work. Through the brushstrokes and the little details of us I used to paint into my work. And those details were only for us.
We stay quiet, continuing our meal through the awkwardness that’s settled over us like a fog. A thick mist of the unknown that feels comforting for some reason. Until Everett speaks.
“You know, my therapist tells me it’s good to have a hobby. Something to keep your mind grounded and level.”
“You see a therapist?”
“Yeah,” he tells me, avoiding my eyes by fixating his gaze on the table. “I started seeing one in college. After I left, I had some friends who…they thought it would be good to see someone.”
“Why—I mean, what?—”
“I wasn’t…okay, I guess. And talking to someone helped. The meds helped even more.”
“You never told me this.”
“I couldn’t…”
My heart twists inside my chest imagining Everett all those years ago. All alone with the aftermath of us being so much more to take on, on top of the grief of losing what we had. He wasn’t okay, not by a mile. The realization cracks a chink in my chest.
“I wanted to, though, Teeny.”
“Wh—”
“I wanted to call you. I wanted to?—”
“Everett.” I say his name firmly. It’s an objection. And he roughly runs his fingers through his hair, his face hardening with restraint and frustration. “I just…It’s fine. You don’t need to say anything. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he says hoarsely.
We continue to eat, the need to say something tickling the inside of my mouth. I want to tell him that I think the pieces he chose in Roberta’s showroom are a few of my favorites and ones I always beg Roberta and Lisa to have on hand. I want to tell him that I’m craving dessert and would love to split a brownie sundae after this with him. I want to tell him that I have an unopened package of watercolors and a few blank canvases sitting in my closet and that I wish I could take it out without having to think of all the pain in my heart every time I pick up a paintbrush. I want to ask him what he would’ve said to me if he’d called. I want to talk to him about his therapy. I want to talk about all of these things, filling our time with the same pillow talk that would keep us pushing the boundaries of my curfew when I was sixteen, as if no time had passed. But that’s the thing. Time has passed. Time that I thought was the remedy to all the hurt he slashed into my heart. But time has done nothing but show me how much I missed him. How much I loved him.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
