“Thank you. For walking me back.” My back is to my door, and I peer up at Everett. Without the added advantage of my heels, he’s even more overpowering. His broad shoulders cage me backward like a scared animal, and his eyes look at me in an almost predatory way, flitting up and down my dress with a shadow of darkness and hunger. He hovers over me, inching closer and closer, and he finally stops when he has his hand resting on the door above my head.
His eyes dart to my lips and back to my eyes. “You’re welcome.”
My chest rises and falls, pushing against the tight pressure of my top. I feel my heart racing, and I don’t know what to do. I know I should say good night. I should turn around and swipe my key card against the reader and close the door firmly behind me, but my feet feel like they’ve been set in cement.
Everett doesn’t move away either, and I feel like the space around me is getting smaller and smaller by the second. I press a hand against his stomach, trying to create some distance between us, but it causes him to lean into my touch.
“Ev—” My words are cut off when Everett’s lips crash into mine. My hands immediately grip his waist, tugging him closer to me until our hips are aligned with each other. His hands move over me just as urgently. They start at my back, pushing me against him, and thread up my neck and into my hair. A loud, helpless whimper sounds from the base of my throat, and I feel my back slam into the hard door.
I didn’t know time machines could be real. I thought they were something that only existed in science fiction movies. Usually starring Christopher Lloyd riding through time in a DeLorean or Mr. Peabody giving Sherman history lessons in the WABAC. But right here, kissing Everett, I know I’ve stepped into the most undeniably real time machine to ever exist.
His lips move like they know me. Like they’ve only known me. And his hands roam over parts of me that only he knows exists. Like the curve of my hip or small hollow between my shoulder blades. He lets out a near vulgar grunt that sounds more like a low growl, and I feel him stoop down to my level, deepening our kiss. I respond with a tilt of my head and a swipe of my tongue against his lips. He takes it as an invitation, reading into the moment exactly how I wanted him to, and he tangles his own tongue alongside mine.
My room key is still in my hand, grasped against my palm, and I clumsily tap it against the reader. When the telltale chime of the door unlocking sounds, Everett hoists me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist.
He finds the bed quickly, his footing catching on the carpeted floor, before we both land on the soft comforter with a light thud. We don’t stop kissing, and a part of me feels like if we did, it would be over. We’d hop off the time machine after a whirlwind trip back to our past, no matter how badly we’d want to stay inside this imaginary capsule.
My fingers start to move frantically down his shirt, undoing each button with shaky hands. He follows my lead, removing it over his head before I’m done with the last few. He presses his forehead against mine, and just like I predicted, this pause gives room for a realization. An interruption we can’t ignore.
“Sorry,” he says through heavy gulps of air. “I’m sorry, Teeny. I couldn’t help it. I—I had to kiss you. I couldn’t hold back anymore.”
My fingers trace over his chin, his mouth, his cheek. And he watches me, taking in the way I let my hands relearn the terrain of his face. It’s all muscle memory. Like knowing where the dip is that connects his ear to his jaw. Or the tiny freckle that’s at the corner of his left nostril.
I don’t know what to say, so I decide to stick with the truth. “I missed you too.”
He doesn’t kiss me again like I expect him to. Instead, he smooths my hair away from my face and cradles my head, cupping his palm to my crown like I’m made of glass. Like he’s been handed this fragile delicate thing, and he’d risk everything to keep it in one piece.
He moves so he’s lying at my side, and I turn to face him, leaning on his bicep with his free hand still roaming over me. Over my hair, along the column of my neck, down my arm. I start tracing along the lines of his tattoo, following the patterns and colors.
“Is this okay?” he whispers into my hair.
I nod. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Everett
THEN
It’scrowded and stuffy inside the large mansion sitting atop a hillside, overlooking glinting lights and distant fireworks popping off at random. People wearing pressed suits and sparkly dresses standing around a room cased in marble flooring and a chandelier that probably costs more than my car reminds me that I’m far from the place I now call home. The dress shirt my parents forced me into, along with the tie strangling my neck, is causing the night to become weary and tiresome.
The occasional smile from those passing by, an acknowledging tilt of their head or a “How are you, Everett?” is adding to the lingering fatigue. As are the sporadic formal introductions letting me know who they are and their connection to my dad. I’ve been at it for almost two hours, and I feel stiflingly overwhelmed. Like I’m suffocating. And the only person I want to spend tonight with is five hundred miles away.
“Everett!” I hear my name just as I reach the main foyer. I turn to see my dad calling for my attention with a proud and determined smile, a man in a lopsided plastic party hat and a grin matching my dad’s at his side. “Meet Francis. He heads the facilities department over at ARCO.”
I politely nod and shake Francis’s hand. “I hear you’ll be at UC Davis next year,” he says, giving my shoulder a stern pat. “Your dad is really proud of you.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer. “Got my admission letter last week. I’m very excited.” It feels rehearsed, almost monotone and fake, yet I’ve said it enough times tonight that I’m not sure how much of it’s true, even as it’s spoken from my own mouth.
“Good. You should come by the arena next week. Hang out for a game. We can get you some courtside seats.”
“Everett is actually heading home in a few days with Alice, but he’ll be back next month. We got a tour scheduled at UC Davis, and he promised he’ll catch a game while he’s here.”
I glimpse at the large clock displayed over the mantle and see it’s almost midnight. New Year’s. We’re interrupted just then when a wait staff walks by with a tray full of champagne flutes filled with gold bubbly.
“I guess we’re gathering in the main room?” Francis states, grabbing a glass.
My dad reaches for two and hands me one. “Since it’s a special occasion.”
