He’s justgone.
When I open the door, I switch on the lights and Evan follows behind me. I know this is the last thing he wants to do right now. I’ve shown too much to him recently. I’ve basically laid my soul bare in front of this man more than once. But he never makes me feel like I shouldn’t. He just lets me feel things.
I tell him I’m going to take a shower and he nods. I leave him in the kitchen, needing a minute. I’ve had hours to get my shit together. I’ve had too long to stop acting like my life has ended. It hasn’t. I know it hasn’t. But for some reason my whole body feels like it’s being weighed down, like somebody is standing on my chest, telling me not to get up. But I need to. I need to push that demon off me and get my act together.
I take a long shower, needing the space and the time. I end up staring at the white tiles of the bathroom for half an hour, naked, the hot water pummelling on my back that I don’t even end up using any soap until almost an hour goes by. I always take hot showers, but right now, I need it to scold me. I need it to make me feel more than this heavy, numb feeling that I can’t escape.
I hate feeling like this. It’s not that I’m sad. I mean, that’s what I’m supposed to feel, right? Pure and utter sadness? So, I probably am deep down. But on the surface, I can’t even put it into words how it feels. It’s like trying to remember the last time you saw someone who you don’t talk to anymore. Where you try so hard it just hurts at the thought of it.
There’s just nothing other than a dark nothingness that rests on my chest. I can’t even conjure in my head most of what happened on that street.
I try my best to feel as normal as I can when I get ready, so I can go into my room and wait until my body decides to fall asleep. I shove on a pair of pyjama shorts and a tank top, throwing a sweater on top. When I wander back into the kitchen, Evan is still here.
I think it’s the first time I’ve really looked at him since we got into the ambulance. He had to change his clothes into a pair of scrubs, the same as I did and he’s still wearing them. His hair is a lot messier than usual, and his face just looks worn out. It’s way into the morning now, probably around two or three. I haven’t checked my phone, but Evan must have if he’s sorting out takeout food onto a plate.
I inch further into the kitchen and his head shoots up, his eyes softening on me. I still don’t know what’s going on with us. Part of me wants to see what happens, let it spiral out of control, but the other part of me needs to know what’s going to happen. Now is not the time for that. All I know as of right now is that I want to be close to him and I don’t want to be alone for once.
“You should have gone home. It’s late,” I whisper, making my way to the kitchen counter.
“I didn’t want to,” he explains, closing the lids to the plastic containers. “You need to eat.”
I’m not hungry, but I don't tell him that. I take the plate of Chinese takeout and make my way over into the living room, settling between the soft plush blankets we often leave lying around. Evan follows me, sitting beside me with a sigh, manspreading like always. The TV is in front of us but neither of us make a move to turn it on.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask once I’ve eaten a forkful of noodles. The food makes me feel sick, but it was a nice gesture, so I force myself to eat some of it. I push the plate aside, pulling my knees up to my chest as I lean my head on them.
“Because I want to,” he says quietly. I don’t look at him. I don’t know if I want to. I just keep my head buried in my knees.
“Why?” I ask quietly.
“Scar,” he murmurs. I feel the soft brush of his fingers on my shoulder, and I flinch. “Scarlett, sweetheart, look at me, please.”
I slowly move my head, turning towards him, still resting on my knees. He looks so tired and sad. I feel terrible that he’s had to lose out on sleep because of me. I don’t know how bad Gio looked before I saw him in Evan’s lap but I’m sure it scarred him. His eyes usually have this ocean-like glow in them, but now, they just seem dim - almost like the deep nothingness that lurks at the bottom of the ocean. Completely empty.
“We’re not doing that, okay? I know things are hard right now, but I’m going to be nice to you and you’re going to let me. Deal?”
I nod. He keeps his hand on my shoulder, gently rubbing it. I don’t tell him to stop. I don’t think I want him to. “Are you not going to eat?”
“I already did when you were in the shower,” he says. I nod again. He sighs as if he’s been holding his breath and I think at that moment, we both realise the severity of today. He watched somebody die. My uncle died. In my arms. He’s gone forever. I feel the dryness at the back of my throat, and I start blinking rapidly.
Evan doesn’t say anything other than, “Come here.”
I don’t climb into his lap, so much as he pulls me into him. I allow myself to release all the resentment I held towards him, and I let myself wrap my arms around his neck as he snakes his hands around my shoulders, holding me tightly just the way I need. I’m hugging him and I’m letting him anchor me because I need it. And I think he needs it too. I don’t care about that one thing he said to me years ago. I don’t care about the stupid games we’ve been playing since then.
I just want him to hold me, and he does.
“You know that I’ve got you, Scar, don’t you?” he asks thickly. I nod into his neck, inhaling him. “I’d never let anything happen to you. Ever.”
“I know,” I choke out. He’s not a monster. He’s not evil. He’s just Evan Branson whocaresabout me. He cares about me enough to sit with me in silence when I can’t find the words. He cares about me enough to buy me food and make sure I eat it. He cares about me enough to sit with me in front of a blank TV and hold me when he knows I need it. When he tells me he’s got me, I believe him.
Even when I slip out of his lap, settling beside him, he keeps his arm around me as I rest my head on his shoulder. I pull my knees up and he grabs one of the blankets, laying it over our legs. After he’s smoothed it out, he slips his hand under the covers and his hand finds mine. And I hold it.
Evan
She’s doing it again. Well, I think she is. She’s doing that thing where she does something without realising that she’s doing them. She's stroking her thumb against my hand, and I want to crawl up into her lap even though she’s the one that’s hurting.
I wish she could be like this all the time. As much as I love her screaming at me, I like the quiet moments too. The moments where we share a blanket in her living room, not talking and staring at the blank TV. We don’t say anything to each other, but we don’t need to because each stroke of her thumb against my hand is telling me enough.
I’m glad you’re here.
