“Star WarsorA Space Odyssey?” I ask.
Everett thinks for a second. “Arrival,” he says. “Interstellar,maybe.”
I nod. There’s a lot I could say, but being a little more maturedoesn’t necessarily mean going back to who we were before. To me, it just means not arguing in front of everyone else.
Everett, however, picks up the thread. “Was that Hank?” he asks, tilting his head toward where I’d been sitting in the living room.
I push my hair behind my ear and sigh, settling my forearms on the countertop. “Yep.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s great,” I say. “Hank is always great.” He is, and the steadiest force in my life. It had bothered me when I’d first moved in with him. I thought his perpetually sunny attitude was the result of having a preteen thrust upon him, that he felt like he always had to make everything great for me to compensate for what my parents did. But I’d quickly learned it was just how Hank operated. He is an eternal optimist. It makes lying to him now all the worse.
“He must be excited about the cookbook,” Everett says.
I tense as he slides one of the mugs toward me. There’s no way Everett could know exactly which nerve to hit, but it’slike he’s found it, raw and exposed, and pressed a finger to it. I wrap my fingers around the mug and grip it tight.
“He doesn’t know,” I say, voice low.
Everett pauses with his mug halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “How could I not tell Hank.”
The corners of Everett’s eyes soften at the same time his mouth tightens, openness and tension braided together.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” he says quietly, and takes a drink of his tea.
I wait, silent, to see if he’s going to offer up what he actuallywasgoing to say. When he doesn’t, I shift forward, drum my fingers against the sides of the mug. “He will be excited, you’re right,” I say.
Everett glances up from under his brow. “When you do tell him,” he says.
“Of course.”
We stare at each other, the silence stretching taut. I’m wondering why I came over here at all, when I know nothing good lies on the other side of this. The us of the past is a ghost I have no interest in getting to know again. Letting Everett make me tea and asking him questions about his book and trying to explain the Hank of it all are best left to the girl I used to be.
“Look,” Everett says on a sigh, rubbing a palm over his collarbone. My gaze settles on the movement for all of a half second before it shoots back up to him. His eyes are cool, but there’s something behind them that’s familiar, some look I used to see when it was just the two of us. Something almost hopeful. “Can we—”
Footsteps sound from the direction of Gabe’s room, his door creaking open. Everett straightens, eyes darting that direction, but it takes me a second to mirror him. I’m stuck on whateverit was in the way he looked at me that had me falling back into some memory of him. If it was even real at all.
“Well, look who’s talking,” Gabe says as he moseys into the kitchen, rubbing one eye with the back of his fist. He glances between us when we don’t say anything. I offer him a grim smile.
“Tea?” Everett says, nodding toward the kettle. “Water’s hot.”
Gabe glances at the clock on the microwave, considering. “Think I’ll grab a beer and head down to the beach,” he says, opening the fridge. He fishes a beer out, finds a bar key in a drawer, flips it open before turning back to us. His eyes flick between us again as we watch him, silent. He tries for a grin and raises the bottle. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
Everett beats me to an answer, and I add it to the mental tally I have of who’s winning favor more easily. Of course it would always be Everett, no matter how much history I have with everyone in the house. He’s always been that way, had an air of ease around him that draws people in, makes them want to be his friend.
Everett holds up his mug. “Cheers to that,” he says as he follows Gabe to the back door. He doesn’t look back at me as he goes.
twelve
Second Summer
Ralph wasn’t any happier to see us that second summer than he was the first, but Laurel and I happily collected our keys from him anyway. She blew a kiss over her shoulder as we walked out of the lobby to our waiting rental car.
“I’m so happy we’re together!” Laurel crowed out the window as we wound our way down to the cottages, her hair streaming out the window. After her year in Seoul, the heavily documented exploits of which had gained her a hefty social media following, she’d decided to move back to California. Her arrival had coincided with the trip, so after my flight from San Francisco yesterday, we’d spent the night at her new, empty apartment in Silver Lake before we wound our way to the coast.
Davi was already there when we lugged our things inside. He remained lounging on the back deck in swim trunks and sunglasses, beer in hand, until it was clear he wouldn’t have to help unpack.
