“Laurel is your best friend,” Hank says, entirely unconcerned. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Sheismy best friend. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does, after years of more ebbs than flows. But the fact of Laurel being my best friend remains, peeking through all my doubts, my anger from last night.
She’s still my best friend, despite it all. In the way that makes you feel like you don’t need to worry.Does she like someone better than meoram I being replaced. None of that mattered, because it was us for each other, always. Even though a divide had spread between us, even if it spread again, I’d still been the person she called when she most needed someone. There was some small thing in me that matched some small thing in her, or maybe it was a big thing, a we-see-the-world-the-same thing, and whether we were talking every day or every six months, the dust was always easily brushed away. Because at the end of the day we were meant to experience this life with each other, to be drunkenly laughingon dorm room floors and holding each other through heartbreak and staring up at an incomprehensible universe on a sandy beach alongside our other most important people. We didn’t have girlhood together, but we had life.
“You need to go,” Hank says before I can, like he can hear the gears working in my head through the phone.
“Sorry,” I say, wincing. “I don’t mean to bring up the cookbook and bolt.”
“Bug, that’s what I’m here for,” he says. “And I brought up the cookbook. Let me know how things shake out.”
“I will,” I tell him, standing up from my chair. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” Hank says before hanging up, not even giving me the option of a longer goodbye. Sending me off to work this out on my own, with every lesson he’s ever taught me tucked into my back pocket.
thirty-four
This Summer
I march into the house determined to find Laurel, but I’m stopped by a familiar figure in the kitchen, hood pulled up over his sleep-messy hair, two mugs on the island in front of him. He looks up as I come racing in, footsteps louder than I intended.
“Hey,” Everett says. He starts to slide a mug toward me, but catches sight of the one in my hand, its ceramic now cold. “Thought I could beat you to it.”
“You did,” I say, walking behind him and dumping the contents of my mug in the sink. I turn and take the mug he’s now holding in midair, expression a little confused. “Thanks.”
He clears his throat, watches me as I take a sip. “Could we talk?” he asks.
I glance toward the stairs, like Laurel might appear there at that moment.
“Everyone else is still asleep,” Everett says. I look back at him, surprised at the worry that shades his eyes, undeniable. “They won’t hear us, if—”
“No, of course,” I say, nodding quickly as the reality that he’s nervous about the two of us being seen together sinks in. I don’t want him to feel that way, ever. Not anymore. Still, I think this is a conversation better had in private. “Your room?”
Everett follows me up the stairs, our steps quieter than my marching ones earlier. I glance at Laurel’s door as we pass, but it’s closed, as is Davi’s across from it. Mine is the only one open in the hall.
When we walk into Everett’s room I notice that the bed is made, our clothes from last night carefully folded and set near the door, ready to wash later, like he’s been up for a while. I glance up at him as he closes the door behind him, that same expression on his face.
“I was talking to Hank,” I tell him.
He nods, something like relief passing over his features, and I wonder for a split second if Everett thought I’d just left. That last night caused me to flee at dawn, leaving him and everyone else behind.
I set my coffee on one of the nightstands and settle on the edge of the bed as Everett sits in the armchair across from me, scooting it in closer.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Um,” Everett mumbles, raking a hand through his hair. “Like I know why I never drink that much. Like I’m never drinking again.”
“Fair,” I say, drawing a small laugh out of him. “If it’s any consolation, you’re handling it remarkably well.”
“Oh, I feel like I’m dying, for sure,” he says. “But I don’t want to delay this conversation any longer.”
I nod, and Everett plants his elbows on his knees, holding his mug between them. He considers it for a minute, glances at the nightstand where mine is, reaches over and sets it down. Runs a hand through his hair again. I watch him, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. My shoulders slump, head tilting as I start to protest, but he continues quickly. “I know yousaid no more apologies, but I need to tell you I’m sorry when I’m not half drunk and freezing. I was an asshole last night.”
“You were hurting last night,” I say.
“That doesn’t make how I acted okay. The things I said.”
