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“I’m only kidding,” I say. “That would be an insanely silly thing to do. He’d freak out completely if he knew how long I’ve wanted him, how badly. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Now he’s staying here, and we’ll be good.”
“If you’re not good,” Kelly says, “make sure to give me all the details, okay?”
I laugh, then we say goodbye, and I end the call.
Thinking of the conversation, I pull out my notebooks and place them atop the mattress, four notebooks in total, each with lines of declarations, fantasies, and visions of the future. Flicking through, I read random lines.
I’m going to have lots and lots of babies with Brian.
Brian and I will be married forever when I’m all grown up.
I love Brian so much. He’s the only man I ever want.
I remember how full of innocent, childish hope I was when I wrote these sentences and drew the hearts around our names.
And now…
Bang. Something crashes outside.
Without thinking, I’m on my feet, imagining Brian lying on the ground with red spreading around him, the image so ugly I almost scream as I run to the front window and look at the street. I search for Keith or one of his men, but there’s only my neighbor, Camila, arms folded as she stands beside her car. The hood is open, and a mechanic leans in. Camila sees me looking and waves with the tool she’s holding.
“Sorry,” she calls over. “Car troubles.”
I return her wave, telling her it’s no problem. It’s not as if I’m going to explain that my thoughts went instantly to organized crime, to the prospect that we were under attack. She’d laugh, disbelieving. These sorts of concerns are so distant from the usual way this suburban street functions.
When I return to the bedroom, I realize my mistake. Brian stepped in front of me when Keith threw the brick and put himself directly in harm’s way as though nothing else mattered to him. I should’ve known he’d do the same here when he heard the car make a loud noise. He’d come and find me.
He’s standing beside my bed, staring at the open notebook. I don’t let him know I’m here right away, waiting as he picks up the book and opens it with trembling hands. As he flicks through it, his posture becomes rigid and tight as though with rage. Then he turns, and I see the pain in his eyes.
“What was the noise?” he growls.
“A c-car.”
“Good. So you’re safe?”
I nod, and he goes on, “Then you need to tell me what these are, Evie. I don’t understand. Some of this… It looks like you wrote it when you were a kid. These drawings, the little hearts…”
It’s not fair for me to be angry with him for wanting an explanation or being in my bedroom when he was here to ensure I was safe. It’s not fair to rush forward and wave my hand in his face, yelling at him to get out of here, yelling words I barely hear, but that’s what I’m doing.
“…no right to be in here. You can’t just storm in and—”
He wraps his arms around me, crushing me against him with his powerful grip. There’s no pain, but he holds me tightly enough that I know I’m not going anywhere, and neither is he. He leans down, looking me firmly in the eye.
“Explain,” he snarls.
I grab his chest and almost push away, but then I feel his heart beating through my palm, up my arm, and I realize this might be the last chance I ever get to hold him, to be this close to him, for his scent to wash around me. This might be the last chance we have to be together. I relax into his embrace, silently accepting my fate. Soon, he’ll tell me we’re done.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
He glides his hands down my body to my hips. There’s a sizzling deep within when he holds on, and I almost kiss him, which would be crazy since there are tears in my eyes and a hitch in my voice, and, anyway, we’re supposed to be behaving.
“Maybe it’s not obvious to me,” he says huskily.
“You know what you’ve just found. Don’t torture me by making me say it.”
“How about I explain, and then you tell me if I’m right?”
I lean back in his embrace, savoring the sensation of his hands resting against me supportively, holding me up for what might be the last time.
“It looks to me,” he says, “like I’ve just found a kid’s notebooks where she’s fantasizing about an adult man. It looks like you’ve had a crush on me for years, Evie, since you were maybe ten or eleven.”
His tone is low, his voice trembling slightly as if saying the words is enough to freak him out. He’s got the kind of darkness in his voice I imagine him using overseas, during his tours, when something terrible happened. That makes me think of him standing outside our house when I was little, in his Marine uniform, so proper, stylish, sharp, and capable. How could I ever stop myself from wanting him forever?
