Everly After (18 page)

“Tom will probably request they stick me in some shitty bureau in the country.” I can think of a million other ways to spend my time besides sitting in some office, fielding calls about loose sheep in North Cumberland.

“I think he’s concerned. You know what happened—”

“I remember exactly what happened, Hugh. Thanks, though, for the lovely reminder.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

I take a long, draining sip of my pint and wait him out.

“A lot happened to you in a short amount of time, and they’re worried—”

“—that I’m a fuckup now because of some shitty stuff.”

Shitty
really doesn’t begin to describe what happened in Afghanistan, but I don’t expect someone covering the European banks to understand. Hugh Koenig deals with stock markets all day. I deal with the military and terrorist threats. I’ve had guns pressed to my head. I’ve been kidnapped and tortured, even though I’m a journalist. It doesn’t matter over there. I’m another target, another Western spy in their view.

“No one thinks you’re a fuckup. You’re a brilliant reporter. Always have been.”

Hugh’s another schoolmate of mine, but unlike Ollie, he doesn’t act like he’s twenty-six. He acts like he’s forty-five, with a posh townhouse, a new Jaguar, and a trophy wife with a pair of overpriced tits.

I realize my nerves are getting the better of me. I fight back the urge to swipe that condescending look off his face.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit in my time. That bloody mess is no different. I’m fine, Koenig.”

He only started his beat last year, after three years slogging coffee orders and answering phones. I’ve been at this game much longer. It helps that I was willing to go wherever. Helps that I’m fluent in Arabic and knew the right people, too.

“I heard about your aunt. I’m sorry.”

I swear mortar shells start raining from the sky. I grip the table, waiting for an IED to erupt and blow up the small café in Chelsea. I must scare Hugh because he looks around, studies me, then flags down the waitress for the check.

One breath at a time, right? That’s what I tell Everly. It works for her—maybe it can work for me, too. I grip my glass and chug down a few gulps of beer, but it’s hard swallowing past the lump in my throat.

The world begins to fade in around me—first, the soft sounds like Hugh’s fingers tapping the tabletop, and then the louder ones, like the car whizzing past blaring Tinie Tempah.

I slowly uncurl my hands from the pint and settle them on the table, forcing myself to look at Hugh. I don’t want to pretend like I’m fine. I want to
be
fine. And I have been. More so lately. I think.

It’s time and all that. Time is all I need to get myself sorted. I’m not willing to give up my job because my mind is in another place than my heart.

“I know you were close to her.”

Hugh’s voice is coaxing. I hate when people talk to me like this. It’s happened all my life. I’m the boy with the sad past. The boy whose father tossed him around and murdered his mother. How sad. Even after the story faded from the news, people still hedged around me like I’m some orphaned freak with two heads. The teasing at school was insufferable. My foster homes were shit. So, sure, I was close to my aunt. She was the last bit of family I had and the only reason I know what it’s like to be part of a loving home. She gave up Paris for me. She worked hard at the bed and breakfast so I could go to a good boarding school and have a chance at a future. Without that, I wouldn’t have the job I have now. Or had. Or whatever.

“Yeah.” I stare into my empty glass and then at my full plate of food. I don’t feel much like eating now. “It happened fast, you know?”

Hugh nods, and things grow too awkward. I hate talking about death. It’s such a big part of my life, what’s shaped me for better or worse, but it’s best reserved for nights when I have to sit down at my keyboard and write. And write. Until it all pours out of me into a shitty draft that’ll take years to untangle. Line by line. Word by word.

I think it’ll be the same with me, too. Years to untangle the mess inside me.

“Listen, I know you’re busy and I know there’s a reason why you called, so let’s skip to that bit.” I’m being an asshole again.

Hugh shifts in his seat looking uncomfortable with my frankness. “Hell, you don’t waste time. I thought we could catch up. Have a pint or two.”

I nod again, looking off at the row of buildings behind his head. I wonder what Everly is up to now, where she decided to go. She never talks to me like Hugh and the others. She never makes half-assed apologies for what’s happened to me because it’s considered polite. It’s another thing we both understand about one another. Those are empty words to us.

I take out my phone, ignoring Hugh as he attempts small talk, and text,
Miss me yet?

I wait for her response, but when it doesn’t come right away and Hugh repeats my name, I look up. “Yeah?”

“I was asking if Ollie is back in town.”

“Mmhmm.” I glance at my phone, hating the way it’s silent. Maybe I’m pushing Everly too fast. I’m new at this whole flirting thing. If that’s what we’re doing. I’ve never really had to work for a girl before.

Flirting? I think we’re past that, but I’m not good at defining what we’re doing, either. It’s a little more than a hookup. It’s complicated as fuck because I’m falling for her arse over elbow.

“How is he?”

I toss my phone onto the table, scowling. I should go for a run when I get back to the hostel. It might clear my head.

“He hasn’t called you?” I ask.

“He hasn’t called anyone, Reid. What has he been doing in Paris with you?”

He says the last bit as if I’m the last person in the world someone would want to spend time with. Maybe I am, but Ollie’s a good mate. He could have spent his leave anywhere instead of with me in Paris, but… Well, I think he was trying to help me. We never really did the whole heart-to-heart thing. He crashed at a cheap rental and we hung out, but it wasn’t as if he was babysitting me.

A pigeon coos around my foot, its head bobbing for food. I toss a few chips off my plate so it’ll leave me alone.

“He’s fucking Ollie, Hugh. Nothing he does makes sense.” My leg bounces away the seconds as I stare my phone down, ignoring everything else. “He’s still a cock-up.”

Hugh barks out a dry laugh. “Remember that time the two of you stole the headmaster’s Aston Martin and painted it pink?”

I wasn’t likely to forget, but that feels like ages ago. I can’t say the world is easier now—it’s never been easy for me—but at least then I wasn’t on the wrong side of a nervous breakdown or PTSD or whatever the expensive French shrink has been treating me for.

“You have a meeting with Tom tomorrow,” Hugh cuts in, drawing me back to the conversation at hand. “I told him you were doing well. That we’ve kept in touch since you’ve been in Paris.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” I clear my throat, trying to knock away the angry tone my words take on. “You don’t need to lie for me. I’m fine. I can do my job. I can write.”

I reach for the bill when the waitress comes to the table, but Hugh shakes his head. “Company’s paying for it. Consider it a business lunch.”

I slouch back in my chair and cross my arms. Everything about this meeting is off, and I’m starting to wonder if Hugh is no better than the rest, waiting for the inevitable. But I’m not going to break. I’m not going to be reduced to some crying pussy who can’t handle himself. I’m going to prove them all wrong.

The fact that Everly hasn’t gotten back to me is making me nervous. It shouldn’t, but it does. That only bothers me more.

“I have to go, Hugh. Thanks for the lunch.” I stand and take a few steps away before spinning around. I shove my hands into my pockets. “And for the rest as well.”

Everly

Paris is a lingering hangover. You can never fully shake it off, either. At least, I can’t now that I’ve seen Paris with Beckett. I’m still making up my mind about London.

I strolled through Hyde Park for a bit, watching the rowboats lazily drift across the Serpentine, before deciding to navigate my way to Harrods.

I sort of lied when I told Beckett I didn’t believe in magic. I guess I don’t believe in the conventional kind. I believe in the magic of similarities, where humans are creatures of habit who fundamentally create more of the same.

And I can’t deny the magic in traveling. No matter which city you visit, they’re all similar.

I guess that’s why I don’t miss Manhattan much. I was never one of those New Yorkers who believe there isn’t a world outside of their precious island. The city is great. I like it just fine. But I like Paris, too. And so far, Beckett is giving me plenty reason to love London.

That’s why I fell in love with the idea of traveling. It wasn’t like I was on some self-discovering pilgrimage à la
Eat, Pray, Love
. I wanted to leave my mistakes behind, but I wasn’t searching for the existential meaning of life. I don’t care.

What I care about is that the world is a big enough place that if I keep going, beyond Paris, I can lose myself to exploring. It’s scary enough to walk out the door; it’s harder to take your passport and book a plane ticket without knowing what’s next. Harder when you’re flat broke. I only have so much to pawn before I have to cave and crawl back to my trust fund.

I’ve never been good at planning, so why bother? When I get back from London, I’ll close my eyes and blindly pick a spot on a map and go where my finger lands. No excuses.

I take my time as others rush by me on the sidewalk. I swallow, tugging on my bag’s strap as I fall a bit in love with the window displays. There’s money to think of now that I’ve lost my job. I could call my parents and try to smooth that disaster out, but I’d rather not. I know I can do this on my own. Maybe I won’t go too far to start. Maybe Berlin or Florence. I do love Italian men.

A canary yellow dress in the window catches my eye, and I’m struck with serious dress envy. A sheer floral overlay, a full skirt. What would Beckett think of me in this gorgeous dress? Where would we go? I hear his whispered endearments, feel the warm ghosts of his hands on my body from earlier.

I sigh. I
did
love Italian men.

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit before, but I can’t believe what I’m doing here in London with Beckett is a mistake. It’s scary and fast, sure, but it doesn’t feel wrong and it’s too late to stop us from falling. It’s no longer about whether we should be in each other’s lives because we already are. It’s slipping dangerously toward the truth that we’re going to be leaving each other soon.

It’s like finding that giant present under the tree at Christmas, only to discover it’s for someone else. Life’s a bitch for letting me have Beckett for just a short while. He needs to be kept in good condition because I have to return him soon, price tag attached, unworn.

I stare back at the yellow dress longingly. Window shopping is something of a new art for me, especially at Harrods. Back in Manhattan, I could walk into any store and buy what I wanted. I never had to struggle with whether I could afford it or not. I can afford a lot of things. I’m a very wealthy woman.

Or was.

I don’t miss the money. It would make things easier, but I don’t miss everything else that comes with it. I never thought I was better than anyone because I don’t think I’m very good to start with, but grow up with people like Hudson who are self-entitled and spoiled and the world skews into a very different place. It’s something Beckett might never understand about me.

I walk over to the makeup counter and sneak a spritz of perfume from a glittery bottle of Viktor & Rolf before the saleswoman catches me. She makes a passing comment about the Armani outfit I’m wearing, no doubt trying to get me to buy the perfume. The dress is last year’s line, and I’ve worn it so many times in Paris that it’s starting to pill because I don’t take it to a dry cleaner like I should. My method is Febreze until I absolutely, unequivocally have to drag my suitcase down to the laundromat.

I hate laundry as much as I hate dishes and cleaning. I’m not a fan of this adult business.

I wander into the lingerie section, not sure what I’m searching for. I take a mesh corset off the rack and hold it up against me in the mirror. There’re pretty opaque details on the bra cups, and the black satin ribbing looks like the Union Jack. It’s beautiful but maybe too old-fashioned.

Then I look at the price tag and that’s definitely not happening. I don’t know why, but I want something special for Beckett. I want him to see me in something I’ve only ever worn for him. That’s important to me, that I’m special to him.

I find a pair of navy lace French knickers with cutouts over my hipbones. The apex-style bra that matches has delicate bows on the straps. They’re worth a day’s paycheck, but since I made so much post-Hudsongate, I decide to splurge. I’ll find something else to pawn if I have to when I return to Paris.

I’m in line when a cry rings out behind me. I try to ignore it, waiting not-so-patiently, but if we weren’t roped in, I might actually leave. I don’t want to cause a scene.

I’m fine.

When I’m kicked in the back of the leg, I start to think about it all over again. Maybe I do need to jump these ropes, forget the lingerie. I mean, Beckett’s a guy—if I get naked, that should be enough to get the job done.

A sticky hand punches my calf, and I suck in a breath, whirling around to the flustered mother behind me trying to tame her devil child and the shrieking infant in her arms. I turn back around, swallowing down my panic, but I’m growing cold and things are growing fuzzy and dark around me.

I fish through my purse for my wallet, pushing aside the ruby necklace my dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday. My hands won’t stop shaking.

“Miss? Miss, I can help you over here.”

The baby is wailing, and the bratty toddler won’t stop hitting the back of my leg. The mother is yelling now, too, and the woman behind the register is flagging me on. I take a breath and stumble forward, but my legs are a little weak and I feel like I might collapse. I probably look like Gumby.