Evergreen: The Complete Series: Including exclusive bonus scene! (Evergreen Series)

by Cassia Leo

  “Maybe that was the problem. I would have noticed you if you weren’t wearing a bikini.”

  I shake my head as I slide my hand under the sheet and wrap my fingers around his erection. A grin spreads across my face as I realize I finally got all I ever wished for during those summers at the pool. But the smile quickly disappears when I realize it was at the expense of my best friend’s life.

  I slide my fist down the length of his erection and his breathing quickens, but he reaches down and pulls my hand up.

  He lifts my chin so I’m looking up at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For never noticing you. If I had known… maybe everything would have turned out differently.”

  I snuggle up closer to him so I can whisper in his ear. “Different isn’t always better.”

  By the time Houston pulls his truck into the lot of the sports bar, I’m ready to tell him to turn around and take me home, but I hold my tongue. It’s been four nights since our blowout fight over Hallie and I’ve been trying to keep the peace. I kept my cool when he got drunk last night and asked me, in front of all his friends, if I wanted to fuck him in the bathroom. And I kept quiet when we slid into bed a couple of hours later and he accused me of flirting with his best friend, Troy. I’ll just promise to give him a really long blow job if he agrees to be the designated driver tonight.

  God, sometimes I hate the person I’ve become.

  “What’s tonight’s forecast?” Houston asks as he kills the engine.

  “Rainy with a ninety percent chance of beer,” Troy replies from the backseat.

  “Just another night of grueling research,” Houston replies and all I can do is roll my eyes.

  As soon as we’re seated at a table in the bar, I lay my hand on top of Houston’s thigh and lean in to whisper my proposition in his ear. He grins broadly and Troy just shakes his head.

  “Is that a yes?” I say, taking a sip from my glass of water.

  He turns to me and his smile is gone. “If you don’t want to watch me drink, you can take the truck home. I’ll call a taxi.”

  He slides his car key across the table and bile rises in my throat as I stare at it. He’s lost all perspective.

  I know Houston took the brunt of the impact from Hallie’s death. He was her older brother. He was supposed to protect her. He wasn’t supposed to find her dead body in our dorm. He’s probably suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but he refuses to see a therapist. He thinks this obsession with creating and consuming craft beer is a healthy alternative to therapy.

  I don’t know how much longer I can pretend everything’s okay.

  I take the key from the table and smile as I tuck it into my pocket. “I’ll drive us both home… later.”

  “How about me?” Troy asks, leaning back in his chair so he can check out the waitress serving beers at the table next to us.

  Troy is Houston’s oldest and best friend. They met in ninth grade around the same time Hallie and I met in sixth grade. Hallie had a crush on Troy for about two minutes when she was fourteen, before she decided he was too young for her. Hallie always had a thing for older men.

  “Maybe you can get her to drive you home,” I remark, and the waitress turns around.

  Her glossy lips curl into a seductive smile as she catches Troy staring at her ass. Troy nods at her and she shakes her head as she walks off with her empty tray. His eyes are locked on her as she leans over the bar, flirting with the bartender while stealing the occasional glance in Troy’s direction.

  He stands up and pushes up the sleeves of his hoodie to expose his muscular arms. “I’ll be back.”

  “You’d better come back with a pint,” Houston calls out as Troy walks away.

  He turns to me and the corner of his mouth turns up in that signature crooked smile. He leans forward and kisses my cheekbone. His lips hover over mine and suddenly I’m grinning like an idiot.

  “You look beautiful tonight.” He plants a tender kiss on my lips and I wish we were home so I could make out with him for hours. “I’ll drive us home. You can be my beer taster and I’ll be your designated driver.”

  He kisses me again and there’s no way I can resist him when he’s laying on the charm like this.

  Another waitress arrives with the two pints we ordered earlier and Houston pushes the one she placed in front of him over to me. The waitress smiles and apologizes for mixing up the order.

  “No worries,” he says, waving off the apology. “My wife is planning on pounding about a dozen of these tonight, so keep ’em comin’.”

  I shove Houston and the waitress just smiles as she walks away. “Way to make me look like a lush.”

  “You’re not even going to mention the fact that I called you my wife?”

  I don’t know how to respond to this. I didn’t mention it because I assumed it was just part of the joke; it’s funnier if you say wife than girlfriend. But now that he’s calling attention to it, I don’t know what to think.

  I shrug as I lean in to take a sip of the farmhouse ale. “It was part of the joke.”

  He waits for me to swallow my ale, then he grabs my hand. “One day, we’re going to get married. You know that, right?”

  I chuckle and roll my eyes. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Did you just roll your eyes?”

  “I just think it’s a bit early to be making those kinds of proclamations. It’s probably best not to make any promises we can’t keep.”

  His gaze falls to the table and he nods. “You’re right.” For a moment, I think this is it. The topic has been closed to further discussion. Then he sits up a little straighter and looks me in the eye. “No, you and I are going to be together forever. Even if we break up, we’ll always make it back to each other; mark my words.”

  I nod as I reach for the beer again. “Do you want to know what I think of this beer?”

  He smiles at my attempt to change the subject. “Shoot.”

  “It’s too citrusy. You can taste a hint of honey, maybe even caramel, but the top notes are definitely orange and bitter lemon. The hops deliver a bite and they’re lingering.”

  “IBU?” he asks.

  IBU is an acronym for International Bittering Units, a measurement of the amount of bitterness or “hoppy-ness” in a beer.

  “Probably thirty to forty.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m in love with a beer snob.”

  “Does that turn you on?”

  “Put your hand under the table and you’ll feel my beer-ection.”

  I almost spit out my ale, but I manage to swallow it down. Houston laughs as I grab the cocktail napkin to wipe the dribble from my chin. Then he rubs my back as I cough out the small bit of farmhouse ale I inhaled.

  “That’s what you get for killing Mufasa,” he says.

  I shake my head as I take another long sip of ale to cool my throat, then an idea comes to me. “Did you decide what you’re doing next week?”

  “For Spring Break?”

  “No, for Christmas,” I reply sarcastically. “Of course for Spring Break.”

  He looks uncomfortable with this question. “Troy and I made plans.”

  “What kind of plans?” I regret the question as soon as it comes out. I don’t want to be the nosy, clingy girlfriend. That’s not me.

  “Troy and I are gonna try out some new formulas.”

  “But… you guys do that every weekend.”

  The muscle in his jaw twitches and that’s my signal to let it go. I want to say, So that whole thing about us being together forever is only true if we never get too close? but I hold my tongue… again. Then I down four more beers and give my detailed analysis of each one. Houston drives us home and fucks me over the bathroom sink. And when we wake the next morning, with the rain tapping on our bedroom window, Houston’s head is lying on my abdomen, facing the foot of the bed.

  I can’t see his face so I reach down and run my fingers through his hair to wake him gently. At
first, I think he’s still sleeping. Then I hear a small sniff and I feel the wetness on my skin. This is the second time I’ve seen Houston cry and, somehow, this time is worse than the day Hallie died. Because today I don’t know why, and I don’t know if I ever will.

  12. Houston

  August 17th

  * * *

  Love is a strange concept. That the very sight of someone, the very mention of their name, can cause an intense chemical reaction inside you is crazy. The fact that many people settle for less than that explosive chemical reaction is even crazier. Yet here I am, sitting next to Tessa in church on Sunday, praying to a god I stopped believing in five years ago.

  Why am I sitting here watching people line up to eat a piece of bread impersonating the body of Christ? Because I’m afraid of what would happen if I weren’t here. In other words, I’m afraid of becoming a cheating bastard like my father.

  When I met Tessa at that beer festival three years ago, I recognized something in her. Something we both shared: the need to forget. And I knew that, having honed that skill over the previous two years since Rory and I broke up, I had to be the one to teach Tessa how to do it.

  I’ll admit that the lessons were mutually beneficial in the beginning. But once Tessa began to put her brother’s death behind her, I recognized something even more important in her: We had nothing in common other than our mutual grief, which we had so cleverly locked away.

  I glance sideways at her and even the way she sits in the pew with her ankles crossed and her blonde hair hanging over her shoulders in perfect loose curls makes me bristle. I want to grab her slender shoulders and shake her and ask her why we’re still pretending to love each other.

  After we consume our piece of the Lord, we make it out to the parking lot before He’s even dissolved on our tongues. We walk in silence as the warm summer breeze rustles the trees along the edge of the lot. I open the car door for Tessa and she raises one eyebrow.

  “What’s with the chivalry?”

  I want to make a joke, maybe call her m’lady, but I can’t muster up the energy to force the words out. “We need to talk.”

  She climbs into the car and stares straight ahead through the windshield. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

  I shut the passenger door and hurry around to climb into the driver’s side. Once my door is closed, the sound of the breeze disappears and the silence takes a seat between us. I swallow hard as I try to think of how to start this conversation, but I’m dumbstruck.

  Tessa knows nothing about Rory other than the few photos she’s seen in Hallie’s room of Rory and Hallie together. I asked my parents to destroy the few pictures they had of Rory and me. And I put all my own pictures of us on a flash drive I keep hidden in my office at the brewery. How do I even begin to explain to Tessa the kind of love I shared with Rory?

  “Fine. If you’re just going to sit there silent, then, yes. Yes, I contacted a fertility clinic. Are you really so mad you can’t even speak?”

  My vision blurs as my heart thumps inside my skull. “You… contacted a fertility clinic?” I turn toward her and she looks confused. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “You… didn’t know?”

  “What were you thinking, Tessa? You went to a fucking fertility clinic without my consent?”

  Her eyes widen with sheer terror. “I thought you knew. I thought that’s what you wanted to talk about.”

  “You thought I knew? How the fuck was I supposed to know if you were hiding it from me?”

  “But, I thought… I thought that’s why you… you didn’t come inside me. I… I thought you had looked at my laptop when I went to the appointment.”

  “You thought that’s why I didn’t come inside you? I didn’t come inside you because I don’t want to have a child. What is so fucking difficult to understand?”

  “I thought you would change your mind! All young guys think they don’t want children, but I’ve seen you with my nieces. You’d make a great father, Houston.” She reaches for my hand and I yank it back before she can touch me. “Houston, please. Let’s do this… together.”

  “Or what? Or you’ll do it alone? When were you planning on telling me about going to the clinic? After you get pregnant?”

  She turns away to look out the passenger window and a sick knot of fear grips my insides. “I’m four weeks along.”

  I’m tempted to tell her to get the fuck out of the car. Instead, I turn the key in the ignition and pull out of the lot without another word. By the time we get home, I know there’s no way I can go inside with her. I leave her in front of the building, then I head for the brewery.

  Twenty minutes later, I pull into a parking space in back of Barley Legal headquarters in Northwest Portland. On the outside, it looks like an old three-story shoebox brick building, which takes up half a city block in the industrial district. But on the inside, that’s where all the magic happens.

  I began brewing my own beer my sophomore year at UO. I majored in business with the idea of going to law school after graduation and subsequently selling my soul to the legal interests of corporations. But a girl I was dating that year gave me a dinky little home-brew starter kit. She knew my friends and I were beer snobs, so it was actually a pretty thoughtful gift. That relationship didn’t survive past the new year, but I still have that starter kit in my office here at the brewery.

  I enter through the back door and quickly punch in the code to shut off the alarm. No one comes in through the back on Sundays. Only the front and side entrances are open to let in the servers, management, and customers at the Barley Legal Brewhouse pub and restaurant. They won’t even know I’m here.

  I take the stairs up to the offices on the third floor. I pass the glass receptionist’s desk, where Tessa worked for two weeks last year before she decided she preferred being a stay-at-home wife. I never had a problem with Tessa’s choice to stay home. I make more than enough to support us. But I’ve always wondered how she can stand not having anything to do.

  Tessa does have hobbies. She works out at the gym on the first floor of our building one to two hours a day with Kendra. Kendra’s husband is a network security consultant who works from home, but they have a nanny who watches the baby while she’s at the gym. Tessa also likes to make handmade event invitations. She takes orders on Etsy.com, where she gets an order once or twice a month. As I enter my corner office, I can’t help but wonder if she’ll be making her own baby shower invitations soon.

  Just the thought of it makes my palms sweat. I can’t have a baby with Tessa, but I also can’t ask her to terminate the pregnancy. If Tessa’s Catholic parents find out I “made” her get an abortion, I’ll never hear the end of it.

  I head for the corner of the office and open the closet door where I hang my coats and spare clothes and shoes. You never know when someone’s going to spill some beer on you. And the Portland weather often leaves me craving a dry set of clothes. I reach into the back of the top shelf and feel around the dusty surface until I find the small tin box.

  I take the box to my desk and set it down on the glass surface. Taking a seat, I lean back in my chair and stare at the box for a moment, as if gazing at it will tell me whether or not I should open it. I should call Troy and ask him to come have a beer with me. But I can’t talk to him about Tessa tricking me into getting her pregnant. He’ll say, I told you so. Contessa Dracula sank her teeth in and now she’s gonna suck you dry.

  Troy likes to call Tessa by her full name, Contessa. When she’s not around he tacks on Dracula because he has insisted, from the day Tessa and I met, that she’s after my money. She’s not. Her parents do pretty well. Her dad’s a pediatrician and her mom was a stay-at-home mom to their four children. Tessa is the youngest and therefore the most spoiled of them all. The oldest of the four, Jasen, is the one who died in a car accident four years ago.

  But Troy and Tessa share a mutual dislike for each other. Troy has been my best friend since ninth grade, and he’s always been a man-
whore. He even gave me a run for my money after Rory and I broke up and I was fucking anything that moved. But he’s actually been in a steady relationship for more than a year now, so you’d think Tessa would no longer feel the need to tense up every time I tell her I’m going out for beers with Troy. The problem is that he claims he’s never going to get married. And he actually managed to find a smart girl who is willing to stay with him despite this.

  Now, with Tessa pulling this baby crap on me, I’m wondering if women view these sorts of proclamations as temporary obstacles. Maybe Troy’s girlfriend is only waiting until the right moment, until their lives are completely commingled, then she’s going to spring the ultimatum: Marry me or get out of my life.

  I grab the metal box off the desk and hold it up at eye level. Every picture I ever took of Rory is stored on a tiny flash drive inside this box. But I can’t figure out if I should pop it into my laptop and let my mind wander back to the happiest and most miserable time of my life, or if I should toss it in the waste bin.

  I’ll never have the balls to leave Tessa if we have a child. I know this about me and she definitely knows this about me. So maybe I should just get it over with now. Completely erase Rory from my life and move on.

  The lid on the box is embossed with a forest scene. In the center is a painted logo for Sierra Nevada Brewery. A chill passes through me as I slowly pry the lid off. I lift it away and set it down on the desk as I stare at the two objects in the box: a simple white USB flash drive and a three-carat princess-cut diamond engagement ring.

  I had every reason to take this ring back to the jeweler after Rory and I broke up. I’d saved up almost every single penny of the money Troy and I made at our “beer tastings.” We had a cover charge to get in, but once you were in, it was all-you-can-drink. We financed production of the home brew with our meager savings, so the money we made on cover charges seemed like pure profit.