When we pulled into the driveway, he switched the car off but didn’t move to get out. He just sat with his hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield, focused on nothing. Seeing something I couldn’t see, maybe.
“Dad?”
He started, glanced at me. “Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I’m tired, Cade. Haven’t been sleeping well. Not for a long time. Don’t sleep much at all. Can’t eat much either.”
“You’re not sick, are you?”
“Don’t think so. Just…I’m tired. I just don’t have any energy.”
I had no response for that. I waited for something to say, something to do, but came up empty. Eventually, I simply left him there in the truck and grabbed my single overnight bag from the bed and waited on the porch. It wasn’t until we were inside and Dad was halfheartedly stirring and adding spices to some chili he’d left simmering while he came to pick me up that realization struck him.
“You only brought one bag.” His voice was thin and sandpapery, a drastic change from the gruff and stentorian boom I’d grown up hearing.
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Care to explain?”
I twirled my shading pencil around my middle finger, a trick I’d worked to perfect during long boring hours in history and math classes. “I’m—I guess I’m pretty set on moving out to Wyoming permanently for the rest of high school.”
Dad didn’t answer for a very long time. I almost started wondering if he’d heard me. “Oh really?” He set the lid back on the chili and rubbed his scalp with his palm. “What makes you say that?”
“I like it there. I…well, I don’t really have any friends here, and—I’d just rather be there.”
“I see.” He turned away from me, snatching a paper towel from the roll and wiping the counter. “Just like that, huh?”
“Look, Dad, I—all there is here for me is you and school. There, I’m working, and I can draw at school and stuff, and I—”
“I get it.” He was scrubbing vigorously at a spot on the counter, although I didn’t see anything on the counter that needed cleaning. “You need me to sign off on the transfer?”
“I guess I was thinking maybe you could emancipate me.”
His eyes registered shock, hurt, and I winced to think I’d hurt him. “Why?”
“Just because it would be easiest. I’m basically on my own anyway. Gramps will be paying me ranch hand wage, and—”
“No. There’s no need for that. You’re sixteen. I’m fine with you moving to Wyoming, as long as Gramps is okay with it. But I’m alive, and I’m available. I get that you want your space and don’t need me anymore, but I’m not going to emancipate you.”
“It’s not that, Dad.” I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, why I’d even considered emancipation.
“Then what is it?”
“It’s just…” I couldn’t bring myself to say that I was worried for him, for his health. For his…longevity.
“Move to Gramps’s ranch. Fine. I’ll sign off on that. But that’s it.”
I nodded. “Okay, then.” I wasn’t going to push the issue.
He sighed and went sort of limp, leaning on the counter and staring out the window listlessly. “Why’d you come back, then? Why’d you come back at all?”
God, he sounded so…lost. And lonely. I didn’t know what to say to him, what wouldn’t hurt him further. “I—it just seemed like the right way to do it, I guess.”
“Meaning it was Gramps’s idea.” He pushed away from the counter, heading toward his study. “Stay as long as you like. You know where things are.” And then he was gone, closing the study door behind him.
The kitchen echoed with his absence. The chili smelled good, but I knew it wasn’t done yet. Dad always ate at seven, and it wasn’t quite six. I heard the faint strains of music emanating from his office, and I recognized “House of the Rising Sun” by the Animals. Sunlight poured in from the west-facing window, golden and brilliant. A bird chirped.
My stomach twisted, and something inside me ached, for no reason at all.
And then I heard a thump from the study, and I knew.
Eighteen steps from kitchen to study door. Half a twist of the wrist, vision blurring, the door sliding open slowly on silent hinges.
Well, it’s one foot on the platform/And the other on the train…
He lay on the floor, on his side, curled up into a fetal position. His right hand clawed at the left side of his chest, his eyes were wide and calm, tinged only a little by fear. He wasn’t breathing, but struggling for it, or struggling perhaps against the instinct to fight for breath.
I collapsed to my hands and knees beside him, fumbling my phone out of my pocket. “Dad…no. Please, no.” I unlocked the phone, tapped the icon to make a call, and had the nine and the one dialed when I felt his hand, heavy and urgent, on mine.
“No…Cade. Too—too late.”
“No it’s not, Dad. They can get here and you’ll be fine. Just fight, okay? Please? Just hold on. Don’t—oh god, oh god—” I heard myself sobbing. “Don’t die on me, Dad. Not you too.”
He gazed at me with soft, calm eyes. “I died with—with Jan. I’m just—just catching up to her.” He paused to wheeze, wince, and the light in his eyes faded.
“No, Dad. No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said about leaving. I love you.”
“No sorry. Don’t. Live. Love.” He squeezed my hand with his, sudden frantic strength crushing my bones, but I didn’t pull away. I squeezed back and cried like a baby. “Love you, Cade. Always.”
And then the light faded, faded, and was gone. The bruising strength in his huge hand vanished, sluiced away. I couldn’t breathe.
“Dad?” I shook him. “No!” I screamed. “No!”
There was nothing after that. Only a hand going cold, and my voice going hoarse, giving out.
I woke up in my childhood bed, the smell of cigarette smoke touching my nose.
Gramps.
I sat up. Gramps was at my desk, flipping through one of my old sketchbooks. Anyone else and I would’ve lost my temper a little, but it was Gramps, and I couldn’t do that with him. My window was open, and as he flipped pages, he sucked a drag on the cigarette, blew it out the window, ashing into an empty beer can every once in a while. Gramps would flip, flip, flip, then pause to examine a sketch, flip again, drag in and blow out, ash, flip, flip, flip.
“Can’t remember what movie it is, but there’s a line in a movie,” he said, his voice thick and scratchy. “‘No parent should have to bury their child,’ the line is.”
“That’s from The Lord of the Rings. The Two Towers. Theoden, King of Rohan says it.” I’d gone through a phase, the year before art camp at Interlochen, where I’d watched those movies one after another for months on end. I could quote all three movies backward and forward.
“Ah. Yeah. So it is. You brought them with you to the ranch a few years back.”
“How’d you get here? When, I mean?”
“Your Grams had a feeling. I caught the flight after yours. Found you in there, with him. I think you’d been there a while. Not sure how long, but he was…he’d been gone a while.” Gramps shut the book and came to sit on the bed near my feet, the bed creaking under his weight. “You got shit luck, Cade.”
I started to sob. “I know. God, I know. I watched…I watched him die. Just like Mom. He…he said he’d died with Mom, that he was just catching up to her.”
“Sh-shit.” Gramps rubbed at his face, thumbed the corner of his eye. “Your dad and I had our differences, but… he was still my son. And I loved him. I was proud of him, you know. I don’t think…I don’t think I ever told him, but I was. He’d made good for himself, goin’ his own, way, doin’ his own thing. Made good, for damn sure.”
“What now?” I whispered.
Gramps wiped at his face again, huffing in a deep breath, letting it out, broad, hard shoulders spreading and curling
back in. “I don’t know, Cade. I don’t know. Carry on, one day at a time. S’all you can do, I think.” Carry on, one day at a time. I wasn’t sure how to do even that. Gramps clapped me on the shoulder as he stood up. “Take your time, Cade. I’ll handle things.”
Take my time? To do what? I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I was empty inside, and wished I could go to sleep and stay that way. But my eyes were open, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep anytime soon.
I ended up at my desk, drawing. I don’t even know what I drew. Only that sunlight shifted through the window, rising and falling as daylight streamed past me. I remember lines, arcs and whorls, abstractions of the sorrow inside me. Heavy shading, shadows cast by nothing. I remember a raven, stark black on the white page. Wings furled, shown in profile, beady eye glinting and reflecting something hidden. A pocket watch hung by a chain from the raven’s mouth, the hands stopped at 6:35.
Then a lined sheet of paper, slightly angled to the left on the desk.
* * *
Ever,
That summer we met, Interlochen. The lake. Drawing all day. Sitting on the dock together. It was the last of my childhood, I think. The last happy days of my life.
Dad died yesterday. Heart attack. Or a broken heart, if you want to get truthful about it. I don’t think he could handle life without Mom. He just gave up, and his heart gave out. He wasn’t even fifty.
I’m not sure why you and I are even doing these letters anymore. You’ve got your own life to live, and I’m just. I don’t know. Cursed, maybe? Just living. Breathing, one day at a time. I miss back when things were simple, you know?
I hope things go well with Billy Harper. Hope he treats you well.
I’m rambling. I know I am. I’m lost. But…I drew until my hand ached, and I still have all this inside me. Where does it go? What do I do? Who am I? Too many questions. No answers. And you’re with Billy Harper.
I understand your sister’s jealousy. I feel the same way, a little. Jealous. Of you. Of Billy Harper. I haven’t been on a date, or had a first kiss. First anything.
But that’s whatever. Fine. I’m moving to Wyoming. Permanently, maybe. I don’t know. I’m sure at some point in my life a girl will take pity on a cowboy orphan. Not angling for pity, FYI. Just…venting. Rambling. Sorry.
* * *
Cade
* * *
I signed it and sealed it and sent it without thinking about the repercussions. I didn’t care. If she wanted to date Billy fucking Harper, that was fine with me. Why should I care?
I attended another funeral. Dressed in black, my eyes damp with tears that wouldn’t shed. It rained, this time. Appropriately, enough, to my thinking. Warm rain, hissing on the awning as the dark wood casket was lowered into the ground. Gramps’s hand on my shoulder.
Wyoming became home, permanently. I had an inheritance from Dad, savings plus life insurance. Enough that I would be fine for a while. Enough for college, if I went. I didn’t want the money, though. I went to school in Casper, rode the range, and didn’t even try to meet anyone, or make friends.
And that, of course, is how I met Luisa Alvarez.
first love, dreams like memory
Ever
* * *
The letter had a place in my purse, folded in half and tucked into an inside pocket, nestled between maxi pads and a pack of Trident gum. I didn’t want to open it. I had a bad feeling about it.
Instead, I left it there and refused to open it and waited for “the right time” to read Cade’s latest missive. It was a selfish thing. The letter was…I didn’t even know why, but I felt like just touching the envelope made me sad. As if I knew somehow, maybe psychologically or emotionally, maybe psychically, that it contained more tragedy. And I didn’t want to have to feel that.
Dates with Will were amazing things. He was amazing. He took me to interesting places. Concerts at the Joe Louis Arena, plays at the Meadowbrook. Long drives late at night, listening to jazz. Talking until dawn.
Kissing in the darkness. It started easily, just a kiss goodnight that lasted for an hour. Sneaking away during lunch hour to make out in his car, at the far corner of the school parking lot.
His hands didn’t begin to wander until we’d been dating and making out for two weeks. I’d started to wonder, honestly. The idea of horny teenage boys was imprinted firmly in my head, strengthened by the stories I’d heard from girls at school. A phrase I heard all too frequently was “I wanted to, just not as soon as he did.” I knew what that meant. Of course I did. But with Will, it was different.
So I was more than ready for it when his palm touched my knee. We were in his car, as usual. Jazz played in the background, something quick and jaunty and almost aggressive in its frenetic energy. My body was buzzing, high on Will’s lips, drunk with his proximity. He made me aware of myself. Aware of my body. Of my hands and my thighs and my breasts and my clothes and my own desires. I wanted him to touch me, just a little. That was it, just…a little exploration.
So when his palm touched my knee, hesitated, and slid up my leg to my thigh, I didn’t demur. My hands were on his shoulders, touching but not holding, embracing but not pulling. When his hand went up to my thigh, I let my fingers graze down his shirt to caress his chest, touching the muscles there. His lips parted and his tongue slid into my mouth and I tasted it, felt it, was shocked pleasantly by it, by the heat of his hand on my thigh. I touched his tongue with mine, gasping at the tang of tongue touching tongue and the way my entire being buzzed and hummed.
Now his hand was on my waist, and I waited, breathless, kissing him, to see what he’d do next. A fingertip under the hem of my Lumineers T-shirt, touching bare skin. Oh my god. I couldn’t breathe if I wanted to. My palms skated around his arms to his back and down the soft cotton and now I was touching the heat of his skin as well, and together we explored flesh, upward, upward. I didn’t dare even think of what was happening, of the fact that Will’s hand was under my shirt and skirting across my ribcage, not even an inch beneath the underwire of my lacy red bra. Lacy red bra, that I’d put on for this date. Not because I thought he’d see it, but because some part of me I didn’t dare examine too closely wanted him to.
We paused for breath, foreheads touching, exploration halted.
“Ever…” Will breathed, “is this okay?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
I kissed him, to cover the fact that I wasn’t quite sure, not entirely. A thought skittered in the back of my head that maybe this was all happening too fast, but I knew, from the girls at school, that for most of them two weeks was an eternity to wait, that for many of them, I was being strangely careful. That being a virgin at sixteen put me in the minority of the girls I knew. That I was just now getting to this point, to second base, as I supposed the boys thought of it, was unusual.
But I didn’t want to think of that. I just wanted to kiss Will and let him touch me and feel his skin under my hands. It felt nice. I felt wanted. I felt liked. I felt like someone other than Ever Eliot. I wasn’t drawing or painting or taking photos or going to class. I was with a boy.
An image of strong, sure hands and dark serious eyes flashed through my mind; Cade’s hands, Cade’s eyes.
I blinked, and met Will’s eyes, blue eyes blazing with heat. Saw his hands on my waist, strong hands, yes, but clean, soft hands. Cade’s had been roughened by work, calloused.
Why did that matter? It was Will’s hands on me, not Cade’s. And that was fine, right? Cade was my pen pal, Will was my boyfriend. End of discussion.
I pushed the niggling wondering doubt from my mind and closed my eyes and touched my lips to Will’s. Sparks flew, heat billowed. My skin tightened and my mind whirled and my stomach flipped. The kiss deepened and Will’s hands slid up my sides and skated across my ribs beneath my bra, tempting and tantalizing. My own fingers were dancing up his back and across his chest and over his shoulders, touching bare skin beneath his shirt. I couldn’t breathe and
didn’t care. This was exciting, a daring adventure I flung myself into willingly. I arched my spine and sucked in a breath, swelling my breasts, and now Will’s palms were brushing the round of my bra. I felt my nipple harden, felt his touch stutter and stop so the bottom edge of his palm rested on the hard nub, dragged back across. Lightning sizzled inside me, threatening to arc and bolt if only he touched more, touched skin.
I almost made a noise of disappointment when he slid his palm away and up my chest to my shoulder, but oh yes, okay, he was brushing the strap down, freeing the weight of my left breast, and now his fingers were tugging the edge of the cup away and our kiss was a fiery maelstrom of lips and tongues and I felt so adult, so alive, so energized by the knowledge of what we were doing that I couldn’t contain it all.
Now the other strap was sagging around my bicep and he was pushing the cups down and my boobs were free and his palms were slipping over skin and I was on fire, gasping into his mouth as his fingers touched a nipple and brought it to diamond hardness.
My T-shirt was still loose and draping over his hands, shielding me from view, mine and his. What if I took my shirt off? I thought about it, and the notion made me dizzy. It would be a huge step. Letting him touch me was one thing, somehow, but intentionally taking my shirt off to show him my body was another.
Before I could second-guess myself, I broke the kiss and stripped the shirt off. Will sucked in a deep, sharp breath as my pale flesh was bared to the moonlight streaming in through the sunroof of his car. He grinned at me and peeled his own shirt off, and now it was my turn to gasp at the sight of his rippling, sculpted abs, and the elastic band of his Calvin Klein underwear peeking out above his Hugo Boss jeans. I ran my hands over his chest, let my fingers trace the lines of his abs, and he just watched me touch him. And then his thumb dragged slowly across my nipple, sending a bolt of pure arousal through me.
The Nice Boxset Page 42
