Ever Over After (The Over Duet #2)

by J. A. Derouen

  “I’m not interested in hashing out the past, present, and definitely not the goddamn future. I’m not built that way, Ever—no pillow talk and apologies. That goes for everyone, but it especially pertains to you.” I clench my eyes shut and steady myself, before leaning back and meeting his eyes. “I’m not what you’re looking for. I haven’t been for a long time.”

  My stomach churns, and I fight against every cell in my body and step away from him. I struggle to keep my face trained with indifference while wondering how? How in the hell can eight years vanish the moment his lips touch mine? On the outside, I’m the picture of calm while my insides quake with a blood curdling scream. His lips tasted of the sweetest cyanide, lulling me softly to my inevitable demise.

  On legs like taffy, I walk across the kitchen, tag my purse, and sling it over my shoulder. Ever doesn’t move, but his eyes track me as I move to the door. I turn to leave when he calls out my name. I turn to face him for the last time.

  “Why, Low? Why did you leave me?”

  His expression is etched with pain, confusion, hurt—every single feeling that ravaged me the day I left New Orleans. It’s hard to go back in time and remember the emotions and the regrets. The times in my life when I couldn’t push past the hurt, those moments when my mind made my heart face all that had happened, I honestly wondered if Ever was too high and I was too broken to care anymore. Doesn’t there come a point when a person has no choice but to say “no more”?

  His question pushes away the hurt and replaces it with blinding anger. His question brings to the surface all the times I reached out for him, begging him to grab onto me, hold onto me, promising to never let go. It reminds me of every time he pushed me away.

  Why did I leave him?

  Why did I leave him?

  “You’ve got nerve, Ever,” I say, my voice wavering slightly before I bite back the burn. “If I gave one shit about your answer, the real question is why did you leave me? You and I both know you were long gone by the time I packed up and left town. When I left, you were nothing but a drugged-out zombie.”

  He doesn’t answer, guilt evident in his face, his posture, his silence. I head for the door and will my feet to push forward, one step in front of the other. I’m almost there … only minutes until I can break.

  When I step out the entrance into the blinding morning sun, I slide on my sunglasses, grateful for the shield. Jeb is perched in the driver’s seat of my Jeep, feet on the dash, and radio blaring. He appears to be napping, so when I swat his feet off my dashboard, he jolts and nearly tumbles out of the seat. He gives me the evil eye and hops out. I give him a quick nod, not really in the mood to talk.

  “Did you two figure your shit out?” he asks as he taps a palm to the hood of the Jeep.

  “I made him realize there’s nothing left to figure out. There’s nothing there.”

  I turn the ignition while Jeb gives me a disbelieving smirk. I ignore it and give him a curt wave, all while he shakes his head in … what? Disapproval? I’m not sure, and I don’t have the energy to ponder the inner workings of Jeb’s mind today.

  With each block I pass, farther away from Moelle, my breaths get more labored … more shallow … more tortuous. I make it a mile, maybe two, before my vision blurs and hot, salty tears burn my eyes and streak my face. They feel like acid on my skin, as if they were made from the most tortuous place inside of me. As if they are special tears saved for the very worst of circumstances.

  And it doesn’t get any worse than this.

  Sitting on the side of the road, bathed in tears and snot, I admit to myself what I will never admit to another soul. I’ve spent so much time hating, forgetting, wishing away every memory from that time of my life. I’ve buried myself in the bad. But while I crumble into a crying heap, my head rhythmically beating against the steering wheel, I try to push away the feel of his lips, the brush of his skin, the sound of his moan reverberating in my mouth. I try to push it all away, because, in this moment, I can’t deny the way he made me feel.

  The way he still makes me feel.

  I need to put forth the same effort to forget him as I did into loving him. It’s the only way.

  I balance the cake boxes in my arms like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and rush to the entrance of Holy Cross Church. Vespers started fifteen minutes ago, and I’m sure Father Roy is wondering where I am.

  I hate being late.

  Father Roy holds Vespers every Wednesday night for the students of Northern University of Louisiana, and, following evening prayers, he feeds them. Well, not him specifically, but several women of the congregation. Once a week, the kids get a home-cooked meal made with the love and care of God-fearing women.

  Except me. I may make the cupcakes, but I don’t fear God. He and I both know there are worse things in this world to be afraid of.

  Shortly after moving to Providence for college, I showed up at Holy Cross for “confession.” If the priest in New Orleans was cool about it, then Father Roy was downright chill. Through most of college, we had weekly pow-wows behind the screen that were more therapy than actual confessions. Whatever they were, they helped me breathe when school, work, my new life, my old life, especially my old life, threatened to close in on me.

  Father Roy took a liking to me, and, Catholic or not, I make great cupcakes. After a few thank you packages from me, his sweet tooth guaranteed me a volunteer spot at weekly Vespers. After all he’s done for me, it’s the least I can do. Plus, I have the added bonus of scoping out the college hotties in a totally non-creepy, hot cougar-ish way.

  He did rein me in a bit after I showed up with Immaculate Conception Carrot Cupcakes and Peanut Butter and Jezebel Cakeballs. I thought they were hilarious. He did not. In hindsight, the fondant prophylactics may have been a bit much. So now I stick to the basics, and everyone’s happy and hopped up on delicious sugar.

  With the whole not being Catholic and all, I usually don’t stick around for prayer, but I come thirty minutes early to visit with Father Roy. My incessant challenging of religion keeps him on his toes, and his patience and faith keep me from completely falling over into the dark side. He’s Yoda. I’m a wannabe Luke Skywalker with a dash of Darth Vader. He’s also kinda cute in a priestly way. It’s totally innocent—no Thorn Birds saga for this girl.

  The little old ladies of Holy Cross love me, too. They gush and dote over the sweet little nurse to the point you’d swear I was Florence Nightingale. They always make me a to-go-plate, and it’s always freaking delicious.

  But today did not go as planned. Working last night had put me behind before I’d even began, and I was icing cupcakes up to the minute I ran out the door. Fingers crossed the cakes had been cool enough, otherwise I’m hauling a melty mess in these boxes.

  I wait for the passing cars to clear before crossing the street, and that’s when I see him. My temper shoots up like a rocket as I watch Ever, cool and collected, saunter into church. He’s got on khaki slacks and an untucked blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled. He looks put together and a bit of a mess all rolled into one, a walking contradiction. And that he is.

  Did he follow me here? That big jerk, I bet he did. What the hell is he trying to accomplish, popping up all over town? Does he think he’ll finally wear me down? Not a chance.

  I hang back a couple of minutes, hoping to avoid a run-in, and then enter the meeting hall of the church. The hall is connected directly to the worship area, and that’s where we set up dinner for everyone. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see it’s only me and the ladies.

  “Marlo, dear, we were getting worried about you,” Betsy croons as she grabs the top three boxes of my stack. “You’re never this late. We were about to send out the search party.”

  I smile and follow her to the dessert table, inspecting every nook and cranny of the room, wondering where Ever is hiding. He’s probably spying on me right now … asshole.

  “Sorry, Miss Betsy. I worked last night, and I woke up in just enough time to get everyth
ing done,” I say, with an apologetic shrug.

  “You work too hard, Marlo. Such a beautiful soul, caring for the sick and lonely,” Miss Rita says, sighing as she smooths my hair.

  “Well, I take care of pregnant women, Miss Rita. They aren’t actually sick … or lonely…”

  “Shush, shush, you’re so modest, dear. I’ll fix you a big plate of spaghetti and garlic bread to take home. Supper, then bed. Miss Rita’s orders, you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I arrange the cupcakes on stands I keep at the church and help the ladies set up the buffet-style meal. It’s spaghetti this week, but they like to switch it up. Beef stew, brisket and gravy, red beans and rice with sausage … they go all out. I’m not the only one they like to spoil.

  I hear the soothing chant of the “Our Father” filtering in from the worship area, and I eye the double doors with curiosity. There’s only a small crack, just enough to peek an eye through, and I itch to do just that. Is he actually in there praying? I can’t imagine it’s true since I’ve never seen him here in all this time. Surely we would have run into each other before now. But I do usually leave well before prayers start … I guess it’s possible.

  Nah, no way.

  “You should sneak in the back and listen, Marlo. Prayer is a powerful thing,” Miss Betsy says with a slight crook of her head to the double doors and a less slight shove to my back.

  “Maybe I’ll just…” I say, pointing at the door and looking back at her. “Maybe just a few minutes.”

  Miss Betsy gives me a contented smile, kisses her fingers to her lips, then presses them to her heart. As she looks up with closed eyes, I’m fairly certain the woman is praying for my soul.

  Good luck with that one, Miss Betsy. Can you say lost cause?

  I inch the door open just wide enough to creep inside, and lunge for the empty seat in the back pew before anyone notices my interruption. I crane my neck and peruse the other pews, spotting Ever in the first row, front and center. I chuckle to myself, thinking how much times have changed. The back of the class boy would shudder at the thought of being front and center.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” the person next to me whispers in my ear, way too close for comfort.

  I jerk back and turn to face the close talker, barely holding in my laugh. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is harder to do than stifle a laugh in church. It’s the equivalent to launching the space shuttle for me. I can almost feel Nana’s back of the arm pinch as I plaster my hand over my mouth. Jeb stares at me with the most innocent smile and wide doe-ish eyes. I, in turn, pinch the back of his arm.

  The look on his face is priceless, and I fight my surge of laughter again.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Jeb?”

  “Pretty sure H-E-double hockey sticks is prohibited in church, but what do I know? And while I should tell you I’m praying for you and all the sick babies in the world, I’m actually here for the food.” He shrugs unapologetically and focuses on Father Roy at the front of the church.

  “Why aren’t you, and Ever, for that matter, at your restaurant? Don’t you have a business to run?” I whisper, but obviously not low enough, judging by the scowls of our neighbors.

  “Only serve lunch on Wednesdays,” he explains as the service begins to wrap up. “You know, he comes here every week. Has been for months.”

  I don’t say anything, but I try to hide the twinge I feel at his words. Every week. We’ve been crossing paths, barely missing each other, every week. For months.

  God…

  “He doesn’t come just for the cupcakes, but he figured out they were yours pretty early on. No more cupcake ban for Ever.” He chuckles, and I scoff.

  “Of course the bastard figures out a way to get the goods.”

  Jeb raises his eyebrows suggestively. I roll my eyes and shove his shoulder. He laughs to himself.

  As Vespers end, and people file out of the pews, I resist the urge to cut and run. Seeing Jeb over the past few weeks makes me miss him so much. I haven’t allowed myself to think of what I left behind very much over the years, but with old feelings bubbling to the surface, Jeb is a reminder of the good times. The great times, actually.

  “Hey, Jeb, whatever happened to you and Charlotte? I always thought you two would figure it out in the end.”

  Jeb’s expression morphs from playful to bitter the instant her name leaves my lips. “I thought I fell in love. She knew she didn’t,” he says in a flat, unfeeling voice. “Charlotte wasn’t love. She was a lesson.”

  I sigh, wishing a great guy like Jeb didn’t have to learn that particular lesson. I guess we all had a lot of lessons to learn back then.

  “Her loss.”

  “Damn right.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I hope when she stands next to whatever MBA douchebag she married, in her perfectly starched dress, uncomfortable as hell shoes, and her bun pulled so tight her head feels bruised at the end of the day, she thinks of me. Loving life, while she plays a part.”

  What do you say to that? I opt to keep my mouth shut and nod, because damn. Jeb’s hurt obviously runs deep, and I don’t blame him at all. I don’t know the whole story, but Charlotte had picked wrong. One look at Jeb sitting beside me, and I know, without a doubt, she’d picked wrong.

  My window of opportunity to sneak out is rapidly vanishing, so I gather my purse. I expect Ever to approach the back of the church any minute now.

  “I better go,” I say, standing and squeezing Jeb’s shoulder.

  Father Roy passes the last pew and gives me a surprised smile when he notices me. I wave him off and scowl.

  “I only came for your Gregorian chanting. It reminds me of the band Enigma, and I instantly feel zen.”

  He laughs and bows his head, palms pressed together at his chest. “Whatever gets you here. Peace be with you, Marlo. Now, let there be cupcakes.”

  With a wry smile, he walks away. He thinks my presence is a little victory in our war of faith. If he only knew it was actually my demons that drew me inside, he’d think differently.

  Jeb stands up next to me, and we’re the last ones in the church. So much for a cunning escape. I glance to the front before turning to leave, and notice Ever and a boy still sitting in the front pew. The other boy’s hands are fisted in his hair, and he’s hunched over his knees. Ever lays one hand on his shoulder, and I can see his lips moving. His expression is composed, calm, strong. He looks nothing like the brooding boy from the past.

  “He’s a mentor here at the church. He does a lot of good, from what I can tell,” Jeb says from behind me. “It’s been a long time, Marlo. Things change … people change. Maybe you should remember that.”

  I give him a curt nod, and Jeb raises the kneeler as we exit the pew. It whines in protest, echoing through the empty church with an awful squeak. Ever looks back in irritation, with only a moment of recognition flitting across his eyes before he turns back to the boy.

  Yes, Jeb might be right. Maybe people do change.

  Marlo

  “EARTH TO MARLO—have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

  “Huh?”

  I rub my eyes and focus in on Caroline standing before me, arms crossed and brows furrowed. Her serious expression is in direct opposition with the wooden brushes poking out of her haphazard bun and high water, paint-splattered overalls. This doesn’t even raise a question in my mind. I’ve come to expect the quirky, and all together odd, from Caroline. I’ve come to love that about her.

  In some way, all of my friends volunteer at the center that Caroline runs. I tried to volunteer to help with sex ed, but Caroline questions my ability to remain tactful. Those college kids could use a healthy dose of “what the hell’s up,” if you ask me.

  Instead, I work in the center’s lab, along with my SANE duties, when the situation arises. I collect specimens for anything from strep throat to the clap. Caroline worked with the hospital to get a cut rate on lab testing, and, thankfully, we are able to provide our services at
a drastically discounted cost to our clients.

  “Supplies for the lab. We’re running low on some of the swabs, and you’re down to one box of butterfly needles. You should probably do inventory today.”

  I nod my head and turn to the supply shelves. She’s right, I need to make an order pronto. I open the folder containing the order forms and grab one off the top, causing all those underneath it to fall to the floor.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’m so exhausted, it’s a wonder I can put one foot in front of the other. I look like a warmed over pile of crap, but no amount of concealer can hide the near purple circles under my eyes.

  Fucking Ever.

  Ever, who’s bulldozing his way into my life; who reminds me of the girl I used to be; Ever, hunched over, consoling that boy in the church, something I would never believe he was capable of. To hell with him and every single thing he’s intent on stirring inside of me.

  “Sorry Caroline. I’ll take care of it this afternoon, I promise,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.

  “You okay, my girl? You look like something the bear drug in … after dragging it around for a good long while.”

  I wave her off with a flip of the hand and a grim smile. “Nothing to worry about. Just some trouble sleeping. I’ll be fine.”

  “Ah, the schedule of a night nurse. I’ve never understood how you and Sara can flip flop back and forth between days and nights. I’d be a living zombie.”

  I turn my back to her and survey the shelves, marking down needed supplies and avoiding eye contact. Caroline is like a surrogate mom to most of us who work at the clinic, and she’s way too perceptive when her “children” are involved. Caroline knows about my past, but she’s respectful of my boundaries. She knows I’ll come to her if I need a listening ear, and I know she’s available if I do. It’s a silent understanding, and it works for us.