Ever Over After (The Over Duet #2)

by J. A. Derouen

  “Girl, don’t make me come over there.”

  “Sugar-free pudding and adult diapers,” I sing-song with a giggle.

  “Sugar-free pudding,” he grumbles under his breath. “Cockamamie junk cooked up in a lab. People need to eat what the good Lord provides us. Not something from a test tube.”

  “I miss you, Daddy,” I whisper, beating back the need to squeeze him. He’s so bossy … and ornery … and sweet.

  “I miss you, too, little girl. But if you don’t return my phone calls, you’ll be missing me a lot less because I’ll haul your butt back to Texas. Ya hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble.

  Guilt hangs heavy around me, because he’s right. My mind has been a flurry of confusion and what-ifs, and I’ve been neglecting one of the constants in my life. My dad is a sure-win, an unconditional. Ever, and all that comes with him, on the other hand, plagues me with “what ifs.”

  What if he can’t love who I’ve become?

  What if he can’t look at me after I tell him about Remy?

  And, even worse, the unimaginable, the one thing that could break me … again.

  What if I tell him and he doesn’t believe me?

  In Ever’s eyes, Remy saved him. To Ever, he’s an unsung hero, as ridiculous and vile as the words sound to me. How can I make him believe that the very same man had obliterated me … had changed the entire trajectory of my life?

  Maybe it’s best if Ever continues to believe he’s the sole reason I left New Orleans. It’s not really a lie—Ever’s blatant dismissal had crushed me back then. That part of the story is completely true, and the rest, namely Remy’s attack, can be filed under the heading of “convenient omission.” He can go on believing the asshole walks on water, and I can spare myself his looks of disgust and pity if I tell him the truth.

  Everyone wins.

  Unless Remy and I cross paths, which would be the dreaded spark to my gas-filled house of cards. Everything would tumble down in a fiery ball of flames.

  And all of this is dependent upon my ability to leave the past in the past. I’d truly believed I could do just that; I’ve been doing it for years. But no matter how long I beat back the burn, the memories are always with me like a rusty screen door, the creaky sound slicing through any semblance of peace. Since Ever reentered my life, I’ve battled so many feelings. Lust, fear, passion, irritation, love … so much love. But not one of those even comes close to approaching peace.

  My head throbs and my gut rolls with the barrage of unanswered questions…

  “Marlo Rivers, are you even listening to me?”

  “Huh?” I ask, my dad’s raised voice tugging me back into the here and now. “Sorry, I spaced out for a sec. What did you say?”

  He releases a pent up sigh. “I asked how work was going?”

  “Oh, you know—slinging babies and squeezing boobies.”

  “And the clinic?”

  “Swabbing orifices and passing out penicillin.”

  “A regular Mother Teresa, this one,” he mutters, chuckling under his breath.

  “What can I say, I’m a woman of the people.”

  “Oh, you’re something all right. But here’s the real question, smartass.”

  “Language, Dad,” I warn, turning the tables on him.

  “Hush it, little girl. The real question, Low, the only question that matters to your old dad is, are you happy? Is my only daughter smiling today?”

  Leave it to my dad to stump me. I don’t know if it’s intuition, my attempts at avoiding him, or if he hears it in my voice, but it’s obvious he knows something’s wrong. I shouldn’t be surprised; he’s always had a sixth sense about these things. It’s the reason I’ve been avoiding his calls.

  “I think so?” I answer, cringing at the uncertainty laced in my words. It’s the best I can do right now.

  “Not really selling it,” he says, sounding concerned. “Talk to me.”

  I wrestle with what to tell him, knowing a simple brush off won’t work with my dad. He possesses the ability to crack me in half and peek inside, not exactly ideal for someone intent on staying hidden.

  So, in an effort to divert his attention, I focus on something else that’s been bugging me.

  “Dad, what if Evelyn never left us,” I say, hurrying to explain myself before he can answer. “What I mean is, if she never took off, do you think you’d still be married?”

  He makes a strangled sound, half-sigh, half-groan, and sputters. “Well, heck, how should I know? What kind of question is that, Low?”

  “I’ve just been thinking about it. Don’t get me wrong, Oliver’s great. I just wonder what could have been, ya know?”

  “I don’t have a crystal ball, but if I had to venture a guess, I’d say things would have ended up pretty much the same.” He sighs, staying silent for a minute. “Young love has a way of making the world look small and insignificant. There’s no mountain you can’t climb, no ocean you can’t cross—”

  “No demon you can’t conquer?” I offer.

  “Sure, that, too. When the dust settles and the years stack up, things look different. That mountain? It’s so tall, it pierces the moon. And that ocean?”

  “Shark infested?”

  He barks out a laugh. “Oh yeah. Great whites,” he says, chuckling. “But I would have tried, Low. You’ve gotta know that. I would have given it my all. For you. And for Declan.”

  “I know, Dad,” I whisper, swallowing back the tears threatening to spill. I don’t doubt for a second he’d throw on some Kevlar and brave the sharks for Declan and me, if that’s what it took.

  And what if the past hadn’t drowned Evelyn, making her hightail it out of Texas? What if she’d leaned on my dad, her husband, and had found all the healing she’d needed in him—in his arms, in his heart, in our small, but fierce family. She could have told him about the hurt, the ghosts that hover in the background, looming close and coloring everything she touches.

  He would have loved her anyway. I know it.

  But instead, the mountain pierced the moon … the sharks smelled blood in the water … and the demons? The demons broke a family in two.

  “What brought all this on, sugar? You can talk to me about anything, you know that.” His tone is searching, and if I were at home, he’d have me in his lap with his tree trunk arms squeezing me by now. I can almost feel the pressure against my ribs.

  “I just wonder if the ‘love conquers all’ crapola is just that—a bunch of crap. If you and Evelyn loved each other, it should have been enough, right? But it wasn’t. Because you can’t love the problems away; love doesn’t make obstacles vanish into thin air,” I argue, arms gesturing wildly as if he can see me.

  “Hold on a minute, Low, it sounds like you’re saying if Evelyn and I couldn’t make it work, then no one can. That’s plain ridiculous.” He sounds frustrated, like he wants to shake some sense into me. Good luck with that. “Love is chock full of road blocks. Hell, life is full of road blocks. There’s no getting around it, and you shouldn’t want to anyway, because the struggle is part of the ride. I want you to enjoy the ride, Marlo. Can you do that for me?”

  “It’s not that easy, Dad.” I sound childish to my own ears, but there’s no way to make him understand how I feel without telling him things I don’t want him to know.

  “You don’t think I know that? There’s nothing easy about you, and anyone who spends more than five minutes with you figures that out quick-like. You are lightning in a bottle, girl, and any man lucky enough to snag you should sit back and enjoy the show.”

  “Ha! Lightning in a bottle? More like dynamite in a foxhole.”

  Dad howls with laughter, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Hoo, don’t I know it, little girl,” he cackles, catching his breath. I can imagine the flush of his cheeks and his eyes filled with elated tears. “I know better than anyone, and you know what? You’ve burned my ass on more than one occasion, and I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. Don’t let the cyni
c in you drown out the dreamer.”

  I scoff and roll my watery eyes.

  “Oh Marlooooooo, wherefore art thou, Marlooooooooo.” The sickeningly sweet sing-song voice filters through the bottom of the closed door, and I hear a faint giggle follow it. “The tangy pepperoni … the gooey cheese … they cry out for thee.”

  “I’ll try, Dad, I promise. I’ll even doodle little rainbows and hearts on my notepads,” I say, fanning my eyes and walking to the door. “One of your fellow dreamers is beckoning me for lunch, so I need to go.”

  “No time for your old man, I see,” he says with a good-hearted chuckle. “I know, I know, duty calls. Or lunch, and that’s just as important.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “Don’t let another week pass like that, baby. I love you, too.”

  “The soda fizzeth, only for you, my dearest Marloooooo!”

  “Bye,” I whisper into the phone, holding back the laugh as I swing open the door. “Cool it, Cain, before I put my footeth up your—”

  “Oomph!”

  The ground shakes as Cain tumbles backward on his ass, right into Sara. A jumble of legs, arms, and laughs greet me as I peek my head out of the barricaded door.

  “What the hell were y’all doing? Cain, did your monstrous weight kill Sara? Is she still breathing?” I laugh as Cain groans and Sara hops up, lithe as a cat.

  “This girl knows how to stop, drop, and roll. I’m fine. As for this bumbling idiot, we may need an ice pack or ten. He was bent over, with his mouth to the bottom of the door when you opened it.” Sara nudges Cain’s shoulder with her sneaker, then cups her hands around her lips. “Tim-ber!”

  He groans again and swipes at Sara’s ankle, but she’s too quick. The groan turns into a growl.

  “See if I worry about your nutritional state again. Fend for yourself, woman,” Cain grumbles as he rolls on all fours and crawls away. He reaches up and swipes a piece of pizza off the desk before leaning up against it. He tears off a bite and chews angrily. “And to think we’re leaving Mr. Biscuit in your care. He’ll never survive. I’m calling Celia—we’re not going anywhere this weekend!”

  He rips his cell out of his pocket. He tries to dial the phone while juggling his pizza in the other hand, his bear-like fingers fumbling over the screen. Another groan.

  “Wait,” I say, narrowing my eyes at Cain. “What did you say about Mr. Biscuit? I’m doing what?”

  “Watching him? This weekend? Celia talked to you about it?” When I widen my eyes and shrug, he throws up his hands in exasperation. “My dog’s gonna die for fucking sure.”

  “Celia mentioned it at the hospital,” Sara mumbles under her breath, trying to fill me in on what I’d obviously missed. “She asked you the night Alex had the baby.”

  “Oh, you mean the night I was a walking zombie and would have agreed to shave off my own eyebrows if anyone would have asked?”

  “That can be arranged,” Cain says as he shoves the entirety of his pizza into his mouth, freeing both his hands to use the phone.

  I stalk across the room and swipe the phone out of Cain’s hands. My goodwill nearly takes a hike when I see the text he’s composing.

  Marlo is a non-dogsitting douchebag.

  “Pipe down, ya big baby. I’ll watch the damn pooch. I just forgot.”

  I delete his text and toss the phone at his chest with a little more force than necessary.

  “Let’s hope you don’t forget to feed him. Or take him for a walk. Or put on his ThunderShirt when you leave.”

  Sara erupts into a fit of giggles as I stare at Cain. “His thunder what?”

  Cain pouts, and his eyes get soft. “He wears a ThunderShirt when he’s alone so it feels like someone’s hugging him.” He wraps his arms around himself and squeezes as a demonstration.

  “Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head.

  “Hey, Mr. Biscuit is a very sensitive soul. Celia’s damn cat makes his nerves bad.” Cain’s eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath. “She told you about the cat, right?”

  And that’s when Sara’s giggles morph into an all out laughing fit.

  Marlo

  “CAN I OPEN them yet?” I ask Jeb, and I already hear him tsking.

  “Patience, patience. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  Jeb chuckles. I groan.

  Ever crashed at my house last night, although not much sleeping had occurred, and he’d heard the growls of my stomach when we woke up this morning. He’s got a full day and night at the restaurant, followed by a full day at the market tomorrow, but he’d promised to feed me breakfast if I followed him to Moelle. I was dressed and ready in five minutes flat.

  “Okay, open your eyes,” Jeb says, his voice tinged with excitement.

  I pull my hands away from my face and inch open one eyelid. On the counter in front of me, he’s placed a tall thin glass of … green goo. Yep, that’s green goo. My lip curls in revulsion.

  “I thought you were a bartender, not a nutritionist. I’m not interested in some kale and spinach concoction. This body is already in tip-top shape. Just ask your friend,” I say sweetly, blowing a kiss across the kitchen as Ever’s hands dance across the pans on the stove.

  He winks back at me, and I beam. “She does not lie.”

  “First of all, you two are gonna make me spew. Make googly eyes on your own time. Second of all, I’m not a bartender. I’m a mixologist. Respect,” he says, beating a fist to his chest.

  I roll my eyes and sigh. “Do any of your points actually address this horrid drink in front of me?”

  He ignores my comment and dusts a pinch of spice over the glass. “Touch of cayenne.” Then he stacks pickled okra, pearl onions, and grape tomatoes onto a toothpick and slides it into the drink. “And the garnish for your Bloody Mary, with only the best southern green tomatoes. I bought them fresh and created the mix myself.”

  I swipe the glass off the counter, and pull a sip from the straw before he finishes talking. The spices are perfect, the mix zesty and quenching, and the slight twinge of vodka at the end surprises me. Jeb raises his hand to me before I can protest.

  “I only put a dash of vodka in it to keep the integrity of the flavor,” Jeb says, then shoots Ever a pointed look when he mutters “pretentious douche” under his breath. “Promise, Thumbelina couldn’t even get a buzz. I know you don’t really drink much.”

  “No it’s okay,” I tell him, then stop short, deflating. “I’m sorry, Ever, I didn’t think. Does it bother—”

  “Not at all. Don’t worry about that. Drinking was never my thing. Besides it’s my problem, not yours.” He smiles, and I do the same, but make a mental note to talk to him. If it’s a problem of his, it’s a problem of mine. I want us to be a team.

  I turn back to Jeb and take another sip. “It’s delicious, Jeb. I take back my previous comments. You’re really talented.”

  Jeb puffs up with each compliment, and his grin grows wider and wider.

  “I give him shit all the time, because … well, it’s what we do, but I don’t think he gets how talented he is. Some of the drinks he makes are so precise, the flavors so intricate, he adds ingredients with eye droppers. Eye droppers,” Ever says, pride for his friend etched in his face. “You won’t find a better mix of the best ingredients anywhere. What happened to our slacker friend, Low?”

  “I’m obviously the slacker here,” I say before taking another sip of my drink. “And I’m okay with that. While you two are slaving in this kitchen, I’m gonna see how many Friends episodes I can watch in a row while stuffing my face with buttercream icing straight out of the bowl.”

  “Pivot!” Jeb hollers in his best Ross impression, and I burst out laughing.

  Ever slides a plate fit for a queen in front of me and kisses my temple. “Save some of that icing for tomorrow night, yeah?”

  A shiver runs up my spine, but comes to a screeching halt at the sound of Jeb retching. I give him the evil eye, and he shrugs.

  “Sorry, sorry, I must have
choked on the grits,” he says, then dives back into his breakfast.

  “It’s a grit, man. Pretty sure it’s impossible to choke on something the size of a gnat,” Ever says with a laugh.

  Jeb jabs his fork in our direction. “If this shrimp and grits wasn’t the bomb, I’d chuck it. No talk of gnats while I’m eating. No talk of icing either, ya pervs.”

  The cheap shots and good-hearted insults fly freely through breakfast, and I hang around to help with the clean up. I stack the plates on top of each other and bring them over to Ever at the sink.

  “Hey Low,” Jeb calls, and I turn around. He lifts my drink in the air and shakes the ice. “You want the dregs, or can I drink the rest?”

  His question hits me right between the eyes, because I didn’t, not until this very moment, give one thought to drinking the Bloody Mary he’d made for me. A sense of victory quickly follows my initial reaction of dread. No trembling fingers. No short, rapid breathing. No thoughts of control, or the lack thereof. A friend had offered me a drink, and I’d taken the damn thing like nothing.

  Like a normal person.

  “You can have it,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around Ever’s waist and resting my forehead on his back as he scrubs the dishes. I suck in a deep breath through my nose, fighting the smile and watery eyes. For once, these are happy tears. I’m not foolish enough to think I’m cured of my compulsive habit, and I’m not naive enough to be oblivious of my surroundings, but I still put a check mark in the “win” column.

  We’ve been living in our private bubble of slippery skin, tangled limbs, and whispered promises for a few weeks now, but the niggling doubt about my past has continually pulled me away. As much as I want this to work with Ever, the truth about why I left Orleans Academy, and him, feels like an invisible wall between us. Sometimes, I don’t even know it’s there. Other times, I bang on the glass in frustration. This “win” shows me, with time, I can throw a rock and shatter it all to pieces. I just need time.