Forever & Always: The Ever Trilogy (Book 1)

by Jasinda Wilder

  But hearing about you dating Will or Billy or whatever his name is, hearing about you thinking about having sex with him? It’s…kind of hard.

  I had a crush on you when we first met. I thought you were beautiful. So beautiful. It was hard to think of anything else. Then camp ended and we never got together, and now all I have of you is these letters.

  Shit. I just told you I have a crush on you. HAD. Had a crush. Not sure what it is anymore. A letter-crush? A literary love? That’s stupid. Sorry. I just have this rule with myself that I never throw away what I write and I always send it, so hopefully this doesn’t weird you out too much.

  Did you get my last letter? You didn’t respond to anything I wrote, so I was just wondering.

  I had a dream about you, too. Same kind of thing. Us, in the darkness, together. Just us. And it was like you said, a memory turned into a dream, but a memory of something that’s never happened, but in the dream it felt so real, and it was more, I don’t even know, more RIGHT than anything I’ve ever felt, in life or in dreams. I wonder what it means that we both had the same dream about each other. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. You tell me.

  Cade

  As I finished the last line, I realized with a bolt of horror that I’d never read Cade’s last letter. Everything with Will had pushed it straight out of my head. My brain was spinning, my heart whirling in mad, confused circles. Cade had a crush on me? Literary love? He’d dismissed the phrase as stupid, but to me, it was raw poetry. It meant something. Literary love. I’d only spent a few hours with Cade at the camp, but I knew so much about him.

  I dug through my purse until I found his previous letter, ripped it open, and read it. By the end, I was sobbing. He’d lost his dad, too? How much could one person endure?

  And then I’d sent him this selfish, rambling letter about how I was confused about having sex with my boyfriend. He must think I was such an asshole. Yet, he’d told me my letters were important to him. Were they still?

  He thought I was beautiful. He thought I was beautiful?

  Did Will? He hadn’t said so. He acted like he wanted me, but was that different from thinking I was beautiful.

  Cade,

  I’m so sorry about your dad. I can’t even begin to put into words how sad I am for you. You’ve lost so much in your life. No one should have to go through what you have. I actually put that letter in my purse to read later and then got sidetracked and forgot. That’s a shitty explanation, I know. I’m sorry. I treasure your letters, too. I really do. I cried so hard when I read that letter.

  I know my letter about Billy must’ve seemed especially inconsiderate and self-centered in light of that. I won’t write about him anymore.

  Regarding your feelings for me, god, that really complicates things. I felt the same way. You were so different from everyone I’d ever met, ever seen. You’re handsome, but that’s not the right word. It’s not enough. You’re…god, “rugged” is the only word I can think of. Is that stupid? It’s better than cute, which just doesn’t apply, in a good sort of way. And I really did have a crush on you. When you came out to the dock right at the end of camp, the way you put your arms around me and just held me, I’ve never felt so comforted in all my life. I know I said I wouldn’t talk about Will, but he’s a part of this discussion. He and I are dating. It’s just a fact. But then I have this relationship with you. I feel like I know you, like we’re connected in some way, like our souls are cut from the same cloth. Does that make sense? So it almost feels like cheating to have this with you, but it’s not. We’re pen pals. Maybe that’s all we’ll ever be. I don’t know. If we met IRL (in real life, in case you’re not familiar with the term) what would happen? What would we be? And just FYI, the term you used, a literary love? It was beautiful. So beautiful. That term means something, between us now. We are literary loves. Lovers? I do love you, in some strange way. Knowing about you, in these letters, knowing your hurt and your joys, it means something so important to me that I just can’t describe. If that’s unfair or unfaithful to Will, I don’t care. Maybe that’s horrible of me, but it’s the truth, and it’s a truth only you know. There are things, if I’m being honest, that only you know. Like for instance, I’ve never told anyone, ever, how I feel about Eden. How I love her with all my heart and soul and could never live without her, but sometimes just…just can’t stand her. Hate her. She’s so impossible sometimes. No one knows that but you. No one knows how mixed up I am about Will, either, except you, and to some degree him. No one knows how fucked up I am about missing Mom. How all my art is an attempt to find her inside me, to feel like I’ve found her. Like she’s here with me. That’s why I paint, why I take photos and draw and sculpt. I have to do it. I’m an artist, so on some level I simply have to make art because that’s who and what I am and what I do, but Mom, missing her, needing her, that’s why I am what I am, who I am. Because she was an artist and I need her back, and I keep hoping on some bizarre metaphysical level that I’ll find her through my art. That’s stupid, I know. It’ll never happen. Her ghost won’t ever suddenly appear in my paint, and I won’t ever suddenly have some life-changing epiphany about Mom because I’m an artist. But that doesn’t stop me from trying on some unconscious level.

  Related, but different: don’t give up on your life, or your art. You lost your parents, but you didn’t lose yourself. You’re alive. Be alive, Cade. Don’t give up. Please? For me, if nothing else. Because I need your art and your letters and your literary love. If we never have anything else between us, I need this. I do. Maybe this letter will only complicate things, but like you I have a rule that I never throw away what I’ve written and I always send it, no matter what I write.

  Your literary love,

  Ever

  Ever,

  Don’t be sad for me, Ever. I’ll be okay. One day at a time, I’ll be fine. Some days I don’t know how I’ll manage, and other days I’m just me and I’m fine, content and happy enough to be on horseback in the rolling wilds of Wyoming.

  I was thinking, though. When you sent me that letter about being mixed up about Will/Billy, you said at the beginning that you didn’t know who else to turn to. And I completely understand. I don’t really, either, when it comes to things with Luisa. So how about this: we keep on confiding in each other, even when it’s hard? Even when I might feel jealous or hurt or confused because I do still have some kind of feelings for you, even though I know we’ll probably never meet again, you tell me what’s going in your life, no matter what. We’ve always told each other everything in these letters. We said at the very beginning of this epistolary relationship (I learned that word in history class. My teacher, Mr. Boyd, is reading us John Adams’ letters to his wife Abigail, and they’re so beautiful. You should read them. I’ve learned a lot from those letters), that these are like journal entries that we send out. And we get responses on those journal entries, and we understand each other. So don’t stop. And I won’t, either.

  In light of that, I’ll share this with you: I went on a ride with Luisa. Horse ride, I mean. We had a picnic and rode out into the middle of nowhere, no one for miles. And…we nearly did it. I guess I chickened out at the last second. Not quite ready. She is, though, and she’s not shy about telling me. Gramps hinted that she came to Wyoming from Mexico because she’d gotten in trouble back home, so I just flat out asked her, and she told me the truth. She’d gotten kicked out of her last school for being…promiscuous. Had a pregnancy scare, I guess, and her parents decided she needed a change of pace, or scenery or something. And now she’s trying to hook up with me, and I’m mixed up about it. If she’s up here to make better decisions, is being with me a bad idea? I want it, though. I can’t think of anything else when we’re together, in the moment, you know? I know you get it—you said as much in your letter about Will/Billy. I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore, and sometimes I just don’t care. She makes me feel good. She likes me for who I am, and she wants me. Feeling desired, wanted, is addicting. I can
’t help it, can’t help wanting more. And, good or bad, I don’t think I’m going to try and resist that. It’s going to happen with us, and soon, and I know it, and I’m not fighting it. I deserve some happiness, right? I’ll be careful, though. You too, okay?

  Cade

  Caden’s letter sparked in me a weird kind of jealousy, displaced and confused. I couldn’t stop it, didn’t quite understand it, and didn’t know how to deal with it. Especially since I’d had a very similar experience with Will. In his car again. We went farther than before. I touched him. Made him come with my hands. Got so close to doing it, but didn’t quite. And like Cade had, I’d just chickened out. It would happen soon. I knew it, Will knew it. We hadn’t discussed it, except that I told him if and when we did have sex, I didn’t want it to be in his car. He said he’d figure something out.

  Weeks passed, letters went back and forth. I explained the Will/Billy name issue to Cade, how I vacillated back and forth in how I thought of him and how that difference seemed significant but in a way I didn’t understand. Just after Thanksgiving, I learned, via a short but intensely uncomfortable letter, that Cade had had sex with Luisa. He said it was amazing, but not what he’d expected: It didn’t last as long as I thought it would, and I don’t think Luisa was too happy with how quickly it was over, but she was great and didn’t make me feel bad about it. I can definitely see what the big deal is, though. You feel like…like you’ve grown up, afterward. Everything is different, in some way I can’t quite explain, after you’re no longer a virgin.

  Christmas break, Will’s house. His parents were gone, having left for vacation to Europe, and since he’d been so many times, Will opted to stay home with me. I knew why, and when he invited me over the day after Christmas to open our presents to each other, my heart pounded. We opened presents, had eggnog spiked with his dad’s rum, and watched Elf.

  And then, casually, Will asked if I’d like to see his room.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Caden

  Dear Caden,

  We did it. Will and I. In his room, yesterday. His parents are in Switzerland for the rest of the break, and we have the house to ourselves. Like you said, I feel totally different now. I see why it’s the subject that seems to make the world keep spinning, you know? My lit of the ancient world teacher—who is also the history teacher—once said that kingdoms and empires have been torn apart by sex. That for a woman, rivers of blood have been shed. I get it, I do. It’s life-changing. But not what I thought it would be.

  Maybe this is TMI, even for us, but I didn’t come. He’s made me before. But during actual sex, I didn’t. And the most horrible part? Will asked me if I did, and I lied. I said I had. I’m not sure why. I guess I knew he’d be upset if he knew I hadn’t, and didn’t want to make him feel like he’d done something wrong. He hadn’t. It felt good, really good, but I just didn’t get there before he was done. Lying about it made me feel worse than anything, though. I thought for sure that I would, but I didn’t, and I actually sort of felt like I’d been the one to do something wrong, you know? Like there was something wrong with me that I couldn’t.

  Sorry, Cade, I know that’s probably way, way too much information, but I HAD to tell someone, and it couldn’t be Eden. I don’t think I’ll ever tell Will, to be totally honest. I’m worried he’ll be mad at me. And I’m also hoping the next time will be different. Better, somehow.

  Always your own,

  Ever

  I wanted to throw up after I read the letter. I’d told her about my experience with Luisa, and I’d been pretty blunt, too, so I couldn’t be upset. And we’d agreed to be totally honest with each other no matter what, but I still felt sick hearing she’d had sex with Will. I knew, for myself, that Luisa hadn’t come while we were together. She’d said it still felt good, and I believed her. I told her not to fake it, or lie, just to tell me or show me how to make her enjoy it more. So she did. The more time we spent together that way, the more I learned how to make Luisa respond.

  I guess that was part of what upset me about the letter from Ever. I thought, deep down inside where I didn’t dare admit things even to myself, that I could be better for Ever than Will. I’d know she hadn’t come, and I’d make sure she did. I’d make sure she felt good. That was the point, right? Not just for him, but for both of them to feel good.

  That was a truth that I didn’t dare tell Ever. Some secrets are best kept locked deep down in the silent places of one’s soul.

  As junior year raced away, turned to summer, and from there into senior year, there were three constants in my life: riding, roping, and breaking horses; Luisa; and letters to and from Ever. Miguel knew Luisa and I were together, and seemed okay with it as long as she stayed in school, passed her classes, and didn’t get in any trouble, especially of the out-of-wedlock maternity kind. Against which eventuality we’d been very careful, Luisa with pills and me with protection every time. Ever confided in one letter that she and Will were being careful, too, after I’d directly asked her about it.

  Our letters, Ever’s and mine, hadn’t changed in terms of personal details, or the strange kind of faux-lover intimacy, but as we got closer and closer to graduation, they’d become less frequent. Once a week became once a month, and then, by the time I’d walked the aisle and gotten my diploma, the letters were sporadic at best. I still told her everything, and she told me everything, too, I think, but we just didn’t have time to write as frequently. I was busy with the ranch and Luisa, and Ever had been just as busy with Will and an apprenticeship program at Cranbrook Academy of Art that was earning her college credits in preparation for attending Cranbrook’s collegiate program after she graduated.

  I’d not mentioned, to her or anyone else, that I’d decided to stay in Wyoming, working the ranch. Ever had asked more than once what my plan was, but I’d avoided the discussion.

  Gramps had asked, too, but I’d said I was still thinking.

  It was a week after graduation, and I was sitting in the pre-dawn darkness sipping coffee. Gramps came in, poured himself a mug, and sat down across from me, taking a long drink of his black, scalding-hot coffee. “So, grandson. Tell me your plans. No more evading, no more bullshit. You’ve graduated. Now what? Where are you going to college?”

  I took a sip, and met his steady gaze. “I’m not. I’m staying here.”

  Gramps let out a long breath. “No, Cade.” He leaned forward, wrapping one hand around the mug. “Listen, son. It’s true, my heart wants you to stay here, but…you’re too talented an artist for that. You’re a damn fine ranch hand, and I’ve been lucky to have you. But you have to go to college. You have to follow your own dreams.”

  I shook my head. “Gramps…I’ve changed. This is my dream now.”

  “Bullshit.” Gramps slammed his palm on the table. “You’ve given up. You’re here because it’s easy. It’s what you know. I accepted that when you were sixteen. I knew you needed family and something familiar to give you a solid footing after you lost Jan and Aidan so close together. But now, you’ve settled. And I won’t have it. You hear me? I won’t fucking have it. You’ve got your mom in you, and Aidan. They were both intelligent, driven, artistic people. You are, too. But losing your parents, it’s taken something from you. You’re responsible, and you’re steady. But…you’ve got more life to live than simply staying here in Casper fucking Wyoming, breaking horses and making babies. There’s more in store for you than that, boy, and I’m not gonna be the one to stand aside and let you wallow in apathy.”

  “I’m not apathetic, Gramps. I like it here. I don’t have a plan, not for art. I don’t know what I’d do. Plus…Luisa is here.”

  Gramps pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cade, son. Tell me. What do you love about Luisa?”

  I hunted for what to say. “She’s beautiful. She’s smart. She gets me.”

  He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his words were slow and careful and measured. “Your Grams completes me. Every moment I spend with her makes me a better man
. It’s not just because I’m attracted to her that I love her. She was—and is, as much as ever—a knockout, to me. When I met her after the war, she was this sweet, sassy, independent, sexy little thing, and I didn’t have a chance of resisting her. I met her in a café in San Francisco, before I moved back here. I knew from the moment I saw her that I had to make her mine. And I did. She made my world, Cade. She still does. I’ve spent every single moment of my life for the last forty-plus years with her. I’ve not left her side once, not once, since the day we met. And I’m not ever going to. I love her mind, her heart. I love that she takes care of my boys, the hands. She’s taken you in like her own and loved you. She puts up with my cranky, moody ass.” He leveled a sharp gaze at me. “That’s what I love about my wife. Now, what do you love about Luisa?”

  “Gramps, you’ve had forty years to figure all that out—”

  “If you’d asked me that question the day we married, when I asked her to marry me, or while we were dating, after I knew I loved her, I would have said much the same. I get what you’re saying, that I’ve had a lifetime with her to learn how to put it like that. But my point is, you’re not in love with Luisa. And you know what? I think you know it. You’re settling. There’s nothing wrong with Luisa. You’ve been good for her, and her for you. She brought you out of your shell a little, and you settled her down some. But do I think that you should not go to college, not finish your education and find a career worthy of your talent, because she’s here? Hell, no. Have you talked to her about your plans? About hers?” He sighed again, rubbing his face. “I love you, Caden. You’re my only grandchild. I want the best for you, and I’ve said my piece. You’re eighteen and an adult. You make your own decisions. But if you stay here, my forecast is that you’ll end up bitter and lonely. There’s something missing in you. I can see it. I may be nothin’ but an old soldier and a cowboy, but I can see well enough. You’re incomplete. And you ain’t gonna find what you need here.”