by J. L. Berg
“Please tell me you actually cooked those eggs on the stove?” I asked, as his eyes darted to the microwave.
“You microwaved them?” I asked incredulously, my hands going to my hips.
“Well, I mean—it worked, didn’t it?”
“I have no words. Seriously. No words. This is going to be harder than I thought.”
“For a women of no words—you sure are talking a lot,” he joked.
“Shut it,” I laughed, slapping his arm as I moved toward the refrigerator.
“Have you used the stove at all?” I asked, pulling open the monstrous refrigerator in search of ideas. I had plans of making some sort of pasta, but I needed ingredients. I found a block of cheese and some shaved ham I assumed he’d been using for lunchmeat. Moving to the freezer, I found a bag of frozen peas, which could work.
“Okay, we’re going to make dinner. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he laughed, his hazel eyes flashing green with amusement.
“Just put this down as one of those new life experiences you’re always wanting, okay?”
“For some reason, I somehow already know I’m going to hate cooking. Just call it a sixth sense.”
I shook my head and laughed. He’d always been scared of the kitchen. It was why I’d grown so found of it in the first place. When we first moved in together, I quickly realized neither of us knew our way around the kitchen, much less a box of ramen. After several failed attempts to make meals together, I took the lead, teaching myself during my free time how to prepare simple dishes that were low cost and filling.
Later, when budget was no longer a concern, I branched out and began experimenting more with fancier ingredients and more intricate recipes. August was always proud of me and loved the food I produced.
At least until the end—when he was too busy to care about anything.
Then all he wanted to do was grab a quick bite and rush out the door.
But now, all that was behind us. We were starting new and I needed to remember that.
So, on with the cooking lesson.
“Do you have any garlic?” I asked. The vacant look in his eyes told me that was a definite no. “Okay, tomorrow—when I get off work, we are going shopping. And we’re stocking this kitchen. This is horrifying. I refuse to live someplace that doesn’t have food.”
“I have food. Sort of,” he argued. “But yes,” he answered, wrapping his large hands around my waist. “We’ll go shopping. Together. For our kitchen.” He placed emphasis on the word “our,” releasing a bevy of butterflies in my belly. The idea of sharing a home together—again—made me feel nervous, scared, and exhilarated all at once.
I leaned back into his embrace as his hands began to wander.
“Hey! No distracting me,” I laughed. “I haven’t had a decent meal in days. Now, go find some noodles.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He wandered into the pantry while I set my sights on the ham, grabbing a knife to begin chopping. I had a simple pasta dish in mind, but the ham and peas needed to cook through first.
“Any chance you have an onion in there?” I called out. He stuck his head out, holding a package of spaghetti.
“I’m pretty sure if there was, it would have sprouted roots by now.”
I laughed and took the pasta from him as he came out of the pantry to stand beside me. “So, what do you want me to do now?” he asked, his voice low and husky next to my ear.
I audibly gulped, thinking of all the ways I could answer that question.
“Get a pot for the water,” I answered softly.
I heard him chuckle as he turned toward the cupboard to grab a pot.
Jerk.
“So are we ever going to talk about your outing today?” he asked, returning with a large pot. I watched him place it carefully on the stove, as if he was scared he’d break something, as I tried to figure out how we’d gone from casually flirting to this.
“I don’t know…never?” I tried to joke.
“I know I’m new to well…everything,” he said, swiveling me around in his arms, “but according to the many romantic comedies I’ve watched, we’re supposed to talk through our feelings and emotions. Otherwise bad, albeit hilarious consequences follow.”
His smile was infectious. “You’ve based all of your relationship experience on romantic comedies?”
“Well, not all. I threw in a few dramas to keep it serious,” he laughed.
“Oh boy,” I replied.
“Now, come on—I know something happened. You ran upstairs with your things and I didn’t see you for hours as you hid in that room.”
I sighed, finally resting my head on his shoulder.
“Ryan showed up. It was brutal.”
His hands gripped my chin, forcing eye contact. “What did he say? What do you mean by brutal?” His expression had turned dark, defensive.
“He said he’d wait for me.”
His face fell as he realized the reason. “Because he thinks I’ll hurt you again.”
I nodded.
“I will always keep you safe.”
“I know,” I said.
“No, look at me,” he begged, as his intense gaze met mine. Hazel green eyes full of fire and promise met mine and I knew without a doubt he meant every word.
“I’ll never hurt you again, Everly.”
As my lips eagerly met his, I hoped and prayed I’d made the right choice, because a life with August was going to be anything but simple.
Chapter Twenty-Four
August
I didn’t know how long it would be before Everly would be able to move into the master—if ever. So, the next morning, I decided to move my things into the guest bedroom with hers.
I hadn’t asked her to elaborate on her fears over the master bedroom, but I had a feeling I already knew based on the lock I’d removed from the outside. Proof that I’d really had locked her in there.
Why?
What reason would a man have to lock the woman he loved in their bedroom? I just didn’t understand it.
“Why are you up so early?” Everly asked, peeking in at the doorway. She had a towel wrapped around her head and chest and drops of water dripped down her arms. If she didn’t have to be at work in thirty minutes…
“I wanted to see you before you left…and drink the coffee you made,” I grinned.
“Who said I was making coffee?” She laughed.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you in the last few days, it’s that you cannot survive without coffee running through your veins. Especially in the morning.”
She smiled brightly, something I’d never take for granted. “You’re right. I’ve already had a cup. There’s a fresh pot downstairs.” I expected her to head back to the guest room and finish getting ready for work, but instead, I heard light footsteps enter the bedroom. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in here. She’d wandered in here a few times, only to scurry back out in record time. The first time had been on that evening she drove me home from the hospital after my car accident.
I’d seen the torture and misery then. I had assumed it was all directed at me—and I’m sure a good part of it had been, but I’d never thought about how much a room could affect someone.
How many memories a house could carry.
“Are you happy here?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she asked as she roamed around the room, looking at some of the pictures I’d recently hung. After I’d purged the house of everything Everly, I’d begun hanging my own photography. It filled me with pride to see her admiring it now.
“I mean—this room, this house…it’s filled with so many memories. Would it be easier to just…start over?”
“You want to sell this place?” she asked in shock.
“I would—for you,” I said, taking a step in her direction. “I’d do anything to make you happy.”
She continued her long walk around the room, stopping at the large dresser
by the bed as she silently thought. “This house is filled with memories. So many of them—both good and bad. And sometimes it’s overwhelming being here with all of them swirling around in my head.”
“So, let’s move,” I urged.
“Let me finish,” she said. “As overwhelming as it is sometimes, it’s also soothing. Like therapy. The fact that I can walk into this room right now gives me a great sense of peace. Knowing I can face my fears head on, rather than running away from them like I usually do? I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel. I may not be able to sleep here, but at least I can take baby steps for now.”
“I just don’t like seeing you in any kind of pain. If I could take it away by just erasing it all—”
“No,” she said adamantly. “I love this house. Despite everything, it means a great deal to me. Right now, I need to work on fighting the ghosts—not running from them.”
Finding my way to her as she fiddled with my watch and other various things that sat in a large ornamental bowl on the dresser, I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Looking up at me over her shoulder, she gave a small smile. “Yes. Help me make new ones.”
“Gladly,” I whispered, leaning in to capture her lips. She pulled back, laughing under her breath. “I didn’t mean this second—you’re going to make me late for work!”
“Very very late,” I agreed.
“August!” she yelped, twisting out of my grasp.
“Okay, okay!” I chuckled. “But you owe me—the second you get home.”
“Deal,” she agreed with a Cheshire Cat grin that nearly had me on my knees forgetting everything I’d just agreed to.
“Hey, can I borrow your watch?” she asked, grabbing it from the large bowl.
“Sure, why?” I asked, looking over her shoulder.
“I usually wear one to work and in my rush to pack yesterday, I forgot mine. I can go back to get it but—”
“It’s yours,” I said, placing my hand over hers. “But don’t just settle on that one. There are a few more in there. Take a look and pick whichever one you want. I was going to donate them to charity since I have no need for six different watches.”
“You realize,” she said, standing on her tip toes as she dug through the bowl. “That most people keep these types of watches under lock and key, right? Not in a glass bowl on the top of their dresser? Do you know how much these are worth?” Her eyes darted back to mine with an amused grin.
“Probably a fortune, and I’m sure the old me cared about that kind of shit…but really? It’s just a watch. It tells time just as well as something I could pick up at Target.”
“I’m pretty sure some people would argue with you on that,” she laughed, trying on another bold silver watch. She held out her arm to look at it and then shook her head and moved on.
“Yeah—rich snobby people.”
“Like you?” she teased.
“I’m rich, but definitely not snobby.”
“No,—hey, what’s this?” she asked as her hand dug to the bottom of the bowl.
I came to join her and saw her hesitantly pull out the tiny green bead I’d found in my coat pocket when I was in the hospital.
“Maybe you can tell me,” I said as she swiveled around to face me.
“What do you mean?” Her eyes were wide, like I’d said something to ignite panic.
“I found it in my belongings when I was in the hospital. It was in my coat, so it must have been there the night of the mugging. I just thought you might know what it is,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder.
“I’ve never seen it before,” she said, jerking back as she eyed the tiny green bead.
“Hey, are you all right?”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, averting my gaze. “It’s just that night—it was scary. I don’t like reliving it.”
God, I’m an idiot.
“No—shit, of course not. Come here,” I said, pulling her closer. She came into my arms and I felt her shaking against me. “I’m so sorry, Everly. I’ll never mention it again.”
I felt her nod as she pulled herself back together.
“It’s okay—you didn’t know. I better get ready for work. I’m definitely going to be late if I don’t hurry.”
“Sure, of course,” I answered, watching her flee for the guest bedroom.
Would she ever stop running?
* * *
Over the next few days, Everly and I settled into a happy rhythm. I woke up with her early in the morning, sometimes waking her myself with a dip beneath the covers or a gentle kiss to pull her from her slumber.
Alarm clocks were greatly overrated.
Most days she’d make it to work on time, although I had made her late a time or two. She’d threatened life and limb if I kept it up so I just woke her up earlier. She wasn’t too pleased.
At first.
I found Everly was easy to persuade once my mouth was buried deep between her legs. Of course, much the same could be said of me when the situation was reversed and she was in the driver’s seat. If Everly wanted anything, it could be hers in those moments when I was buried deep inside her.
But the only thing she asked for was more.
And more was exactly what I gave. Every damn time.
Everly showing up at my house that night, angry and hurt, had changed my entire life. I’d never thought I’d get a single smile from her, much less be able to reach for her without her recoiling in fear. What I thought might have been lingering feelings left over from a former life only intensified with each passing day.
The more I learned about her, the deeper our connection grew…and the further I fell.
It wasn’t just the girl in the picture I was falling for; it was Everly, the coffee-addicted, quick-witted woman who always managed to keep me on my toes. She was funny, bright, and she could make dynamite pasta out of basically nothing.
It was a wonder I could keep my hands off her for a second.
It was also the excuse I gave myself for driving toward the café instead of home after running errands early one afternoon, with hope I could take her out to a late lunch.
Parking was a bitch, as was the case in most of San Francisco, so I ended up several blocks away and had to huff it to the café on foot. Luckily, the fog had mostly cleared and the sun was attempting to peek through the clouds, bringing the promise of warmer weather with it. The light jacket I wore hopefully would no longer be needed later in the day. San Franciscans, I learned, loved the sun. They wouldn’t live anywhere else. This foggy, cloud-covered city was the only place in their eyes, but when the sun managed to make its way through the gray sky, it was like a damn miracle. People flocked to the parks, bike rentals sold out, and everyone ran out to enjoy the great outdoors.
As the heat from a small ray of sunshine warmed my chilled face, I didn’t blame my fellow city dwellers one bit.
Not one damn bit.
Just as I reached the little café, my phone began to buzz in my pocket. Curiosity got the best of me and I reached in to grab it, wondering who could be calling me.
I very rarely received calls. I had been in the hospital for over two years and had not had a single visitor, so I considered myself not exactly popular.
The name “Trent” flashed across the screen, the same name my attorney had mentioned a while ago. Although seeing the name piqued my interest, I seriously wondered if this call wasn’t going to be like all the others. This wasn’t the first random phone call or blast from my past, as I liked to call them. I’d been naive in the beginning and had answered a few, only to discover that my attorney was quite the talker, and word had gotten out that I had miraculously “risen from the dead.” Many of my former acquaintances had called, saying they wanted to check on my progress now that I was out of the hospital. When asked why they hadn’t bothered checking on me sooner, I received several colorful answers, including one from a Mr. Parker who said he knew me from “the club”, but who said he hadn’t wanted to
bother me in my delicate state.
I’d been in a coma.
For two years.
I wised up quickly to the money-grubbing assholes and stopped answering my phone. My former life had been filled with fake people and their fancy shit. I’d had enough. I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and reached for the café’s door handle.
Everly had once said she loved working at the coffee shop not only for the endless supply of coffee but also because it was never the same from one day to the next. Because she and her coworkers always divided up the duties, she would end up working the counter one day and barista the next. It kept her on her toes.
As I walked in that afternoon, her smiling face wasn’t the first thing I saw—which meant she was the one in charge of the crazy machinery that churned out the caffeine. As I heard her call out a double whipped, extra hot something or other, I began to understand why she took her coffee plain and black.
I had no idea coffee could be so damned confusing.
“Can I help you?” A perky young blonde asked from behind the counter.
“Yes,” I answered, giving her a lazy smile.
“What can I get you, handsome?” she winked.
“Actually, I’m just here for Everly. Wanted to see if she had lunch plans.”
She looked me up and down. Her caramel brown eyes assessed me before she turned and hollered over the noise. “Everly, you have a visitor!”
“Okay!” she yelled back, and I saw a tuft of her red hair peeking over the tops of the coffee machines.
“And who might you be?” the blonde asked, placing her hands down on the counter as if she had all the time in the world. I looked behind me, realized I was indeed the only person in line, and grinned.
“I’m Everly’s—”
“Friend,” Everly rushed over and cut me off. “Longtime friend,” she stressed again.
“Well…does your hot friend have a name?” the blonde asked, now looking me up and down like I was a large slab of steak and she was a caged lioness just waiting to sink her teeth in.
“August,” I answered, holding out my hand in greeting, although my eyes never left Everly’s.
