“Walk with me?” I ask, and her expression is hard and unyielding. I squeeze her arm and drop my hand to hers. “Please? Just for few minutes.”
After making me sweat it, she gives me a tight and weary nod, but follows alongside me. I don’t blame her when she lets go of my hand. I’ve been a real shit to her lately, and I know I deserve much worse than that. I count myself lucky that the only thing she swung at today was a box.
I lead her across the street and over the trolley tracks to walk along the Mississippi River. The path is fairly clear, besides the occasional jogger or vagrant. We happen upon an unoccupied bench, and I take a seat, Marlo following behind me.
The sound of a bellowing tugboat horn fills the air and soothes me. I have so many good memories of this place.
“It’s funny how a tiny tugboat can push that ginormous barge up and down the river, don’t you think?” Marlo asks without taking her eyes off the river. “I mean, pushing that big hunk of metal, up current even? That’s tenacity if I’ve ever seen it.”
I chuckle and nod.
“My dad used to take me down here all the time when I was a kid and we’d visit my Uncle Jeffrey. We’d leave my mom and uncle on Sunday mornings, grab a few orders of beignets, and sit on the benches. We’d watch for hours. The barges, the freighters, the cruise ships, all of it. My dad was obsessed. We were obsessed.”
Those Sunday mornings are probably some of the simplest and purest memories I have with my father. It was as if, for those few hours, he would put a bookmark in this life and just be with me. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to feeling loved by him.
“I can see the fascination. It’s cool to think this water travels all the way through the United States to empty here. This is the end of the line, right?”
I shrug and cock my head to the side. “Eh, sort of. Pretty close, but there’s about a hundred miles left to navigate. And that’s where my dad’s real fascination came in. The river pilots.”
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, as if those measly inches somehow gets me closer to the action. Marlo watches me with a questioning look, so I continue.
“It was always my dad’s dream to be a river pilot. I don’t mean just as a kid either—I bet if I asked him today, he’d still say that it’s the best job in the world,” I point at a passing freighter. “You see, these freighters, the cruise ships, all the big guns coming and leaving the mouth of the Mississippi, must have a river pilot on board to navigate the sharp curves and shallows of the mouth of the Mississippi. They board the vessels at the Port of New Orleans and get off at Pilottown, the last stop before the river empties into the Gulf of Mexico. They step onboard and take over. Ya know how they get on board?”
Marlo shakes her head.
“I always thought this was the coolest part. Their boat sidles up next to the other boat, and they jump on board while both boats are moving. Badass, right?” I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to “ooh” and “ah,” like I’d jumped from moving ships myself. Her wide-eyed expression doesn’t disappoint.
“Hell, yeah, that’s badass. I bet being the kid of a river pilot, you get some serious playground cred. Can you imagine? ‘Oh yeah, so what if your dad’s a doctor. My dad jumps onto moving ships and takes over like a freaking pirate. Beat that!’” She laughs and raises her hands at me, challenging me to disagree.
“Damn straight,” I say with a chuckle.
“But your dad’s a lawyer, right?” she asks, and I nod. “Why didn’t he ever follow his dream and go to school to become a river pilot?”
I give it to her straight. “Because he can’t.”
“What do you mean? Why can’t he?”
“There are a select few families that have been river pilots for generations. It’s not the kind of job that you can go and drop off a resume. These men are born into the job. It’s a way of life for their families,” I say, and it’s hard to leech the sadness from my voice. It’s like the kid in me comes out, front and center, stamping his feet at how unbelievably unfair it is that his dad can’t be a river pilot … can’t be his hero … in more ways than one.
“That’s unfair,” she says with a huff. “I don’t like it.”
I laugh and grab her hand. This time, she doesn’t pull away.
“I didn’t like it then, either. I guess I still don’t like it.” A tiny smile tugs at my lips. “But how cool is it for them? To just be born into that greatness? Talk about a head start in the ‘how to be cool as hell’ race.”
“Yeah,” she says, and she sounds as sad as I do that my dad’s dream can’t come true. It tugs at my heart. “Why did you bring me here, Ever?”
Why did I bring her here? It’s all a bit fuzzy to me now, wrapped up and threaded through memories of my dad, when he’d actually acted like he was a dad in more ways than just biology. I lower my head and rake a hand through my hair.
“I guess I’m trying to say that sometimes our lives are already charted for us, before we even have a chance to make our mark.”
“Like the river pilots?” she asks.
“Well, yes, in a way, but it’s not always a good thing. For some people, who we are and the mistakes we make come from a place so deeply ingrained within us, there’s no way to change the trajectory. We are who we are, and nothing will change that. So you see, what happened last week was an honest mistake, but I see it as an inevitability. I’m gonna disappoint you, Low.” I watch her with a resigned gaze, in direct opposition with the fire I see in hers. “I’ve come to terms with the fact that when it comes to the people I care about, I’ll never be what they need. Last week was a reminder of that.”
She breaks her gaze with me and directs her attention back to the river while tugging on the fray of her jeans. It starts with a slow shake of her head, then an indignant curl of her lip, followed by her settling back into the bench with arms crossed and attitude turned up to high.
“It must be so easy for you. You were born to screw up, right? With that line of thinking, you can actually make it through your entire life without taking ownership of any of your mistakes or successes. That’s such a crock,” she says, giving me a sideways glance. “Nevermind the fact that it was my decision to take the pill and my decision to drink. Honestly, I don’t care what you’ve come to terms with. If you’re tired of me? If you don’t feel the same way I do? Then yes, walk away and never look back. But otherwise, cut the shit and kiss me.”
She inhales a deep breath, like she’s starving for air after her mini rant, and she’s left me starving for her. My lips are on hers in an instant, and when the tug boat horn bellows this time, it sounds like it’s cheering us on.
Later that night, while laying in bed, wondering how I started this day in misery and ended it in uncertain happiness, my phone chimes.
Marlo: Come with me to Evelyn and Oliver’s house tomorrow night. Last time we’ll be together before Thanksgiving…
She’s right. The thought of not seeing her for a week sucks. I’ve spent the last few weeks using all the restraint I could muster to stay away from her, and now that I can kiss her, hug her, hold her whenever I want, she’ll be hundreds of miles away.
No one to blame but yourself, dickweed.
Marlo: Your Marlo strike put a serious cramp in my Ever time. Not above kidnapping…
I can’t wipe the smirk off my face, because absolutely, I have no problem imagining Marlo doing just that.
Me: I’m wherever you are, Low.
Marlo
I PASS BEHIND Ever on my way to the storage room and brush a hand across the small of his back. When I walk back to the deli counter, he latches his pinky finger with mine for a moment before pulling away. Every time I look up at him, he’s looking back at me with a smile that says, “I’m wherever you are, Low.”
Yes, I admit, I have opened my text messages and stared at his response a couple … maybe several … okay, an embarrassing number of times today. Those five words make me want to hide out in his suitcase so I c
an stay with him over Thanksgiving break. Or better yet, I should make good on my promise to kidnap him and bring him home with me to Texas.
I clean up my station as my pumpkin spice cupcakes cool. I set aside my cinnamon cream cheese frosting and cover the bowl, swiping my finger over the edge of the bowl for a tiny taste. Remy laughs.
“Uh, uh, uh. If we stole a taste of your goodies, you’d cut off the offending limb, no questions asked. Should I get my knife?” He pretends to be searching the utensil drawer as I swat him with a dishtowel.
“Every baker needs to taste test their ingredients. Ask anyone,” I say with a matter-of-fact nod, and his dead-panned expression tells me I’m fooling no one. I shrug and laugh. “Whatever. You cut off my finger, the cupcake train ends. We can’t have that, can we?”
“Definitely not,” he says with a smile, then covers his hand with mine. He holds my gaze, and it makes me fidgety. Maybe the touch is okay, and maybe the eye contact is fine, but the two together feel too intimate … uncomfortable. I resist the urge to pull my hand away. “By the way, I’m glad to see you and Ever figured things out.”
“Thanks. I’m really glad, too.” I shift away to check and see if my cakes are cool yet, giving me an excuse to move my hand from under his.
“You know, if you ever need anyone to talk to, I’m here. We’re friends, right?” He leans in, the counter keeping me from moving away.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, wondering how to end this awkward conversation just as the bell on top of the door rings.
Ever’s Uncle Jeffrey hovers in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes darting around the room frantically.
“Ever?” he hollers, his tone clipped as he runs a trembling hand over his face.
“Yeah?” I hear from the back of the store. Ever walks up to the front, freezing when he sees his uncle standing there, visibly shaken. “Uncle Jeff?”
The childlike tone is so unlike Ever. It obvious, he’s waiting for his uncle’s next move. He stalks up to Ever and grips the back of his neck. No words are spoken, but their expressions say a thousand different things that I can’t quite understand.
“I’ll go get my things,” Ever says, turning away and running down the aisle. He’s back within seconds, book sack slung over his shoulder, stalking toward the doorway. His uncle turns toward the exit, and he follows closely behind. He catches Remy’s eyes as he leaves, “Tell Etienne for me?”
“Sure,” Remy says, his voiced tense and concerned.
Ever’s gaze falls to me just before he walks through the door, his lips pressed together in a thin line and all expression leeched from his face. My Ever is gone, retreated into himself for protection while his body functions on auto pilot.
I wish I could make it all go away. I wish I knew what “it” was.
Before I can express concern, before I can wrap my arms around him and tell him I’m here for him, or before I can tell him I’m falling in love with him, even the terrifying parts of him, like right now…
He rushes to the door and leaves.
“This looks delicious, Evelyn,” I say as I pick up my fork and try to decide where to start first. My plate is brimming over with the most amazing spread of Cajun and Creole food.
“I know your Nana makes the best turkey and apple pie in the state of Texas, so I thought Oliver and I would give you a taste of a New Orleans-style Thanksgiving before you left tomorrow. I hope you like it,” she says, peering over at Oliver with a shy smile. Oliver nods his approval, and she beams.
Sometimes I don’t understand Evelyn. There are times when she is the biggest personality in the room, positively overflowing with confidence. Then there are times when she appears so meek and unsure of herself. I guess it’s a product of her past, but I’m glad she can look to Oliver for reassurance. I’m happy to admit that I was wrong about Oliver in the beginning. He may be more formal than I’m used to, and not all together comfortable with the idea of me, or teenagers in general, but he doesn’t mean any harm, and he loves the hell out of Evelyn.
“So explain this dish to me again? It looks … interesting.”
I poke at the cuts of meat on my plate. They all look delicious, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from working at the Creole Market, it’s to ask questions first, then take a big bite.
“It’s a local creation,” Oliver explains, cutting a bite for himself. “They stuffed a turkey with a duck, and then stuffed the duck with chicken. It’s a turducken.” He stabs a huge hunk of meat with his fork and shoves it in his mouth. “Tasty,” he mumbles with a full mouth and a smirk.
I laugh and take a bite of my own. It’s delicious, considering they’ve shoved two birds up a turkey’s ass to create it.
I’m glad to see Oliver loosening up around me. Honestly, I’m glad to see him loosening up at all. Just watching him makes my neck stiff and my butthole tight. I can’t imagine the Oliver I knew just last month ever giving any expression other than bored and pretentious, much less talking with his mouth full of food.
I call that progress.
“So Evelyn tells me you finished all of your high school requirements already. That’s quite an accomplishment, Marlo,” Oliver says, sounding a bit more fancy pants again.
“Sure did. Next semester, I’ll be taking all electives and advanced placement courses for college credit. My advisor said I’ll have all the credits I need to graduate in December,” I say, then a thought crosses my mind, making my smile falter. “Oh no, I didn’t even think that maybe … oh my gosh, I’m so selfish.”
Evelyn places her fork down, and frowns. “What’s the matter? You didn’t even think about what, darling?”
“I can just get my diploma now, and save the both of you a ton of money. I’m so sorry, it never crossed my mind, but I know I’m costing—”
“Nothing. You’re costing us nothing,” Oliver says as Evelyn nods in agreement. “We are happy to do it and would never ask for you to leave early.”
“Marlo, this time with you is a gift. A gift I don’t deserve. And the fact that we get to help you with your education? Lagniappe. I’ll take every second with you that I can get,” she says with a smile that makes her nose crinkle and her eyes sparkle.
I’ll take every second with you I can get.
Her words grab at my heart, and my mind shifts back to Ever. I think of all our stolen moments on the roof, in the market, on our walks. I worry about what he’s doing right now—if he’s okay. After what I saw in the market today, I’d bet money he’s far from all right, and I wish I could be there to fix things; be what he needs. I know so little of what goes on with Ever and his family; it’s like watching through a heavy veil and only being able to make out silhouettes. I don’t know the what or why, only that something is terribly wrong.
I know something is terribly wrong, and I have to find him.
Oliver drives me back to the dorm shortly after dinner, at my apologetic request. My mind keeps wandering, and the ball of dread settling deep in my gut grows and grows. Once I return, I bypass the impromptu celebration in the commons room, not feeling much like a party. The only thing I care about is seeing Ever and knowing he’s all right.
He has to be all right.
Me: Where are you?
Me: I’m here if you need to talk.
Me: I just need to know you’re okay. I’m so worried. Just call me.
When ten o’clock comes with no response, I change into my pajamas, feeling defeated. I’m glad Charlotte and Delilah are in the commons room and not spectators to my pacing and pouting. I shut off the lights and lay down, phone clutched to my chest, in case he calls.
Why won’t he call?
I run through all the possible scenarios in my head of what could have happened today, and each is worse than the one before. My phone rings, vibrating on my chest, and I jolt upright.
“Hello?”
“Are you in your room?”
It’s him. And he sounds … shaken … frantic.
“Yes. Where ar
e you?”
“Come open the hall door. Please, just let me in,” he says, voice breaking. I hear him pounding on the door, partly through the phone and partly through the wall.
I don’t care where he is, or what I need to do, but I have to get to him now. He sounds like someone with nothing left to lose, and it scares the shit out of me.
“I’m coming,” I say, stumbling out of the top bunk. “I’m on my way right now.”
“Hurry,” he says, still pounding. “Please hurry.”
When I make it out to the hallway and see his face through the tiny window, it’s like a hundred-proof shot of reality. I’ve never seen him look so devastated, so utterly lost.
I swing open the door, and he nearly falls into me, clutching my pajamas, his head heavy as lead on my shoulder. I brace myself to bear his weight and pull him closer, before we both tumble to the ground.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’ve got you, Ever.”
I shuffle us toward my room, not wanting to get caught by my RA, while also trying to give Ever the privacy I know he needs. We make it inside, and I follow behind him up to the top bunk. After more than one missed step, we tumble onto my bed.
We lay facing each other as he gasps for air and clutches at me. He grabs my shirt, climbing up my back as if he’s falling, as if he’s hanging on to the end of a rope for dear life. He smashes his sweaty forehead into mine.
“I can’t … I can’t.” He shakes his head against mine as he gasps. “I … can’t … breathe.”
I run my hands, slow and steady, through his matted and tangled hair. I try to be the calm to his panic. I softly shush him as I meld my body into his, wishing we were one instead of two, praying the gentle beat of my heart can calm the pounding of his, wanting, more than anything, to be the one thing in his life that isn’t falling to pieces around him.
Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) Page 18
