Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) - J.A. DeRouen

Low Over High Copyright © 2016 by J.A. DeRouen Cover Design by Daniela Conde Padron of DCP Designs Editing by Madison Seidler Proofreading by Alexis Durbin Formatting by JT Formatting All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Title Page Playlist Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Epilogue Preview of Ever Over After About the Author Acknowledgments

America’s Sweetheart – Elle King Sweet Jane – Cowboy Junkies In My Veins – Andrew Belle Same Mistake – The Echo-Friendly Unsteady – X Ambassadors Devil’s Basement – Jonathan Tyler & the Northern Lights Medicine – Daughter Oblivion – Bastille You Ruin Me – The Veronicas Losing Your Memory – Ryan Star Youth – Daughter Wicked Game – Stone Sour Bother – Stone Sour Gravity – Sara Bareilles Compass – Zella Day

I FANCY MYSELF a purveyor of truth, a sifter of lies, a cutter of bullshit. It’s not a gift—something innate that popped up at the most opportune time. Wouldn’t that be convenient? Nah, it’s all skill, honed razor-sharp after one too many trips down the rabbit hole. Some may dismiss my talent as misplaced and misguided cynicism, but they’d be wrong. Clichés about hope and faith in mankind are concocted unicorn farts, an effort to keep the dreamers dreaming. Experiences don’t lie—people do. The dreamers of the world would do well to remember that lesson. You’re welcome. There’s a reason romance novels and sappy rom-com movies end with a kiss and a promise of happily ever after. Nobody wants to see the shit storm following the prince’s declaration of undying love. No one’s interested in the princess’s dashed hopes and bucket o’ tears. Talk about a box office bomb. It’s much more lucrative to sell the dream … cue the bouquets of sad sack roses and the vomit inducing love ballads. While I’m not proud of the circumstances that led me to this way of thinking, I respect the journey. I’m thankful for the wisdom it imparted. The road to enlightenment can be dark and foreboding, but the destination makes it all worthwhile. Thank you, dickheads of the world, for being you … so I could become me. And who am I? I’m Marlo Rivers. Certified bullshit cutter. I’m not interested in the woo, and I’m more than sure there’s no prince waiting for me at the end of the rainbow … and I’ll hold my fucking breath on that pot of gold, too. I’ll slay my own dragons, thank you very much. If I deem a man worthy of my time, he should consider himself lucky, indeed. I’m the lone unicorn of the female race—a mythical legend, really. I’m the woman who wants nothing but the present, has no interest in a man’s past, and refuses to entertain talks of the future. The fucking unicorn. Screw mystery, intrigue, and all the stomach dips and butterflies that accompany it. I want the truth. Every time. It’s not pretty, but it’s real, and that’s what I want and need in this life. No flowery words, no confining strings, and no phone calls after the fact—it’s the only way I roll. If a guy wants to stick around for repeat performances, he has to reciprocate my “no questions asked” policy. My book of life stays locked up tight, and I make it a point to leave the past where it belongs. My bed, my rules. Get out if that’s a problem. No hard feelings; the only thing that should be hard is … well, you get my drift. But that’s the thing about the past—it’s a defiant child, refusing to stay in time out. No matter how

deeply buried, it can always pop up when least expected and sink its fucking claws into the flesh of your heart. No, not my heart—I no longer have one. I foolishly gave it away years ago, but I still feel the ripping in my chest as I fist the crumpled note left on my porch. There are different types of silences. Contemplative silences, filling the void with thought and opportunity. Anxious silences, fueled by the erratic beat of a heart and rushing adrenaline. There are contented silences, lazy and gentle like a sigh, filling you with peace. And then there is the quiet filled with fear. I swore to myself I would never feel the creeping, sinking feeling of fright needle its way through my skin again, but it consumes me as I stare at the crumpled letter, the poisonous poem. Yes, I’ve avoided this day, ran from it, for the past eight years. And, still, we meet again. But to truly understand … to feel my dread and fear my future as I do, it’s important to know what happened in my past. Or who…



Marlo Eight years ago… “LOW!” MY DAD bellows up the stairs as I smash my pillow over my head and groan. “I know you hear me, young lady. Rise and shine, valentine.” Along with his booming voice, the smell of bacon wafts into my bedroom. I peek my head out from under the pillow, because seriously, who can resist bacon? And that’s when I see it. My trunk, all packed, latched shut, ready to make the trek from Texas to Louisiana. Today is Friday … Funday … Set Marlo Free-day. By this afternoon, I’ll be settling in for my senior year of high school at Orleans Academy, located smack dab in the middle of the French Quarter. I’m trading the green pastures and cow patties of China, Texas for the concrete jungle and jazz music of New Orleans. Oh. Hell. Yes. A surge of adrenaline rushes through me just as my dad peeks his head in the door. “Ooooooooh, Marlooooooooo, I’m about to get the pitcher of water for your lazy butt.” I glare at him and settle back into bed, just to be obstinate. I’m a freaking expert at obstinate. “Is this how you treat me on my last day at home? You’re gonna regret being so mean. You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” I say with a pout. “Besides, I set my alarm last night. I was waking up in fifteen minutes, anyway.” Dad’s mouth quirks up on one side, and he shakes his head. He reminds me of a pudgy Michael Landon, all gooey brown eyes and feathered hair. Just replace the end-of-show life lessons with a litany of four-letter words, and they’re practically doppelgängers. “Rowdy the Rooster sounded his alarm two hours ago. I don’t know how you missed it.” “Oh, please! I tuned out that asshole ages ago.” “Language, Marlo Rivers,” he says, with absolutely no conviction behind his words. “I learned from the best,” I sing-song as I roll out of bed and stretch. I turn to face him with a smile, and stop short. Propped against my doorway, temple resting on the frame, his expression is pensive. Every part of him, from his muddy work boots to his crossed arms, all the way up to his gentle eyes, whispers heartache. “What in the hell am I going to do without my girl?” he whispers, his eyes burning a hole in the carpet as he tries to muster up his manhood. I need to turn this sappy crap around, because he’s not the only one with a reputation to uphold.

Growing up the only girl in the house, with my dad and younger brother, Declan, I’m no cry baby, either. Dry it up, old man. “What are you gonna do? If I had to guess, you’ll walk around the house farting and scratching your butt far more often than the law should allow, and Declan will become an even more disgusting creature than he already is.” I fake a smile as I push back the burning in my nose and the tears threatening to spill. He shoots me his best disapproving glare, but he doesn’t deny it. “I bet Nana will keep us in check. Speaking of, she’s downstairs making French toast and bacon for your farewell breakfast.” He raises his hand in protest when he notices my frown. “Now, take it easy on her, Low. She’s just worried about you.” “And Evelyn,” I say. He lets out a labored sigh and nods his head. “Yes, and Evelyn. You know, Nana raised you just as much as I did. She was a mother when Evelyn couldn’t be, so yes, she’s protective. I’m proud of you, for forgiving Evelyn for the past, for understanding things far beyond your years. I need you to forgive Nana, too, for not letting go of the past. They both love you. They just don’t like each other very much, but that’s not for you to worry about.” I know he’s right. Nana was against me attending Orleans Academy from the start. I know she’ll miss me something fierce, and I’ll be sick without her, too. Her house is only a short four-wheeler ride away on our thousand-acre ranch. The path to Nana’s is a hard dirt trail, the grass never having a chance to sprout. Evelyn, my biological mother, took off when I was three years old. Declan had just turned a year. From that day forward, Nana served the role of both grandmother and mother. There is no “poor me” story here; no need to drown my sorrows or relish some overpriced psychologist with stories of my fears of abandonment and commitment. I was loved, harder and bigger than most people are granted in a lifetime. I can shoot a target with a rifle at 300 yards, bait a fishing line, and drive a tractor better than most country boys, thanks to Dad. I can accessorize better than a Hollywood starlet, and bake a cake that would make Betty Crocker hang her head in shame, thanks to Nana. And there is never a shortage of hugs at our house. I never felt the loss of my mother. I’m sure I’d cried when she’d left, and I bet I’d missed her in the way a three-year-old child would, but I have no memory of it. Nana had slid right into her place, and life had gone on the way it always had on Rivers’ Ranch. It was like Evelyn was erased off the chalkboard of our lives, never to be thought of again. Until two years ago, that is, when Evelyn had taken a wistful look back at what she’d left behind. And that was when I’d began to wonder about the whos and whys of the woman who’d left us all those years ago. “I’ll be sweet, Dad. I know she wants what’s best,” I say, hating to hurt Nana with my choices. She’ll forgive me in time. It’s her way. “Jeez, shake a leg, Low. There’s a Rivers men burping contest planned for tonight. We’ll never make it back in time if we don’t leave soon. I’ve already got the root beer in the fridge,” Declan complains as he passes in the hall, wearing nothing but his tighty whities, while he scratches his butt. I raise my eyebrows at my dad, and he shrugs. “Totally his idea.” “Stay away from that dope, young lady,” Nana says as I stifle a giggle. She narrows her eyes at me, and I push my lips together and busy myself with my pancakes. Nana’s so funny. It’s all “that dope” to her. Weed, cocaine, crack, or freaking fertilizer—it makes no difference in the world. “Poor boy/girl/man/woman, he was on that dope.” I’ve heard it a hundred times, and it always cracks me up. I shovel in a mouthful of pancakes and nod solemnly. My full mouth serves as plausible deniability. There’s no reason for her to know smoking a joint in the barn with our neighbor, Darryl, happens more

often than not on Saturday nights. Who can blame me? There are only so many bonfires, cow tippings, and Friday nights at the Sonic Drive-In a girl can stand without a little herbal enhancement. Seriously, this one horse town practically drove me to the ganja. “Don’t entertain those street performers, either. You take out your wallet on the street and give ‘em some money, someone’ll see and you’ll surely get mugged.” She douses her pancakes in maple syrup while nodding her head knowingly. “I won’t be venturing out much on my own, Nana. The school is strict about—” “And if they tell you they know where you got your shoes, just walk away. It’s a trick,” she interrupts while jabbing her syrup-covered fork at me. I chew my pancakes and wait to see if she’s finished. It’s been a laundry list of rules and warnings since my big toe hit the kitchen tile. A few moments pass, and I think she may finally be finished. “I don’t think that—” “And you are not to leave the dorm after dark, even if it’s to go see that Evelyn. It’s too dangerous in that city for a young lady.” That Evelyn. “Yes, ma’am,” I say in concession. I look across the table at my dad, and he shoots me a sympathetic smile. She runs her fingers down my cheek and grabs my chin, tilting it up to meet her eyes. She squeezes her lips to together in a scowl. “My baby turns eighteen in two months, and I won’t even be there to see it.” “If it was on a weekend, I would come home, but it’s in the middle of the week. There’s nothing I can do,” I say as I watch her shut down right in front of me. She’s not hearing any of it. “I’ll video chat with you and Dad, and that way you’ll get to see me for my birthday.” She huffs and leans back in her chair, crushing my hopeful suggestion. “What do I know about a video chat? If I can’t hug you for your birthday, then what good is it?” “Sorry, Nana,” I whisper, unsure of what I can say to make her happy. I stand, and bring my dishes to the sink. I turn to clear the table, but she shoos me away. “Out of my kitchen. You need to get loaded up and on the road.” Dad squeezes my shoulder on his way to the sink with his dishes, and Declan raises his eyebrows in a “better you than me” gesture. I’m already packed up and ready to go. The only thing left to do is load my trunk. “Dad, can I say goodbye to Fisher? I won’t be long, I promise.” “Quick, Low. We need to get on the road,” he says. I throw on my shoes, and I’m halfway out the door when she calls my name. I turn back to the kitchen, but she doesn’t turn around to face me. “I’m heading to the grocery store, so I won’t be here when you get back,” she says to the kitchen window, and my heart sinks. “But Nana …” I feel the tears struggling to push past my eyelids. “You know how I feel about goodbyes,” she says, and turns her head back to meet my gaze. “But I love ya, girl. More than you’ll ever know.” I race out of the house and toward the garage before a single tear spills. I love her with all my heart, but I can’t help the tinge of anger bubbling up inside me. I wish she would let me hold her tight, cling to her until the very last second, but it’s just not her way. I take off on my four wheeler, opting for the open fields rather than the worn path, hitting every thistle as I speed toward Nana’s house. The thistle milk sprinkles my legs, now prickled with goose bumps from the cool wind. The morning fog and rising sun collide in a mix of haze and vapor, dueling between chill and warmth. It won’t be long before the Texas heat burns off the morning dew, leaving stifling heat in its wake.

I hear Fisher barking the moment my tires crunch the gravel of Nana’s driveway. He meets me halfway and races at my side all the way to the porch. It’s a wonder he’s never been clipped, but he’s as nimble as he is massive. Fisher is a Rhodesian Ridgeback, bigger than most canines and smarter than a lot of humans. As far as I’m concerned, he is human, and my best friend. The truth is, he’s the only friend I care about leaving. I’m not a slumber party and middle-of-the-night whispers kind of girl, so I don’t really fit in with the crowd in China. I’m not close enough with any of the girls in town for them to miss me, and boys are … well, just boys. Fisher, on the other hand, he’s my confidante. I sit down onto the porch steps, and he swaggers to me and plops his head in my lap with a pitiful sigh. His sad eyes look up at me as I thread my fingers through his golden coat. I swear he knows what’s happening. He’s gotten more morose with each day. “Now, you make sure to let Declan catch some fish every once in a while. You can be such a greedy ass sometimes,” I say, and he lets out a low growl. Whatever, it’s the truth. Fisher came by his name honestly. From the time he was a puppy, we couldn’t keep him out of the water. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the amount of fishing trips he’s ruined. We didn’t have a chance in hell of catching anything with that foolish dog gallivanting and splashing in the water. It wasn’t long until he started catching fish on his own, though. I’ve never seen a dog catch a fish before. He’s so tenacious, absolutely relentless; I think he finally just wears them down. But if he’s anywhere near the pond, there’s no need to even unload a pole. Nobody’s catching anything but him. “I’ve gotta go, Fisher. You know I have to do it. I won’t deny, there’s a little bit of country in me, but I crave the city,” He releases a sigh of concession and inevitability. See? Human. I pull on his ear as I drop my hands, only to have him nudge me with his nose. He’s such a cuddle whore. I bet he’ll grab his head pets and ear scratches from just about anyone once I’m gone. It may sound silly, but the thought makes me jealous. “You need to be extra sweet to Nana, too, because she’s hurting.” I swear the dog rolls his eyes at me. I swear it. “I know it’s my fault, Fisher. Jeez! But I can’t feel bad about wanting to know Evelyn. She’s so … so … cultured, and, I don’t know, glamorous. The thought of her and Dad together is so ridiculous. How could they ever think they belonged together? It’s no wonder I’m a jumbled mess of contradictions. I’m just like them—their DNA is all mixed together in my blood, making me question where I really belong. It’s like Jessica Simpson and Lady Gaga had a love child with an identity crisis. So it’s not my fault. It’s all on them.” It’s obvious Fisher doesn’t buy my rationale, but it’s as close to the truth as I can get. I don’t know exactly why I’d said yes to Evelyn when she’d sent me the brochure for Orleans Academy. Does it really matter, anyway? She and her new husband had offered to pay my tuition, and I’m curious. Curious about a new life in a completely different place; curious about a mother I never knew with a life that sounds so intriguing; curious to see if I’m really a loner, or if I’m just a square peg trying to wedge myself into the round hole that is China, Texas. It also doesn’t hurt that the school is one of the most prestigious of its kind in the South. A diploma from Orleans Academy opens doors that may otherwise be closed to me. After the entrance exam, multiple telephone interviews, and rigorous selection process, I’d felt wrung the hell out. But when that acceptance letter had arrived in our mailbox, it was like the winning lottery ticket. A lottery ticket that I’d worked my ass off for, that is. It’s funny—when I’d started filling out the mile-long application, I hadn’t been sure I wanted to spend my senior year of high school away from home. But the further I’d gotten into the process, the more I’d wanted it. Who climbs to the top of the mountain only to decide they prefer flat land? Not me. So I’m going.

“I’m going. I love you, but I’m going,” I say to Fisher in a stern voice. He saunters away and drops into a heap on the porch, watching the sun rising and ignoring the hell out of me. I guess Nana’s not the only one who’ll need some time.



Marlo DAD’S TRUCK BARELY fits down the streets of the Quarter, and my gut clenches as we narrowly miss garbage trucks and delivery vans. I’m not sure if it’s my nerves or the frantic start and stop of the truck, but I’m queasy. Orleans Academy is situated in the middle of the Quarter, which makes it walking distance, to … well, everything. I watch the happenings of the city from inside the fishbowl of my dad’s truck, and even as a mere spectator, I feel more alive, more elated than I ever have before. The mixture of music, blaring horns, and people shouting electrify the air, feeling lazy and frenetic all at once. Lush planters hang from wrought iron balconies, in direct contrast with the miles and miles of concrete. The buildings and roads are cracked and mildewed in a way that makes the city feel like a living, breathing thing with a million stories to tell, spanning hundreds of years. I swear, if I stare long enough, I can see the lungs of the city rising and falling in the crevices of the roads, as if the need to breathe and live is what cracked the concrete to begin with. “Hot damn, Low, this place is something else. It’s been so long since I’ve been to New Orleans, I’d forgotten how crazy it is,” Dad says as his eyes follow a man with dreads to his butt and tattoos creeping up his neck, passing another man in a three-piece suit, carrying a briefcase. “You sure about this, sugar?” He looks petrified, like he would love to slam on the accelerator and leave this city in the dust. As his eyes take me in, I know he’s seeing his little girl, eight years old with pigtails and way too young to be left all alone. I give him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure, Dad. I’m gonna be fine. Between the teachers at school and Evelyn, I know I’ll be perfectly safe,” I say, trying my best to reassure him. “Whoa, I’m pretty sure that woman is a hooker! She’s gotta be, right? Roll down the window, Low. I wanna ask her,” Declan says with way too much excitement as he points at a passerby. I punch his shoulder and scowl. “Shut your pie hole, dude. If I roll down this window, I’m throwing your skinny ass out of it.” “Language,” Dad mutters, and I just laugh. We amble down the busy hallway of Boozman Residence Hall as I clutch my room key in one hand and the campus map in the other. Dad and Declan follow close behind with my trunk.

The residence hall has a utilitarian feel—white walls, terrazzo floors, and white boards adorning each door. Some of the boards already sport hearts, flowers, and welcome back messages for its occupants. The building consists of four floors. The first two floors are the male quarters, and the third and fourth are for the girls. While Dad and Declan drag my trunk up three flights of stairs, I notice a small kitchen nestled in the corner opposite the stairwell. Hmm, that may come in handy. Room 301 … room 301… “What room are you looking for?” I look up to answer, but the girl grabs my key out of my hand before I can speak. She regards me with a familiarity that’s a bit off-putting, since I’ve never seen this girl before in my life. Her cat eyeliner and Rolling Stones tongue T-shirt tugging across her ample chest scream bodacious babe, and her jeans have more holes than a fishing net. I elbow Declan in the ribs in an attempt to get him to close his mouth and wipe his drool. He barely registers the dig. “301, just what I thought. You’re with me, roomie,” she says with an outstretched hand and perfectly painted, glossy red nails. “I’m Delilah. We’re the very first room at the start of the hall.” “I’m Low.” I shake her hand, and she squeezes tightly when I try to pull away. She drags me down the hall, chattering the entire way, and I look over my shoulder at Dad and Declan with a raised eyebrow. I get a noncommittal shoulder shrug from Dad in return. Declan continues to stare at Delilah’s ass. “Amy had this whole, ‘hoarder’ thing going on last semester,” Delilah says, using one-handed air quotes since she’s refused to let go of me. “When the RA found her mountain of chewed Hubba Bubba, I had a feeling she wasn’t coming back. Seriously, she left half the hall with only right shoes. Who collects all the lefties? Amy, that’s who.” “A mountain of bubble gum? That’s … ew,” I reply with disgust, and the teeniest bit of fascination. “Shhh! We don’t talk about it. It’s impolite,” Delilah scolds, placing a red-nailed finger to her pursed lips. But wasn’t she … but I just … ah, forget it. “Anyway, Charlotte and I figured we were getting the new girl since Amy was our old roommate. A little tip—don’t call Charlotte Lottie. She really doesn’t like that.” The way Delilah shivers makes me think she’s learned her lesson. Charlotte must be a real ball buster. “Wait, there are three of us in the room?” I thought there were only two students to each dorm room. Delilah smiles. “Yep. The room’s a little bigger than the other ones, though, and we get our own bathroom. No community showers, so, score!” She says with a fist pump. I flash her a genuine smile, because not sharing a bathroom with fifty other girls sounds fantastic. Things are getting off to a great start already. She swings open the first door on the left, the whiteboard clanging against the wood. “Look who I found wandering around the hallway, Lottie. Can I keep her? Please?” The girl, presumably Charlotte, sits ramrod straight at a desk piled with open books and binders, and crooks her head toward the door. She growls, actually growls, at Delilah and shoots daggers with her eyes. Severe bangs and pencil-straight, jet-black hair seem fitting. When her gaze shifts to me, I can’t help the tiny shudder that runs through me. Shit, I may have to sleep with one eye open. The room consists of a set of bunk beds on one wall and a single bed on the opposite wall. The bottom bunk juts out into the room, leaving space for a desk underneath. There are two other desks along the hallway wall, along with two tiny fridges stacked on top of each other. The top bunk is the only one undressed, so I guess that’s going to be my bed. I’m not picky, so that suits me just fine. “Lights out at 10:30, no exceptions. I have a study group in our room every Tuesday and Thursday night. You can join in, but only if you’re serious. If you’re not, make yourself scarce.” Charlotte looks around the room, and then her gaze lands back on me. “Other than that, don’t eat my food. Got it?” I’ve got two choices here. I can shrink back and nod, and spend the rest of the semester catering to

Charlotte’s rules and whims. Or I can push back and show her she’s not the only one with boundaries around here. I’ve never been a girl’s girl, and I hate to start off being a prickly bitch, so maybe I should swallow my words … and my pride. Yeah, I’m not gonna do that. “I’ll probably be asleep by 10:30 most nights anyway, but this isn’t camp or prison, so I won’t commit to that. I’ve always been a loner when it comes to studying, so I’ll probably bow out of your study sessions. But I won’t be leaving the room,” I say, then scan the room in much the same way Charlotte did only seconds ago. “Other than that, don’t screw with my clothes and makeup. Got it?” Time stutters as Delilah ogles me with an open mouth and wide eyes. Charlotte’s expression is calculating … unreadable. My dad shoves my shoulder and shout whispers, “Low!” Declan chuckles under his breath and mutters, “Man, she’s gonna slice you up in your sleep.” I look over my shoulder to shush them both when Charlotte’s yelping laughter takes me by surprise. She points at me knowingly and shakes her head. “I like this one, Delilah. And, for the record, she’s not lost. She’s way too mouthy to be a stray.” Charlotte twists in her chair and gets back to work without another word. I shuffle out of the doorway and signal my dad and Declan to set the trunk inside, all while Delilah stares at me, dumbfounded. “I don’t understand. Do you know how long it took Charlotte to admit she liked me? Months! And piles and piles of laundry washed.” “Nobody likes a pushover, Delilah,” Charlotte says over her shoulder, then mumbles, “Unless she cleans your clothes for you.” Yeah, I’ll fit right in. “Remember what Nana told you about those street performers … and … and … that dope. Oh, and boys. Boys are the devil, Low,” Dad stammers, shooting a hateful glance at the cars blowing their horns behind him. “Get out the fucking way!” Silver Datsun yells. “Language!” Dad yells out the window and settles back on me. “A bunch of damn animals,” he says, looking frantic and forlorn. I lay my hand over his on the open window. “I’ve got this, Dad. I’m gonna be fine.” “Oh, I know you will, baby girl. But there’s a part of me that wonders if I’m dropping you off in hell, with dynamite in your britches. You’re all fire, girl, and that makes your old dad worry.” Dad jerks when another horn blares, and then puts the truck in gear. “Evelyn will check on you later today, okay? I love you … so much, Marlo.” “Me, too, Dad. Me, too,” I say as he slowly pulls away. The aching in my chest grows with each second. It’s hard to look at him without bursting into tears. This is what I want. This is what I want. This is exactly what I need. I turn my gaze to Declan who gives me an official salute and a “See ya!” I wonder if Declan will take Evelyn up on her offer when the time comes. As he reaches up and slaps the top of the truck with a “yee haw,” I think the answer is a resounding no. Past the side-show entertainment, Declan has no interest in the city, moving away, or even our mother. And I stand alone on the bustling city sidewalk surrounded by the smell of burning exhaust and cooking grease, laced with the faintest tinge of urine … and as foul as that may sound, it’s beginning to smell like home.



Marlo “SO, CAFETERIA RULES—break them at your own risk,” Delilah says as she walks backward, facing Charlotte and me on our way to the dining hall. The school is compact; the buildings are only a stone’s throw from each other with covered walkways. Each building is a side to a square city block with a courtyard in the center. It’s filled with black, wrought iron benches, brick pavers with green moss crawling through the cracks, and an overabundance of potted plants and hanging ferns. Very New Orleans. “Jeez, Delilah, would you shut it with all the lists? She’ll be packing up and bolting before the first day of classes.” “I’m not the one who tried to kick her out of her room for your blessed study groups. I’m the sweet one who imparts valuable knowledge on the newbie. You’re the insufferable shrew who made me wash your clothes for a full semester.” “It was two years ago! Isn’t it about time you let it go? Honestly, I thought you would have been more pissed about the caramel corn,” Charlotte says. “I knew that was you!” “Again, years ago.” Delilah looks flushed and frustrated, while Charlotte is the picture of calm. As they face off in a battle from the past, I compare my new roommates. Delilah and Charlotte—First Impressions 1. Delilah’s outfit screams, “I’m with the band,” while “Cherry Pie” plays as background music. Charlotte’s tailored pants and oxford shirt say “I’m on the debate team.” 2. Delilah’s personality oozes frazzled sweetness, and Charlotte’s seeps diabolical strategy with a touch of kindness … way, way deep down. 3. Delilah’s bottom bunk, with its pink ruffles and vintage R.E.M. posters, tell the story of a princess with a funky edge. Charlotte’s perfectly aligned bookcases and no-nonsense cinched sheets and bed linens tell me she was a drill sergeant in a former life. “…and avoid the first two tables. Those seats are for freshmen and the freaks,” Delilah says as she ticks off the rules on her fingers. Judging by her expression, I guess she’s not talking about the good kind of freak. By my count, I’ve missed the first three rules while daydreaming, so it looks like I’ll be winging

it. “And last, but not least, never ever visit the salad bar after Gold Digging Gary.” “Gold Digging Gary?” “He puts his mitts all over the lettuce and all up his…” Delilah opts for show-and-tell by jamming her finger up her nose. I grab her hand and jerk it back before she gets too far. “No need for the replay. You’ll poke your brain with those bloody talons.” Delilah rolls her eyes. She ushers Charlotte and me through the cafeteria door like royalty, with a deep curtsy and a solemn head bow. Chairs screech across the cafeteria floor accompanied by clanging utensils, both making the constant chatter of students sound more like a low hum than a raucous reunion of friends. Electricity charges the massive room as old schoolmates reunite and share stories of the summer. Ready or not, here it comes—it’s time to be the new kid. Although it has the familiar feel of any school eatery, this cafeteria looks to be top notch. High end or not, all cafeterias carry the same aroma of hot buns and spaghetti—with the fat noodles, not those puny, skinny things. I’m sure the peanut butter balls rolled in powdered sugar are somewhere close by. With just a quick glance, I see a pizza station, salad bar, and what looks to be a Mexican set up. With no Gold Digging Gary in sight, I opt for the salad and potato bar. I scan the rows of tables as I hold my tray to my stomach. Delilah waves me over from the far corner, and I navigate the pushed out chairs and curious glances to meet her. “I saved you a seat,” Delilah says as she pats the chair to the right of her. Charlotte rolls her eyes and stabs her cantaloupe. “If you haven’t noticed, Low, you’re Delilah’s new project. Good luck with that. If she gets on your nerves, you have my permission to smack her.” “Feel free to smack me, too, new girl. Any time you want,” says the newest addition to the table. Dancing green eyes and a playful smile greet me as he swings the chair around and sits backward in the chair next to Charlotte. “Especially if that smack is accompanied with a pinch and a pull. Can I specify what I want you to pull?” I bark out a laugh, completely unoffended. Regardless of his words, I can tell this guy is cool, not creepy. Delilah lights up with his smile, and Charlotte is all too interested in shuffling fruit around her plate. Oh yeah, I know this guy. Every school has one. “If I can specify where I’d like you to take a flying leap,” I counter, never breaking eye contact. “Touché.” He rests one arm on the back of his chair and rests his chin on the other. “What’s your name, new girl? I eye him, attempting to suss out his intentions, and he’s all easy smiles and expectant eyes. I keep a blank expression, refusing to show weakness. High school is a helluva lot like prison. If the big dogs smell fear, you’ll end up shanked by the end of the week. “Name, por favor,” he prompts again. “Low Rivers.” “Low what?” “Just Low.” “No.” He crosses his arms and stares. I cock my head to the side, never breaking his gaze. “No?” “Logan? Willow? Lola? Which is it?” he asks, watching me for any sign of recognition. I smirk, but offer no suggestions. “Or maybe Loooooooooow Down Dirty Shame?” “That’s it!” I laugh. “Ya got me.” “Ha! I knew it. Name’s Jeb, Low Down Dirty Shame.” He smirks and offers his hand. “And I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.” I smile and shake his hand, unable to stop myself from latching onto his friendly nature. His attention

pulls away from me as he burns holes into Charlotte, who continues to search for the meaning of life in her watermelon. “Hey Charlotte.” Jeb drums his thumbs on top of his chair, switching from smooth talker to a ball of nerves in an instant. He bumps her shoulder gently and smiles. “It’s good to see you.” Charlotte chews slowly and barely raises her head. “Yeah, you, too.” Silence. Nothing but silence. Oy, these two are painful. “When did you get back in town, Jeb?” Delilah jumps in, saving us all from the black hole of sweaty palms and stilted conversation. “This morning. The parentals made sure to wake up at the crack of dawn to cart me off. I bet they’re swinging from trapeze and shooting whiskey as we speak. Nothing like getting rid of the dead weight, right?” He turns to me and shrugs. “In case you missed it, LDDS, I’m the dead weight.” “Oh, I’m sure they don’t think that,” I say, not at all confident in what I’m telling is the truth. How the hell would I know? He could be a real horse’s ass—or maybe his parents are dickheads. “They most certainly do. But it’s all good. No tears for the Lost Boy.” “The Lost Boy?” I ask. “Here he goes,” Charlotte mumbles, popping a grape into her mouth and shaking her head. “You know it’s true, Charlotte, so embrace it,” Jeb says while crossing his arms and smiling. He turns his gaze to me. “You see LDDS, Orleans Academy students fit into one of three distinct classifications. The first group is the Future Politicians and CEOs of America. Their parents expect great things from their child prodigies. Am I right, Charlotte?” Cue Charlotte’s eye roll and labored sigh. “I rest my case. The second group of students are the Children of Current Politicians and CEOs of America. These kids are all but forgotten, with the exception of photo ops and the occasional attention getting shenanigans. Speaking of, nice shirt, Delilah,” Jeb adds. “Why, thank you, Jeb. It’s Daddy’s favorite—especially when I pair it with leather pants and hooker heels,” Delilah says, batting her eyes and giving her most angelic smile. “As do I, Delilah. As. Do. I.” Jeb stares at her chest for a half second too long. He shakes his head, pulling himself from Delilah’s booby trance, and looks back at me. “And last, but not least, are The Lost Boys. Or The Lost Girls, but that doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. We are the wayward souls. We’ve all lived in too many boarding schools to count, jumping from one to the next. No matter how many kick us out, there are a string of replacements at our parents’ fingertips, willing to accept their generous donations, because the last place they’d ever want us to be is home with them.” “Wow, that’s … incredibly sad,” I say as I shake my head. “Nah, ‘s all right, because being under the same roof with those stiffs is the last place I’d wanna be anyway. I’d rather raise a little hell,” Jeb says as pulls his shirt collar down to reveal the tail of what looks like a dragon tattoo and sticks out his pierced tongue. When my eyes widen, he just laughs. “What’s your poison, new girl? Country girl genius? Or daughter of an oil tycoon?” “Why not a Lost Girl?” I ask with a touch of defiance. He doesn’t know, I could be sporting a nipple piercing and a complete disregard for authority under these blue jeans and ponytail. “Please, LDDS, the ‘fresh off the turnip truck’ vibe is rolling off you in innocent, puritanical waves.” Jeb waves his hands in a fluid motion for effect, and I pelt him in the head with my napkin. “My sweet and wholesome look has fooled many,” I say, placing my palms together under my cheek and fluttering my lashes. “I don’t think I’m any of those things. I’m not an angel or a devil. I sneak out on Saturday night to shoot whiskey and wake up early on Sunday to make cupcakes for church. Things aren’t as simple as that. I don’t like boxes.” “Yeah, Jeb,” Delilah says as she stabs her fork in his direction. “We don’t like boxes.” “Hmm.” He rubs his chin. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll teach you how to sneak out of your new

digs, if you make me some of those church cupcakes.” I reach for his outstretched hand and shake. I’ll swap treats for tricks any day. “You got it. I’ll even throw an ‘amen’ and ‘alleluia’ in the batter.” “There’s a small kitchen on every floor of the dorm, so there will be a direct correlation between the amount of sweets you deliver and the intel I provide.” Jeb smirks and his eyes dance. “Yep, this is the beginning of a great friendship, LDDS.” “You may be right.” I laugh. “So when is ‘His Highness’ going to grace us with his presence?” Charlotte asks with what’s becoming her signature eye roll. Jeb chuckles. “Ever? That asshole will probably stroll up five minutes before our first class starts.” “Ever?” “Yeah, my roommate,” Jeb says. “It’s safe to say Ever Montgomery is the king of The Lost Boys. Dude doesn’t want to be at home or here. I’m not sure he wants to be anywhere.” Dinner wraps up, and we head back to Boozman Hall for orientation with our RA, Danielle. Her blue highlights and Slipknot T-shirt don’t exactly scream authority, but she outlines the stringent rules like a boss. Since Orleans Academy is in the heart of the French Quarter, rules regarding leaving campus have to be strict for safety reasons. Without an after school job or a decree from the Pope himself, no student leaves the grounds unsupervised. Jeb’s tips on sneaking out will be very handy indeed. I crawl into bed with first day thoughts swirling in my head, the sounds of the city as background noise. It’s so different from the chirping crickets and croaking frogs that were my lullaby just last night. I’m really here. This is real, and if I’m completely honest, a little overwhelming. That’s when I realize Evelyn never called like she promised.



Ever I KNOCK ON the wooden office door, and wait for a response. I need to get this shit over with. It’s not like this day could suck any more than it already does. Maybe he’s already gone for the night. Yeah … no way I’d be that lucky. “Come on in.” I nudge open the door and lean against the doorframe as Uncle Jeffrey looks up from his computer. Even with his loosened tie and wrinkled shirt, evidence of a long first day at Orleans Academy, he oozes respectability. I’ll never understand how he and my mother share the same upbringing. But then again, he shares the same blood as me, too. It’s like he’s the shining star in a sky riddled with black holes. He tosses his glasses on the desk and grinds his jaw in frustration. It’s all directed at me, of course. I can’t really blame him. That being said, I don’t blame myself either. I do what I have to do to get by. His chair creaks as he leans back and crosses his arms. He lets out a frustrated sigh and motions me to sit. I take him up on the offer, but only because I’m exhausted. It’s been a helluva day. Aunt Marty threatened to throw my clothes on the front lawn if I didn’t pack my shit and get on the road. She knows how hard it is for me to leave, but she’s got no problem practicing tough love when it comes to me. If it wasn’t for my mom’s brother, Uncle Jeffrey, and my dad’s sister, Aunt Marty, I don’t know how I’d deal with it all. Hell, what I can’t figure out for the life of me is how they manage to deal with me. I’m damn grateful they do. “Ever, how good of you to show. I’d hate to think I covered for you with your parents and your teachers for nothing. I mean, how important is the first day of class, anyway?” I hitch my foot up on my knee and lean back in the chair, mimicking his posture. I wonder if I should make up some elaborate excuse about my absence. Should I tell him my car died on the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge and I hitchhiked the rest of the way? Nah, he’ll flip even more than if I just told him the truth. “I wasn’t ready to leave. Honestly, I had to talk myself out of turning around two or three times on the way back here. You have to understand where I’m coming from, Uncle Jeff,” I say, with a hint of pleading in my voice. I may be a rebellious asshole, but I don’t want to isolate one of my only allies. He’s been good to me. He lets out a long sigh. “I get it, Ever, I really do, but you have to meet me in the middle here. Help me help you?” He smirks and shrugs his shoulders. “Yes, sir,” I say, with a hint of sarcasm that I can’t seem to leech out of my voice, no matter how hard I try.

“Your mother called me yesterday. She’s worried about you.” He has the decency to avert his eyes. He knows this is bullshit, even if he won’t say the words. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Unbelievable.” “I know it’s … complicated. But it wouldn’t hurt to try and heal things between you and your parents. A couple of visits home would go a long way. Maybe take the long way back to school and make a pit stop in Baton Rouge to visit them. Or how about showing your face when they make the effort to visit Easton in Thibodaux? You’re avoiding them.” He lifts his eyebrows and cocks his head to the side. “Are you talking about the two times they decided to be parents in the last three months?” I hold my anger in check, but just barely. Any talk of my parents brings out the worst in me. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t be about me, anyway. We both know where her focus should be, but the woman doesn’t have it in her to worry about anything but herself. I can assure you, your little phone call yesterday had everything to do with her feeling sorry for herself. If I had to guess, the call took place somewhere between bottle two and three of wine. No worries, I’m sure she passed out within minutes of hanging up with you. All is right in her world again.” Uncle Jeff doesn’t say a word. He knows better than to argue this point with me. He’s had a front row seat to this shit show for seventeen years. He knows better than anyone what my mother is capable of, or more to the point, what she’s incapable of. Avoiding her … really? She figured that out all on her own? I’d think the fact that I’d spent the entire summer living with Aunt Marty would be evidence enough that I didn’t want to see either of my parents. I see the blame in her eyes. I hear the words she never says, but screams at the top of her lungs. It’s crippling to be weighed, measured, judged … and found lacking. Nothing can erase the sins of the past, the boy I am right down to my marrow, and I’ve grown tired of trying. I can only take so much. “Sherry is … hell, Ever, I don’t know what she is. Your mother certainly won’t win any parenting awards. But your dismissal? Your complete disregard for her and your father’s authority? You’ve put me in a tough spot.” “What do you mean, Uncle Jeff?” One look at his tired eyes and resigned expression, and I know this isn’t good. My family has that effect on most people. We’re an exhausting bunch of head cases. “Since you won’t talk to them, they’re asking for weekly progress reports. Grades, attendance reports, extracurricular activities—they want it all. And if they don’t like what the reports say, there will be … sanctions.” He spits out the last word like bitter coffee. He watches me with caution, waiting for me to react. Knowing that I will. “Unless you comply, they’ll limit your visits to Brookdale.” “Fuck that,” I say, launching out of the chair. “Aunt Marty will never let that happen. She’d never turn me away.” Uncle Jeff raises a calming hand. “Calm down, Ever. It’s not up to Marty. She’ll always let you stay with her in Thibodaux, yes. But she doesn’t have a say in visitors’ lists—” “They wouldn’t do it.” I pace the office, trying to calm the roaring in my head. “This isn’t about me. They can’t stand the sight of me. They’re using Easton to punish me, and that shows just how despicable they are.” “You think I don’t know that? I wish I could shake some sense into her, into your father.” He stands and walks around his desk to meet me, placing a hand on my shoulder. His touch feels like a collar. “I’m trying to protect you from whatever game they’re playing, but you need to do your part, Ever. Skipping school today? Not a great start, son.” “I’m not your son,” I say as I shove his hand away. I fight to keep my temper from boiling over and erupting. “I wish to God you were, Ever.” He turns away from me and sits back down. “I’ll do what I can to keep them satisfied, but you can’t miss any more classes. As Dean of Orleans Academy, people expect my

nephew to follow the rules and excel. Please meet me halfway. And if not for me, do it for Easton.” I grudgingly nod and head for the door, my emotions a jumbled wreck. It was hard enough to leave East today, but leave it to my parents to throw a pile of bricks on the quicksand that is my life. Behind the anger that fuels me, I feel desperation settling in. If they make good on their threats, I don’t know what I’ll do. It wouldn’t end well for me, and that would affect Easton. That can’t happen—I can’t let it. So it looks like I’m my parents’ newest puppet. I turn back and meet Uncle Jeffrey’s gaze. It’s resigned. Apologetic. Rationally, I know he’s on my side. It’s a short lineup, beginning with him and ending with Aunt Marty, but I like to think we have righteousness on our side. I need to remember his hands are tied by his sister’s antics. “I’m sorry I was late. It won’t happen again,” I say honestly. It doesn’t cost me a thing. I owe Uncle Jeffrey more than I can ever repay. He gives me a grim smile and nods. “Welcome back, Ever.” “Hey, douchebag, you can’t leave already. You just got here,” Jeb hollers as I take off down the hall. “Later, man. We’ll talk later.” I hate to leave Jeb hanging, but I’m too keyed up to play summer catch-up right now. I need to be alone, which is hard to come by living in a dorm with five hundred other high school students. A quick drop of my suitcase and backpack to the room is all the together time I can muster right now. I climb the stairs two at a time, trying to make my way up to the roof before anyone spots me on the girls’ floors. I round the corner at light speed and run chest first into something soft and … sweet? “What the fuck?” Metal clangs and brown curls fly as I’m jolted backward. “Damnit!” I look down at my shirt and find it’s smeared with some type of icing. Crumbs and chocolate icing cover my shoes. Her gaze levels me, but I don’t give a shit. She and her feeble attempt at baking assaulted me. “Why don’t you watch where the hell you’re going?” I say as I kick crumbs off my shoes and onto her legs. I run a finger over the mound of icing caked on my shirt and fling it down … onto her arm. Oops. Emerald eyes cut me with pure malice, but I’m not interested in what she has to say. I round her and continue my trek up the stairs. “Sleep with one eye open, ass munch!” she hollers as I give her my back side and a one finger salute. I hear her angry growl behind me, and, surprisingly enough, it lifts my spirits. Happy to have you share in my miserable day, ya green-eyed witch. When I finally reach the roof, I shove open the door, and the sounds of the city below overtake me. I breathe deep, the first time I’ve filled my lungs since leaving Easton. It never gets easier. Every time is like I’m losing a piece of myself, a piece I’ll never recover. There’ll come a time when there’s nothing left, and I can’t find it in me to give a shit.



Marlo I STOMP INTO the room and chuck my disgusting clothes into the dirty laundry hamper. Twenty minutes of soaking and scrubbing didn’t get the chocolate out of my shirt, so I’m pretty sure it’s ruined. Obnoxious, unapologetic jerk! It turns out the shower and scrub down did nothing to calm my temper. I took those twenty minutes as an opportunity to think of creative ways to destroy/maim/castrate the crotchety cake annihilator. I hold my head high and try to ignore the stifled giggles from the bottom bunk. Charlotte shushes Delilah and shoots her the evil eye. “I don’t know what you’re laughing at, Delilah. Jeb probably would have shared a slice of cake with you. I hope you go to bed hungry tonight,” I say with a huff. My double chocolate chip cake with milk chocolate icing and crumbled Heath bars may not have been made from scratch, but it still would have been killer. The tiny student market in the cafeteria leaves a lot to be desired, but I made do. There are ways to make even instant cake mix taste delicious. Now we’ll never know. I could throat punch that douchenozzle… “Aw, come on, Low. You have to admit it’s a little funny, right?” Her voices gets softer as she takes in my angry expression. Her mouth turns into a frown, and she shrugs. “Maybe not, then. I wonder who ran into you. Describe him again.” I climb the ladder up to my bunk and crawl under the covers, my Philosophy of Religion book tucked under my arm. I don’t know how it’s possible to get behind on the first day of school, but somehow I’ve managed to do it. These professors don’t screw around. I need to be well-versed on the finer points of Judaism by morning. That’s what I should have been doing the past two hours instead of baking in the student kitchen. The things I do for rule-breaking and trouble-making. “I already told you. He looked like a bridge troll with a bad attitude. I don’t know what else you want me to say.” I crack my book and prop my head on my pillows, settling in to read for the rest of the night. Pfft. No one sneers at the smell of my baked goods. No one. So what if the chest he rammed into me with is broad and toned. Big damn deal. And who cares if he has sun-kissed freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose? That nose sits on top of his twisted, obnoxious lips. Yep, total bridge troll. “Honestly, it’s a miracle that he’s the first jerk I’ve run into here. All the other students and professors have been so nice. There’s a weed in every garden, so whatever.” “Trying to study here,” Charlotte says as she flips the pages with way more force than necessary. “So

you dropped your stupid cake. It’s hard to believe, but the Earth will still turn.” “No cake for you,” I grumble under my breath just as my phone rings. Delilah grabs it off my desk and tosses it up into my bunk. It’s Evelyn. I take in a steadying breath and tap the green button. A kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my stomach at the sight of her name. I guess it feels a bit different, a little more real, to talk to my mother without the buffer of my dad. It’s just us, and that’s a little scary. “Hi Evelyn. How are you?” I hop down and make my way to the door. I don’t want an audience for our conversation. “Darling! Did you make it? Are you finally here?” Her voice is like velvet, deep and rich. So freaking fancy. I shut the door behind me and sit against the wall in the hallway. “Yes, I’m here. I moved in the dorm two days ago.” “Two days ago? I thought today was move-in day. I’m such a forgetful one, Marlo, don’t mind me. I never can keep my days straight. One runs right into the other, don’t they? The life of an artist, I guess,” she says. I finger the cigar band ring on my index finger. Evelyn used melted down metal from Katrina rubble to fashion this particular ring. The dark gray metal and filigree design are reminiscent of cast iron balconies found throughout the Quarter. My mother is Evelyn James, New Orleans jewelry designer, married to Oliver James IV, CEO of Falcon Industries. After looking up Oliver’s company on the internet, the best I can come up with is that Falcon Industries has something to do with oil and it’s ginormous … and important, I guess. Whatever, the bottom line is Evelyn’s work is exponentially more interesting and cooler than his. “Yes, I guess so,” I agree, but I have no clue. What do I know about Evelyn’s life, or any artist’s life, for that matter? I rack my brain for something, anything, to say, but it’s completely void of intelligible thoughts. How convenient? “Oliver and I want you to come for dinner Thursday night, Marlo. How does that sound? We’ll order something delicious from my favorite market, and you can tell me all about your first week at the Academy. I won’t try to poison you with my attempts at cooking.” She laughs at her own joke. “I’d like that,” I say with a smile. “Oh, wait. You’ll have to call the front office and get permission. I can’t just leave campus.” “Already done, darling, already done. Oliver is great friends with Jeffrey, your Headmaster. It’s all been arranged. When you’d like to visit us, you need only to alert your dorm RA. Isn’t that wonderful?” I hear the low rumblings of other people in the background, and I assume Evelyn is at a restaurant or party of some sort. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s very glamourous. That’s how I picture everything with her. “That’s great. I can’t wait for Thursday. What time do you want me to be there?” I hear her muffled voice as she tells someone she’ll right there. “What time?” The voices get louder, and it’s obvious she’s distracted by whatever she’s got going on. “Oh, whenever, darling. Wine-thirty, all right? I’ll see you then. Bye for now.” The phone clicks before I can answer her back. Wine-thirty? What the hell does that even mean? Day number two begins much the same as day number one. It’s a whirlwind of new faces, too many names, and a vomit-inducing amount of homework. It feels exciting and overwhelming all at the same time.

There are a few familiar faces in my classes—Charlotte in philosophy and calculus, and Delilah in American literature. Delilah and I sit together, but I don’t want to join Charlotte in the first row. Front of the class, hand raised, teacher’s pet is not my style. Jeb doesn’t seem to mind and takes the desk right behind Charlotte. He looks a little uncomfortable up there with all the digital recorders and laptops, but he braves it for his crush. I wonder if Charlotte even notices. I walk into the cafeteria, my mind jumbled with my ever-growing to-do list. I file into the pizza line in zombie-like fashion, ticking down my list one by one, trying to reconcile the amount of homework with the minutes left in the day. “Watch it.” The second his voice hits my ears, I know. There’s no mistaking that menacing, ass-munch tone. His words aren’t directed at me, but that does nothing to cool my jets. He’s directly in front of me, with his back turned, leaving me at a great advantage. Oh yes, the little devil in my head is rubbing her hands together in imminent victory. Just look at him standing there, shirt tails hanging out the back of his pants and his backpack slung over one shoulder. The damn bridge troll thinks he’s too cool to actually tuck in his shirt like everyone else or use both straps of his backpack. That shirt is definitely not Orleans Academy uniform dress code. I should turn his ass in to the … dress code monitors. Or something. It would serve him right. I grip the sides of my tray, knuckles turning white, as he grabs a slice of pizza like the douchebag he is. Yes, it is totally possible to monitor a person’s douchebag status by the way he handles his food. He moves forward in line, and it’s my turn to load up my tray. He’s walking away, and my arms can’t help themselves. They have a mind of their own. Without consulting my brain, they shove my tray into his assholish ass with enough force to make him stumble. He grabs onto his plate with only a second to spare before it goes careening across the cafeteria floor. Oops. He turns in slow motion, and his eyes widen in surprise, but for only a second. Then they narrow. “Oops?” he whispers menacingly. Did I say that out loud? His single word drips with disdain and disbelief. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t believe me either. I widen my eyes and summon the angels, going for my “innocent as Sister Mary” look. I shrug, grab a slice of pizza and move along. Rule number one in war—never hang around and welcome retaliation. Move the hell on, and fast. I find Delilah, Charlotte, and Jeb in what has become our usual spot, and I plop down next to Delilah. She steals a pepperoni off my pizza and pops it in her mouth before I have a chance to protest. Damn, she’s quick. “Mmmmmm, I should have gotten the pizza today.” She chews slowly and closes her eyes, savoring her stolen bite. I look down at her tray and find a hamburger, fries, lasagna, and a salad. “Where would you put it, Delilah? On your head? There isn’t an inch of room on that tray,” Charlotte says with a disapproving shake of her head. “Do you think these babies grow on their own?” Delilah asks as she grabs her boobs. “They need proper nutrition to flourish.” “You do whatever you need to help them live long and prosper,” Jeb says with a solemn expression and a Vulcan salute. “I never took you for a Trekkie, dude.” Jeb fist bumps the bridge troll as he approaches us. He drops his tray on the table, and then he zeroes in on me. Oh. Hell. No. I roll my eyes. Of course they’re friends. That’s just my luck. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the clumsiest and most ill-mannered student at Orleans Academy,” he says

as he lowers himself into his chair. His mouth smiles, but his eyes glower, in direct opposition of each other. “Ill-mannered? Ill-mannered?” I lean closer to him, my voice rising dangerously close to a screech with every syllable. “You’re two seconds away from getting a little pizza to go with your chocolate cake, bridge troll.” “What did you just call me, you little witch?” “Hold it right there, you two,” Jeb says as he turns to me. “Do you mean to tell me that Ever, my roommate and best bud, is the asshat who ruined my chocolate cake?” “That’s what I’m telling you,” I say with crossed arms and a smug smile. I lean back into my chair and wait for the fireworks. Jeb turns to Ever and glares. “That was for you? I promise you, Jeb, you dodged a bullet. One sniff of that wretched cake, and I could tell it was sour.” “What?” I shout as I push back my chair and stand, hands on my hips and fuming. “You’d be handcuffed to the bathroom for days, I bet. You should be thanking me,” Ever says with a solemn nod and the hint of a smirk. Before my brain can consult with my body, I’m launching a dinner roll at his head. By the pinging sound it makes on impact, I assume it’s a bit stale. He puts a hand to his temple and has the nerve to look shocked. “Never, and I mean never, insult my food, bridge troll. Consider yourself cut off from any and all of my baked delights.” I dust off my hands and grab my tray. Head held high, and completely ignoring the snickers from our other table mates, I walk away and stop next to Ever. “May you rot in a dessert prison.” “Where ya going, Low? You haven’t even eaten yet,” Delilah calls out. “I’ve lost my appetite,” I call over my shoulder as I walk away. It may not be entirely true, but I need to leave before I pelt his smug ass with more than a dinner roll. This battle may have ended in a stalemate, but I have every intention of winning the war.



Marlo I CHEW MY thumb nail down to a nub as I sit perched on the edge of Evelyn’s antique chair. Honestly, if I sit any farther back, I’m afraid the spindly legs of the chair will crumble into dust. When I say antique, I’m talking Mesozoic era. Yep, some loin-clothed caveman bought this piece of crap for three rocks and a berry, and I’m betting Evelyn shelled out some serious coin. To each his own, I guess. She sits across from me, fingering the stem of her wine glass and smiling at me. I don’t feel like myself. My “don’t care” attitude and “say anything” mouth took leave the second my feet hit her shiny parquet floors. She has dark hair like me, but it’s straight as a needle and just as shiny. I hook a stray curl behind my ear and hope the walk over from school didn’t make me look like a chia pet. New Orleans humidity is no joke, and the three blocks to Evelyn’s house is the equivalent of a long lounge in a steam room. Evelyn, on the other hand, looks impeccable in every way—crisp linen dress, mile-high heels, and stunning jewelry she undoubtedly designed and created. I twirl my filigree ring and straighten my already wrinkled pencil skirt. We’ve exhausted all the benign pleasantries. “How are you settling in?” “Do you like your professors?” “Are you making new friends?” Part of me, the nervous and overly anxious part, wants to conjure up a conversation about the weather, or something equally safe and boring. The only thing worse than having all these swirling questions about my mother is the possibility of not liking her answers. Maybe what I’ve conjured up in my head all these years is easier to hold on to. Too bad it isn’t the truth. “My dad told me you are from Mississippi?” I say, sounding more like a question than a statement. I watch her expectantly, hoping she’ll take the lead. She sips her wine and smiles. “I am, yes. That’s where your father and I met, you know? He was an Army man passing through Camp Shelby for training, and I was a two-bit country girl working at the Dairy Queen. Soldiers were always passing through town on their way to somewhere more interesting and exciting, and I never took much notice. But your daddy? I was a goner with just one look.” Her smile widens, and, for the first time, it reaches her eyes. She shakes her head and chuckles to herself. “I bet you were beautiful,” I say, wanting to know more.

Daddy never talks about these things. He isn’t cruel about it, but I don’t think he sees much sense on dwelling on things already said and done. In his mind, it doesn’t change anything. It all ends with Evelyn leaving, anyway. “I was a fright, I’m sure. But he saw something in me he fancied. That man bought more Blizzards than any one person could ever eat. He was all dreamy eyes and Texas lilt … I was so smitten. It was a whirlwind,” she says, “We married after three months.” “Wow.” They must have been so in love. If the far away look in Evelyn’s eyes is any indication, I must be right. “Yes. I was so happy … grateful,” she says, her eyes darting from the carpet to my eyes in shame. “My father, your grandfather … he wasn’t the kindest man, Marlo.” With that admission, the refined edges and clean lines of Evelyn blur with a muted chaos, as if time has softened the blow, but the hurt still endures. Her demeanor sharpens, snaps back into place so quickly, I question if I’d noticed any vulnerability at all. Evelyn tips her wrist to check her watch and stands. “Would you look at the time? Oliver will be home soon. How about you and I walk to Creole Market and grab our dinner?” I nod grudgingly, wishing we could stay here and chat more, but I have a feeling Evelyn planned the stop of our conversation perfectly for her taste. Creole Market is a block from the Mississippi River and directly across from the French Market, a huge outdoor area full of vendors selling everything from eel skin purses to old vinyl records. The aroma of cooking onions, garlic, and seafood assault us when Evelyn opens the door, and my mouth waters. “Evelyn! How’s my favorite customer?” The older man standing behind the deli counter shoots us a welcoming smile. “And who is this with you?” Evelyn saunters to the counter and offers her hand, which he kisses over and over until she breaks out in laughter. She pulls away and shoos him with her other hand. His face breaks into a leathery grin, crow’s feet sitting on the edges of his eyes, and parentheses deeply grooved on each side of his mouth. If I had to guess, his age is more from sun than actual years lived, although I’m sure he’s got the upper hand on Evelyn. “Etienne, you are such a flirt. I bet every woman who waltzes in here is your favorite customer.” Evelyn bats her eyelashes as Etienne acts shocked. “This is my … daughter, Marlo. She’s moved here from Texas to attend Orleans Academy. Isn’t that wonderful?” I wring my hands, a little rattled by the hesitant way she introduced me. This is the first time I’ve heard her tell anyone about me, and I guess it feels a little like a brand new pair of jeans. It’s going to take a while to break in and feel comfortable. I try not to take offense, and smile, offering my hand to her friend. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Etienne. Your store is interesting,” I say as I look around. He places a quick, single kiss to my hand and lets go. “Just Etienne, my pretty one. There are no misters here. Isn’t that right, Remy?” “You got it.” I hadn’t noticed the younger man standing a few feet away from Etienne, until I heard his gravelly voice. He takes a quick look over his shoulder, and then returns to packaging what I assume is our food. His man bun and five o’clock shadow catch my attention, along with the worn leather bands wrapped around his tanned, muscled forearm. “You should take a look around while Remy finishes packing the food, pretty one,” Etienne says, and I finally tear my eyes away from Remy to meet his laughing eyes. Busted.

I nod and give Evelyn a sheepish shrug as I make my way to the aisles. Etienne isn’t the only one to witness my eye-groping, if Evelyn’s raised eyebrows are any indication. Now seems as good a time as any to hide out. That’s when I happen upon the baking aisle. This market is stocked full of the top of the line ingredients, melting chocolates, and extracts—everything I need to make a killer dessert. “Evelyn, would it be all right if I made dessert tonight? I can get all of the ingredients here and I promise to clean up my mess.” I clasp my hands in front of me and give her a pleading smile. She laughs. “Of course, darling. I’m sure I have the baking pans and spoons you need, but make sure to get all the ingredients.” Spoons? It’s safe to say Evelyn is clueless in the kitchen. I hope there’s a mixer, but I’ll improvise if I have to. I collect all the ingredients I need and meet Evelyn back at the deli counter where Remy is handing her two large serving trays. “Two large muffalettas and an order of crawfish and sausage jambalaya. A feast fit for a king … or maybe a princess.” Remy smiles at me, and the silver hoop in his eyebrow quirks up with the crinkle of his eyes. Before I can respond, Etienne shoos him away. “I can take it from here, Remy. There’s a shipment in the back that needs to be stocked. Why don’t you woo the produce instead of my customers, eh?” Remy shoves his hands in his pockets and shoots me a sheepish smile. He walks toward the back of the store, chuckling and shaking his head the entire way. “A charmer, that one,” Etienne says as he rings us up. “He’s not the only charmer.” Evelyn laughs and heads to the door, bags in hand. I follow behind with a quick wave to Etienne. “Goodbye, sweet Evelyn. Until next time, my dear,” Etienne calls out as the door shuts behind us. I shuffle into the residence hall a little after nine o’clock, and I’m surprised by how quiet it is already. I shiver when the cool air conditioning hits me, and goose bumps erupt on my arms and legs. Even at night, the air feels like breathing through a wet wool blanket. Breaths aren’t just breaths—they’re gulps. New Orleans air must be swallowed. For the first time in the last few hours, I feel relaxed. My jaw unclenches, my shoulders loosen, and my mind unwinds. Tonight was overwhelming, and not all in good ways. Getting to know Evelyn had been enlightening, but things had shifted when we’d returned from Creole Market. Oliver had beat us home, and I’d gotten to meet a brand new Evelyn. This Evelyn wasn’t just put together; she was “on.” I’d felt her constant need to sell me to Oliver and the other way around, too. Oliver, on the other hand, had seemed impassive about it all—distracted and maybe even a bit uninterested. I’m chalking the entire night up to nerves—on everyone’s part. Whatever tension had hovered over us at dinner, Evelyn had been ecstatic when I’d accepted her invitation for a standing date on Thursday nights. Oliver had given a thin smile at her suggestion and had said he liked that idea. I’d accepted, deciding to take Oliver at face value instead of reading his body language, which had told me, spending another dinner with me was the equivalent of Chinese water torture. Right back atcha, dude, but I didn’t come here to see you, anyway. So deal. I balance the plastic container of cupcakes and slip off my shoes. I’m going to make Jeb one happy rule breaker. Chocolate cupcakes with pecan pie filling and buttercream frosting should put him firmly in

my debt. Even Oliver the Stiff Shirt had moaned when he’d taken a bite. Dinner had been amazing, too. I’d never eaten food like that before, and my mouth waters just thinking about it, despite my food baby bulging against my skirt. I really need to pop a button or two before I smother to death. The muffalettas had been piled high with spicy meats, cheeses, and an olive mixture I can’t even do justice describing. It seems wrong to just call them sandwiches—hence the word muffaletta, I guess. The spicy jambalaya had left my nose running and my stomach singing. If Evelyn wants to feed me like this every week, who am I to say no? Once I make it up the stairs to the third floor, I step into the kitchen to put down the cupcakes and my shoes so I can fish my keys out of my purse. I hear steps coming up the stairwell, and I peek out the doorway to get a look. I move back in enough time so my cake-destroying arch nemesis doesn’t notice me. I wonder where he’s headed at this time of night … I leave my things on the kitchen counter and go into stealth mode. I channel my inner-ninja and tiptoe up the stairs, staying a safe distance behind Ever while keeping his footsteps in earshot. I reach the fourth and last floor of our building, and Ever is gone. I peek into the fourth floor kitchen— nothing. Then I see another door on the far wall with a tiny crack in it. I slip through the door and quietly climb the metal staircase that leads to another metal door. The rooftop. I crane my neck to see through the crack Ever left in the door, afraid he may hear if I inch it open any more. I see his outline sitting with his back against a large air conditioning unit, elbows wresting on drawn up knees. The flick of a lighter pierces the silence, and the glow of the flame illuminates Ever’s face. He draws in a deep inhale, holds it, and then releases a string of smoke into the night air. If I’m not certain at first, the rancid smell floating in the air settles it. Who would have thought Mr. Stick Up His Ass Broody Pants is a dope-smoking, weed-toking, friend of Mary Jane? I stifle a laugh, unsure why I find this revelation so funny, but I do. Hey, no judgment here. We all deal in different ways, and there’s nothing wrong with a time out in life. If he wasn’t such a dickwad, I’d ask for a puff or three. He draws in another long puff and jerks back when the joint pops between his fingers. He scrunches his face and examines the joint like a child who’s just been slapped. I can’t help it. I try, I really do, but the giggle bubbles up from my throat before I can stop it. I slap my palm over my mouth, but it’s too late. The giggle is out there, and I can’t take it back. Shit, shit, shit! Ever’s head whips around, and he squints his eyes into the dark. “What the hell?” He stands up and puts the joint out on the bottom of his shoe, giving me a few second head start. I should run, disappear into the girls’ hallway before he has a chance to see me. I should leave him wondering—vanish into thin air. Yeah, I’m not gonna do that. I peek my head through the door far enough so he can see my face. “You wanna smoke it up with the big boys, maybe you should learn how to take out the seeds, bridge troll!” And with that parting message, I take off like a shot. I barrel down the stairs, taking them two at a time, almost forgetting my shoes and my stash of baked goods. I hear him running down the stairs, whisper-yelling my name, but I don’t turn around until the door to the girls’ hallway is nearly closed. As the door swings shut and locks him out, I stick out my tongue and one finger salute him … times two. And that’s how you do it. Battle. Won.



Marlo “MMMMMMMM, HOLY MOTHER … this is just … I can’t get enough,” Jeb moans, taking another monster-sized bite of cupcake as his eyes roll back in icing induced ecstasy. “Best. Breakfast. Ever.” Delilah swipes her finger through the pecan pie filling and licks it clean. “These are truly amazing. Seriously, Low, you have a gift.” “A gift I must exploit. You can have whatever you want. My secrets … my body…” Jeb raises his eyebrows suggestively, and I burst out laughing. “You are such a whore, Jeb,” Charlotte says as she shakes her head. Jeb reaches for her cupcake, and she slaps him away with lightning speed. “Hey, you gave it to me. You can’t take it away! I’m saving mine for later so I don’t sugar crash during physics. Plus, you’ve already eaten four of them. You’re gonna die of a sugar overdose.” Jeb shoots Ever an apologetic glance and shrugs. “Sorry man, I’d share my spoils with you, but my hands are tied. If Marlo smells even a whiff of chocolate on you, my honey pot stops. You see my problem. I’m bound and gagged, my brother.” Ever chews and eyes Jeb in disgust. I see the muscles in his throat work the dry piece of toast as he swallows. I’m surprised he sat down at the table once he noticed me, but he took the seat directly across from me. He meets my gaze and doesn’t look away when I challenge him, one of many times this morning. He makes me squirmy and uncomfortable, like he may call me out any second, which is ridiculous since I’m the one who’s got the goods on him. Still, he unnerves me. I smile despite his glare, and gather my things onto my tray. “I’m glad I could be of service. Jeb, I’ll gladly take your secrets, but you can rest easy. I won’t make you trade sexual favors for sugar. We’re square.” I stand and pick up my tray as Jeb grabs my elbow. “Oh, it’s no hardship, Low. I live to serve.” Charlotte punches him, and he lets me go to rub his shoulder. “Ow, woman! You are freakishly strong.” “And you’re just a freak. Leave Low alone.” I laugh and leave them to it. I feel Ever’s presence behind me as I stride across the cafeteria. Once we clear the tables, he sidles up next to me. “You make a habit of spying on people?” he asks under his breath, never looking in my direction. “You make a habit of being a supreme asshat?” I shove my tray into the chute and turn to him. “Wait, I already know the answer to this one. Yes, yes you do.”

I hightail it to the door, but he catches up to me before I can make my escape. He grabs my elbow and drops his hand a second later when I resist. “Just wait a minute,” he says in a strained voice as he runs a hand over his face. “Are you going to rat me out?” His words don’t come easy. He drags each one out with great effort, obviously pissed that he has to ask me for anything. It may make me a bitch, but I let the silence stretch a bit longer than necessary. He deserves to squirm. “I don’t like you,” I say. He raises his eyebrows and waits. So do I. He puts his hands on his hips and sighs. Shaking his head, he examines the floor. “Well, I like you.” “Really?” I ask, shocked. “No, not really,” he says, face pinched in irritation. “What the hell do you think? You’re not my favorite person either.” I give props to the asshole for being honest. He could have kissed up, tried to smooth things over. Instead, he opted for keeping it real. He’s still a jerk, but at least he isn’t a lying jerk. “Good thing I don’t give a shit,” I say. That gets me a huff and eyes trained on the ceiling in exasperation. Whatever. “I may not like you, but lucky for you, I’m no snitch.” I turn back to the door, but he’s not having any of it. He grabs my elbow again, and now it’s my turn to be irritated. Can’t he take this generous gift I’m giving him and go the hell away? “So that’s it? No dangling it over my head? No blackmail?” “Jeez, you are one jaded guy. I’m not gonna blackmail you. That’s not how I roll.” “Fine,” he says between gritted teeth and continues to stare at me like I’m a thousand-piece puzzle. I motion to the door and shrug. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go.” I open the door and shoot him a sideways glance. “And be sure you don’t follow me, ‘kay?” I hear his incensed growl through the closing door, and I smile in earnest. Who knew pushing his buttons would be this much fun? “Who would you choose, Low? Jake Ryan or Blane? I’m with Jake Ryan all the way, baby.” Delilah falls back onto her puffy cloud of pink pillows, her blond curls cascading all around her. She draws up her knees and sighs. “Hmmmm, I’ll have to go with Blane. I’m a sucker for the tortured types. Jake is a little too allAmerican for me.” After an evening of John Hughes movies in the rec room with a slew of other Boozman girls, I’m ready for a little down time. I feel like I need a shower and a Brillo pad to wash some of this estrogen off me. Don’t get me wrong, it was a fun and chilled out Saturday night, but it’s a bit much for a loner like me. The day started with a trip to Café du Monde for coffee and chicory, and an order of beignets, and it was freaking delicious. It felt a little strange to make the breakfast trip under the watchful eye of my RA, a bit like an elementary school field trip, but the sights and sounds of Jackson Square curbed those thoughts almost immediately. Fortune tellers, musicians, dancers, people painted from top to toe in gold—all these and more littered the sidewalks of the Quarter and perched by the wrought iron gates surrounding Jackson Square. I wish I could grab a bench and people watch for hours. I was so taken with St. Louis Cathedral, I signed up for the trip to Sunday mass in the morning. Am I even Catholic? I am tomorrow. After a day brimming with activity, I’m in need of an escape, and I know just where to go. I snatch my phone, notebook, and headphones off the desk and slide on my flip flops. When Delilah notices me

walking to the door, she sits up in bed. “Hey, where are you disappearing to? Who knows when Charlotte’ll be back from the library. Don’t leave me all by my lonesome.” Delilah pouts and bats her eyelashes at me. I shove my room key in my pocket and smile. “Now, now Delilah, those puppy dog eyes don’t work on me. You see, I have boobies. Save it for the men in your life.” She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “It works on boobies, too … sometimes.” “Well, not these boobies,” I say with a chuckle. I open the door and wave. “I’ll be back before you know it. Don’t wait up.” Before shutting the door, I hesitate for a moment and turn back to her. “Hey Delilah, do you think…” I say, clenching my fists behind my back, hating myself for asking, “do you think the other girls liked me tonight?” A whisper of a smile dances on her lips, and I see it in her eyes—sympathy. I sound needy and vulnerable, but I keep wondering if I didn’t fit in with the girls at home, or if I just plain old don’t fit in. I try not to put too much stock into what others think of me, but nobody wants to be the last pick for dodgeball, I don’t care what they say. “Yeah, Low, they thought you were cool, I can tell,” she reassures me with a grin. “I see many mani/pedi dates and slumber parties in your future.” I shake my head and chuckle, backing away. “Now let’s not go crazy, here. A simple ‘Marlo does not suck. We won’t glue maxi pads to her locker’ will suffice.” “Well, then mission accomplished.” She gives me a cheesy thumbs-up, and I nod my thank you as I close the door. I race up the flight of stairs and creak open the door to the roof, wondering if this is the night I’ll have company. I came up here last night and stayed for over an hour, but I never saw Ever. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him all weekend—in the cafeteria or on any outings. I wonder where he could be … no I don’t. I don’t wonder about him at all. Not even a little bit. I settle in with my back against the AC unit, earbuds popped in, and notebook open and ready to scribble. Sometimes, I jot down my thoughts, other times I bang out a few lines of awful poetry, and when the spirits move me, I draw fabulous graphic and uncensored doodles. My dick doodle could be awardwinning. Only my circumcised sketch, though. I don’t have much experience with peen au naturale. Honestly, my experience with any peen is limited. I’ve seen my fair share, but I haven’t gone all the way to Pound Town. So anyone who opens my “journal,” expecting to find the ramblings of a dreamy-eyed teenage girl is in for a rude awakening … and pencil porn. We all have our creative outlets—some are just more lewd than others. Before I can choose my tunes, a deep baritone voice croons over the familiar sounds of the city. “Swing low, sweet chariot…” The voice is like velvet rolling through me, warming me to the tips of my toes. I close my eyes and tip my head to the sky, savoring the sound. It reminds me of peace … unquestionable faith. “Coming for to carry me hooooooooome.” I hear the splash of water below and I creep to the ledge of the building to get a closer look. The street below is nearly deserted, save for a mop bucket, a hose, and an older man gracing me with an aweinspiring private concert. His gray beard is long and braided and his apron smudged with a night’s worth of work in the kitchen. Mama Bea’s Kitchen, to be exact, if the sign on the corner is any indication. “Swing low, sweet chariot…” A banjo kicks in, and I lift my eyes to see three new additions to the impromptu street party. There’s the banjo, another man with a violin, and one more holding what looks to be a pair of spoons. My kitchen crooner points and laughs, but keeps singing, doing his part to contribute to this rag tag rendition of a

classic. It’s cleansing. It’s beautiful. It’s all the company I need tonight.



Marlo I DON’T SEE Ever again until Monday night, when he shows up on the rooftop twenty minutes after me. His Orleans Academy uniform is rumpled, the knot of his tie loosened, shirt tails hanging, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks like a wrinkled mess, and I don’t just mean his clothes. His heaves a labored sigh and deadpan stare, but I give no shits. “I knew there was a catch to you keeping your mouth shut.” He trudges over and sits on the opposite side of the air conditioner and stares straight ahead. “You want to invade my private hideout, fine. Nothing I can do about it. Just stay out of my way.” “This rooftop isn’t big enough for the both of us,” I say in a gruff tone, with furrowed brows. He looks at me like an alien has sprouted out of the top of my head, and I shrug. “My dad likes old Westerns, what can I say?” He points at me and squints. “See that? That right there. Don’t. We aren’t swapping stories and getting to know each other. I don’t want to know you.” Well, that hit me right between the eyes. And my heart took a stab, too, if I’m being honest. It gives two crestfallen beats before adrenaline and anger swoop in and save the day. “I don’t want to know about you either, ass munch. I know enough already, thank you very much.” “Is that so?” “Yes, it is. Your mama didn’t teach you any manners, you can’t roll a joint to save your pathetic little life, and your eyes are set too close together.” I seem him flinch, although he tries to hide it, and he raises a hand to his nose, squinting. “Huh?” “Yep,” I say, pointing back and forth between his eyes. “Makes ‘em look beady.” He drops his hand and glares. “And for your information, I can roll a damn joint. I bought that one already rolled. The asshole must have forgotten to take out the seeds.” “Likely story,” I say as I examine my fingernails. I feel guilty for a millisecond, then I see him surveying me. The sucker is sizing me up, and I know for sure I’m going to hate every syllable coming out of his mouth when he’s done. “Hold on, is that a journal? Seriously, could you be any more cliché? Wait, don’t tell me,” he says with snarled lips. “Are there lyrics in there? God, of course there are.” I roll my notebook into a tube and resist the urge to beat the bastard to a bloody pulp with it. A forced smile curves onto my lips, and I shoot fire at him with my eyes.

“Not lyrics, no. Not even poetry, really. As a matter of fact, I was just writing about you,” I say, unrolling the notebook and scribbling furiously on the page. “Oh, really.” Ever crosses his arms, his expression a mixture between not believing a word I’m saying and surprise that I’d admit giving him a second thought. I’ll give his stupid, smug face a second thought, all right. I finish up and rip the page out of my notebook, folding it again and again until it’s the size of a credit card. I stand up and collect my things, pinging the note at his head as I walk away. “Just for you, bridge troll.” I open the door and leave without sparing him a second glance. Ever be nimble, Ever be quick, Ever can’t find his teeny, tiny dick. I may have even drawn him a stick figure sporting the teeniest circumcised penis to drive the point home. “I have a tiny confession to make, Marlo. I hope you won’t be angry with me,” Evelyn says as she covers her lips with her fingers and raises her shoulders like she’ll explode if she doesn’t spill. It’s our Thursday dinner night, and I may have been the tiniest bit glad when Evelyn told me Oliver wouldn’t be able to join us tonight. He’s out of town on business for the week, so it would be “just us girls.” The moment the words left her mouth, I relaxed like a pair of elastic pants after Sunday dinner. Oliver is nice … cordial, but I get the feeling my mere presence is a burden to him. I feel like he may view me as Evelyn’s dirty little secret, even though I don’t get that same vibe from her. “Confess away.” I smile, curling my feet up onto her couch. “I brought some of your cupcakes back to the market for Etienne to taste. They were so delicious, I knew he would just die for them.” I’m surprised she ate enough to have an opinion. From what I remember from our dinner, she’d barely tasted two meager forkfuls while looking at Oliver and commenting about watching her weight. Anyway, I guess that small taste had made an impression, and I feel a tiny burst of pride. “Really? What did he say?” My stomach flips while I wait for her to answer. She slaps my knees and giggles. I love how she’s almost childlike tonight. She’s still dressed to the nines and made up perfectly, which makes her look more like a little girl playing dress up in her mom’s closet than the woman she is. Tonight, I feel a sisterly vibe forming between us. I’m past the point in my life where I want Evelyn to take on a motherly role, and that’s okay. The nature of our relationship doesn’t have to be defined by DNA; we can decide on our own where we want to take things. “He couldn’t get enough of them! He positively gushed, Marlo,” she says, beaming. “He wants you to bake for him. He wants to sell your treats at the deli counter. He offered to have you pick up a few hours after school, if you’re interested. Isn’t that great?” My cheeks hurt from the gigantic grin tugging at my mouth. I can’t believe he wants to offer me a job. I’ve been baking with Nana for years; it’s something I love to do. The question is, can I fit it in around my school work? “I don’t know, Evelyn. I’m not sure how that would work with school. Honestly, I don’t even know if Orleans Academy allows students to have part-time jobs.”

She’s shaking her head even before I finish. “Etienne already looked into it for you, just in case you agreed. No pressure, though,” she explains, while raising a hand before I can protest. “He has a student from the academy working for him already, so he knew the appropriate channels to get it approved. You’re all set with the school. If you choose to take the job, you’ll submit your work schedule to your RA every week. That’s all there is to it, really. What do you think?” I roll the idea around in my mind, feeling giddy at the thought of it. Orleans Academy keeps its students so segregated from the city around them, and this job would be an opportunity to truly experience New Orleans—to feel a part of it all. I’ll have to work extra hard to stay on top of my schoolwork. If my grades suffer, my dad and Nana will kill me. But it could be fun… “I think I love it!” We both shriek, and then burst into laughter. The bell chimes above our heads as we walk inside the market, and I scan the store, looking for Etienne. I hear a low, melodic whistle coming from the back. “Is that my little baker and my favorite customer? My darling, Marlo, please tell me you will bake for me. Yes?” Etienne asks as he bounds up the aisle and air kisses both my cheeks. After doing the same to Evelyn, he grabs both my hands and gives me an expectant look. I smile and give him a little nod. He wraps me in a tight hug and leaves his arm around my shoulder as he leads me to the deli counter. “Wonderful, my pretty one, wonderful! You won’t regret it. You’ll have such fun, and I’ll gain ten pounds. Everyone wins.” Etienne chuckles and leads me behind the counter as if I’m starting today. “What’s mine is yours. Raid my shelves, use my pans and ovens. Make magic with those little fingers,” he says with a wave of his hand. Evelyn follows us to the counter and laughs. “You can’t have her today, Etienne. She and I have a night of girl talk planned. Isn’t that right, Marlo?” I nod at Evelyn, and then shrug at Etienne. “Yes, we do. Could I … could I start Monday? Is that too soon?” “No such thing! In fact, you can meet my other student worker today. He’s out back unloading a truck with Remy. The two of you could walk to work together. Etienne worries, you know. I don’t want anything to happen to you, pretty one.” He continues to show me around, pointing out a mixer, baking pans, and other tools I’ll need. My mind runs a mile a minute, thinking of all the creations I can make with an entire store of ingredients at my fingertips. I’m already planning my first few projects in my head when I hear the back door slam shut, laughter following closely behind. It’s not until a familiar head of shaggy dark hair and low slung jeans come into view that I tense. His eyes land on me and irritation prickles my skin. My shirt collar feels itchy and tight, and I tug the material and let out a frustrated huff. “Everett, come meet our new employee. Since you attend the same school, you may know each other,” Etienne says, lifting his eyebrows in question. Boy, what a loaded question. Met, assaulted, insulted? Yes to all of those. After my beautiful poetry and skillful sketch, Ever retaliated with a limerick of his own. He dropped it in my lap before Fine Arts Survey started, a class I neglected to notice he was in. It’s a large stadium-style classroom—the perfect place for assholes to lurk in the shadows. Little Miss Marlo,

Sits on her throne. Thinking that she’s the shit. Then along comes Ever, Showing her she’ll never, Be anything but a rotten twit. There was even a sketch of me, on a throne, with a pile of shit on my head as my “crown.” The jerk. I mean, he’s a funny jerk, but still… “We’ve met,” I eek out as I glare in his direction. Of all the assholes in all the world… “Yeah, I know her,” Ever says with a deadpan look. Remy winks and squeezes my shoulder as he rounds the counter. “Good to see you again, Marlo. Glad I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.” I tear my eyes away from Ever and smile at Remy. At least someone is happy to see me. It’s not like I knew he worked here. I have just as much right to be pissed off as he does. Why does he keep invading my life? He may see it as the other way around, but it’s not like I’m actively seeking him out. It just keeps happening. “Thanks, Remy. It’s good to see you, too,” I say, leaning into him with a flirty smile. No reason to be bristly to everyone. As we wrap up the tour and grab our dinner from Etienne, I shoot one last evil eye at Ever, followed by a sweet and innocent smile to Remy. Evelyn chuckles and mutters, “Well, this should be interesting.” Oh, it’ll be something, all right…



Marlo I TAP MY eraser on my desk as I stare at the photo collage in front of me, zoning out to the point that the images morph and reshape like an optical illusion. I’d like to round out my fine arts essay by saying Pablo Picasso was obviously inhaling something and Mona Lisa looks like a dude. That’s the extent of my knowledge about any kind of art, but I doubt my opinion would be appreciated by my teacher, Mrs. Abadie. Bing. Charlotte’s phone … again. She cranes her neck and glances at the screen before dimming it with a click of her finger. That’s the fifth time in the last hour. And she may try to play innocent, but I see the name that keeps flashing across her screen. “So what’s the deal with you and Jeb?” I ask, giving Charlotte a sideways glance. Time to shake up the stiff in the room. Her pen stops moving across the paper for a second. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says, and then starts back writing, without even a glance in my direction. Bing. I chuckle, and she sighs, dimming her phone once again. “Oh, I think you do. You know he only has eyes for you, right? Every move he makes, he’s watching for your reaction. It’s kind of cute, actually.” I sneak a peek in her direction and smirk. She drops her pen and pinches the bridge of her nose, squinting like I just gave her a head-splitting migraine. Okay, not the reaction I was expecting… “There’s nothing there, Low, because there can be nothing there. That’s the short answer, all right?” “Hmmmm,” I say as I watch her actively ignore me. “You react to him, too. Shallow breaths, sideways glances … pointy nips—” “Okay, that’s enough, you little meddler.” I knew that last one would get her attention. She turns in her chair and sighs. “It doesn’t matter how either of us feels. Nothing can ever come from it besides a little bit of fun.” I shrug. “Looks like more than fun to me.” She shakes her head. “Jeb and I have chosen our paths, and the two will never cross. I walk the line, work my ass off to be the best. Next year? Tulane. After that? Law school. I’m already studying for the LSATS.” Charlotte leans

forward, placing her elbows on her knees. “Jeb? He works hard at not working and pissing off his parents. Next year? Fucking off. The year after that? I’m not sure, but if I hazard to guess, I bet he’ll still be fucking off.” I can’t hide the frown pulling at my lips. I sigh and rest my head on my fist. “I don’t know. It seems to me it’s pretty early in our lives to say we’ve already chosen our paths. I have no clue what I want to do— who I want to be. I like the idea of figuring it out as I go. Maybe you’re condemning Jeb before ever giving him a chance.” Charlotte scoffs and shakes her head. “Look, Low, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you have no clue what you’re talking about,” she says, raising her hand to stop me from interrupting. “Jeb and I weren’t raised the same as you. I may have only met your dad and brother for a second, but that’s all it took for me to know. Whether your dream is to be a doctor or a ditch digger, your dad would love you regardless. There’s nothing unconditional about my life. From the time I could walk, expectations were placed on me. Same for Jeb. We just reacted to those expectations differently.” I can’t even fathom what it would be like to grow up that way. One thing’s for sure, with my sassy mouth and petulant attitude, my decisions would align me more closely with Jeb than Charlotte. “That’s … awful.” Charlotte shrugs and turns back to her homework. “Maybe, but it doesn’t change anything. So when I say there’s nothing there, just believe me. It can never be anything but fun, and no one can ever know even that much.” I straighten and turn toward her. “Well, I just think that—” “Hola lovelies,” Delilah sings as she flounces into the room. Charlotte flashes me her “shut your pie-hole” eyes, and I zip my lips. We both turn our attention to our roommate, who is humming softly to herself as she flits across the room. “I take it you had a good time?” I giggle, and her mouth curves into a million-watt smile. “He’s amazing. Ron is so hot, and funny, and smart, and hot,” Delilah gushes. “Let’s not forget the important things. The boy is hot,” Charlotte says with raised eyebrows. It didn’t take me long to realize Delilah has the attention span of a gnat. I can’t even call her boyfriends the flavor of the week, because they rarely last that long. They’re more like flavors of the moment—silly whims of an indecisive girl. Delilah falls in love like most dogs nap—hard, often, and accompanied by a fair amount of drool. “Right?” Delilah grabs a set of pajamas out of her drawer and claps her hands. “Let’s watch a movie before bed. I bet there’s no one in the commons room. We could pop some popcorn and get candy out of the vending machines.” Charlotte and I both look at the clock and then at each other. 11:00 P.M. “That’s a terrible idea. We all have to be up at the butt crack and you haven’t even started studying yet, Delilah.” Charlotte turns back to her desk without waiting for a reply. “Pshh. I studied with Ron,” she says as she turns to me, having lost Charlotte’s attention. “Um, your book sack is right over there, Delilah,” I say pointing to the side of her desk. “That’s where it’s been all night.” She waves me off with a huff and rolls her eyes. “I mean, we called a few things out to each other from memory. It’s all good.” “Christ,” Charlotte mutters under her breath, just as my phone starts ringing. “Of course, you get saved by the bell.” “Sorry,” I whisper, as I make my way to the door, excited to see “Daddio” blinking on my screen. I hear Delilah chattering on as I shut the door behind me. “Hey, Dad. What are you doing up so late? Rowdy the Rooster shows no mercy.”

“Hey, baby! Rowdy’s an old softy—you let me worry about him. I woke up to get something to drink and saw your text message. I couldn’t wait until morning to hear about this job,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice through the phone. If I close my eyes, I can see the crooked curve of his lips, the rise of his cheeks, and the sunspots dotting his forehead from decades spent in the Texas sun. God, I miss my daddy. The feeling comes in a rush, choking the words and burning my nose. I keep so busy during the day, I don’t have time to think about home, but the sound of his voice pricks at my heart. It reminds me that life goes on, even if I’m not there to experience it. It makes me wish I could split myself in two and be in both places at the same time. “Daddy,” I whisper with a sad smile, holding my bittersweet tears at bay. He sighs. “My little Low, it’s so good to hear your voice. Tell me everything.” And I do. I tell him all about my classes, the mountains of homework, and how I’m faring through it all. I talk about Delilah and Charlotte. He chuckles when I tell him, “I feel like Delilah and me are the raggedy wildflowers and Charlotte’s the perfectly groomed orchid.” “Darlin’, I don’t know about you, but I like things a little wild.” I laugh, and he continues, “Low, an orchid is no more beautiful than a Texas bluebell catching wind on the side of the highway. They’re just different. Do you get my meaning?” “Yes, sir.” “You’ve never been one to follow the crowd. I never worried about that with you. Now, Declan? That’s a different story. That boy would follow a pretty girl right off a cliff. But you’ve always known your own heart better than that. Don’t start doubting it now.” I understand what he’s saying, and he’s right; I’ve never felt the need to imitate the masses. But when three girls cram into a tiny room, it’s hard not to compare sometimes. Just hearing the sound of my dad’s voice, and thinking back to Charlotte’s explanation of how she was raised, I set those restless feelings aside. I tell him all about Creole Market, Etienne, and my new job, which I start tomorrow. Surprisingly, he doesn’t sound the least bit worried about how I’ll juggle work and school, and that gives me a boost of confidence. If he thinks I can do it, then I know that I can. “I can’t wait to tell Nana about this. Her little baker is all grown up,” he says, and I smile. “You feel safe getting to and from work, right, Low? You said there’s another student working there, too?” “Yes, there’s another student, and we’re going to walk there and back together. I’ll be fine,” I say, and leave it at that. I may tell my dad most things, but that doesn’t mean I tell him everything. He tells me all about Declan’s first day of school (he’s quite the ladykiller now that he’s been named quarterback of the JV football team), and Fisher’s wallowing in my absence (he won’t even go fishing at the pond), but I hear the yawns creeping into his voice. My dad is usually in bed right after sunset. “I need to let you sleep, Dad. We’ll talk later this week, and I’ll tell you all about my first few days of work,” I say reluctantly, wanting more time, needing to feel the warm blanket of his voice for just a little while longer. “No, no, tell me more, sweet girl,” he says, stopping to yawn again. “What else?” “Give Nana a kiss for me, ‘kay? And scratch Fisher behind his right ear—he loves that. And be sure to flush the toilet while Declan’s in the shower. It’ll remind him of me,” I say with a laugh. Dad chuckles. “Ha, boy needs a cold shower with all those girly phone calls he’s been gettin’.” He’s quiet for a moment, then lets out a long sigh. “I love you something fierce, Low, you know that?” “Yeah, Daddy, I know,” I say, pushing back the familiar sting in my eyes. “I love you more.”



Ever “HAVE YOUR PAPERS on my desk before class begins tomorrow. All late assignments will receive an automatic zero,” Mrs. Abadie says as the class begins filtering out into the hallway. My idea of fine art is paint-by-number and an expertly groomed chia pet, so this semester should be interesting. I’m at the last desk, in the last row, after the last class of the day, so I hang back and wait. I watch Little Miss Marlo pack her book bag, her face getting more pinched by the second. How this girl can invade every aspect of my life and have the nerve to act like she’s the one being intruded upon is beyond me. My rooftop. My market. Hell, I can’t even walk to work in peace anymore. It’s not like I have any choice. Uncle Jeffrey made it clear that escorting Marlo to Creole Market was part of my towing the line, keeping on the straight and narrow. God knows my parents would love for me to give them a reason to mess with me. Not gonna happen. I look up to find Marlo front and center, resting bitch face in place. “Are we doing this or what?” she asks with an eye roll. What a fucking peach. I grab my notebook off the desk, curl it up, and shove it in my back pocket. “Of course, Your Highness, lead the way,” I say with a sarcastic bow and a wave of my arm. We walk to the dorm in stiff silence and part ways to change our clothes. When we meet back up in the lobby, it seems like changing out of the stuffy school uniform relaxes her, if only a tiny bit. Being the gentleman I am, I walk on the sidewalk closest to the road, but I keep a close eye on Marlo. I don’t put it past her to shove me into oncoming traffic and feign innocence as I’m carted away to the city morgue. This girl can hold one helluva grudge about a two-dollar cake, so I’m not taking any chances. “Watch that drop. The pothole is pretty deep,” I say in warning. She gives me a halfway thankful look, but I can’t deny my advice was mostly self-serving. I have no desire to carry her and the stick she has shoved up her ass all the way back to the dorms if she were to twist her ankle. I open the door for her, and she walks by without a word. “Thanks for walking to work with me, Ever … No, don’t mention it. It was my pleasure…” She looks over her shoulder, and I catch her rolling eyes at my one man play. “I guess a simple thank you is too much to ask of Your Highness.” I push past her and keep walking to the storage room. I hear Remy and Etienne gushing over her like she’s the second coming, and I’m not listening to that crap. Her ego doesn’t need any stroking, if you ask

me. I begin my shift opening boxes of hot sauce and pickled everything—okra, garlic, mushrooms, quail eggs, even pigs’ feet. You name a pickled product, Etienne stocks it on his shelves. That’s what I like most about his store. He offers the hard-to-find and off-the-wall items right next to the kitchen basics. There must be over two hundred different types of hot sauces in his store. After checking the shelves up front, I start restocking where it’s needed and putting the excess away on the stock shelves in the back. As time passes, the smell of coffee and cake-baking overpower the familiar aromas of Creole cooking that always linger in the store. No matter how bitchy the baker, I can’t deny it smells delicious. Remy finally meets me in the back and helps with the restocking. “What, finished kissing the new girl’s ass so soon?” I ask as I hurl a jar of Slap Yo’ Momma Hot Sauce at him. He catches it before it clips his pointy head and chuckles. “And what an ass it is. I’ve got to say, I’m fully on board with Etienne’s decision to hire that sweet little number.” “I’m telling you man, she’s a bitch. Trust me,” I say. “Maybe to you, but she’s all sweet smiles and perky tits for me. I’m telling you, rich girl may feel like slumming, and I’m all too happy to oblige.” His words hit me in an unfamiliar place, and I don’t like it. I find myself wanting to take up for Marlo, when I should just leave her out there swinging. But Remy’s not a stupid nursery rhyme or icing smeared on a shirt. “Man, she’s not like that,” I say, my voice sounding more clipped than I intend. “I don’t get the feeling that she’s some rich girl looking to piss off Daddy.” He chuckles. “Did you see who her mom was?” Remy raises his eyebrows, and I shrug. I don’t pay much attention to the names of Etienne’s customers. “Evelyn James? Big shot jewelry designer married to Oliver James? The guy who pretty much runs the oilfield down here? Man, get your head out of your ass and look around once in a while. I don’t care what big shot law firm your dad’s a partner in, Marlo’s stepdad could buy and sell those fuckers like they’re a pack of Juicy Fruit. You should know this shit. Jeffrey comes in with the guy all the time.” Remy’s right, I don’t pay attention to Uncle Jeffrey’s friends or who does what and where. It’s all useless information with no real bearing on my life. I admit, I’m curious, though. I didn’t think Marlo came from that type of upbringing. I get a sense of candidness from her that isn’t normal for someone raised with a silver spoon shoved in their mouth. People who grow up wealthy tend to carefully weigh every word. Marlo speaks straight from her heart, her head, and her fiery temper, damn the consequences. “I’d watch my step, if I were you,” I warn. Remy doesn’t want to tangle with Marlo, if it means tangling with old money. He may just find out how expendable he is to Etienne. In those type of situations, the little guy loses. Every time. That’s why I’m warning him off. It’s the only reason. It has nothing at all to do with this jealousy I feel bubbling up inside of me. He comes closer and sneers at me. “What the hell, man? You think you’re the only one who can pull in prime pussy?” “Whoa,” I say, completely taken off guard. I need to change this conversation, and quick, before Marlo becomes a competition to this asshole. “You need to shut the hell up before Etienne overhears you talking about his new star employee that way. You like your job, man? Use your fucking head.” His eyes dart to the door, then back to me. His nostrils flare as he tries to get his temper under control. I’m not sure what the hell just happened, but I’m guessing I hit a nerve. “Whatever,” he mumbles as he pushes past me, bumping my shoulder when he passes. Later, Marlo presents Etienne with her chocolate cappuccino cupcakes topped with cappuccino

buttercream frosting and a chocolate covered espresso bean, then dusted with cocoa. She couldn’t find a polite way to skip me when doling out taste tests to the employees, so I finally got to taste her goodies. And they were fucking delicious. I tap on the office door, not at all surprised to find Uncle Jeffrey buried in a pile of paperwork. “Hey, ya got a minute?” I ask, peeking my head through the half open door. He pushes back from his desk and rises to meet me. “Of course, Ever. I didn’t realize you were stopping by.” He motions for me to have a seat, and we position ourselves across from each other in his guest chairs. He always does that; he leaves whatever he has on his desk to give me his undivided attention. It’s a small thing, but something that makes a big difference to me. I’ve either been a second thought or a source of regret for most of my life; Uncle Jeff makes me feel wanted. “I didn’t know I was either. It was a spur of the moment decision. I dropped Marlo off at the cafeteria and headed here—we just got back from the market,” I say, trying to steer the conversation where I want it to go. “Ah, yes. I’m glad you’re able to help. I hear Etienne is quite taken with her.” I chuckle. “That’s putting it mildly. Today, he ate so many of her cupcakes, there were hardly any left to sell.” Uncle Jeff throws his head back and laughs. “Yes, that sounds like Etienne.” I smile and nod, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. “I didn’t realize you knew Marlo’s family.” I avoid his eyes so my curiosity doesn’t give me away. I leave the statement open, hoping he’ll take the bait. “Well, yes, I know Oliver well. We attended Orleans Academy together, way back in the Stone Age,” he says with a chuckle. “I met Evelyn, Marlo’s mother, through Oliver, but they’ve only very recently become acquainted with Marlo. They’re not family in the traditional sense of the word, although I’m sure they’re making good use of the time she has in the city while attending school.” “Wait,” I say, more than a little confused. “Marlo didn’t know her mother until now?” Uncle Jeff notices my change in posture and interest. My perked up ears and calculating gaze tip him off, and he crooks his head, trying to read my intentions. “Hmmmm, I think that’s a question better asked of Marlo, don’t you?” I shrug and relax back into the chair. “I guess you’re right. No big deal; I was just wondering.” He taps my foot as he stands and walk across the office. He sits down behind his desk and sighs, looking at his pile of paperwork. I’m not sure if he’s frustrated with me or the papers. “Let’s just say Marlo made a lot of adjustments this semester—changing schools her senior year, moving to the city, meeting family she never knew. That’s a lot of change in a short amount of time. I’m glad you’ve befriended her, Everett,” he says with a smile. I smile back, probably looking more like I need to take a shit than an actual smile, but I hate lying to my uncle. While the truth is I’ve been a total dickhead to Marlo, I’m certainly not going to tell him that. Hell no. “I’m glad I could help, Uncle Jeff. I guess I’ll leave you to it,” I say, keeping my shit-taking grin in place as I say my goodbyes. After seeing the way Remy reacted to Low today, I already knew things would have to change between the two of us. I may be okay with throwing her to some feisty kittens to irritate the fuck out of her, but Remy is a first-class ticket to the wolves. If I need to serve as a buffer between Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, so be it. Remy’s not a bad guy, but he’s a bit rough around the edges …

downright jagged, really… And now, Uncle Jeff is counting on me. If he knew what’s been going on between Marlo and me, I have no doubt he’d be livid. I could argue that she’d started the whole thing, but I’m not five years old anymore, so he won’t give a shit about that argument. And somehow, in the midst of our little feud, I feel like we’ve become partners of a sort. Associates of aggravation. Friendly foes. While she may drive me up a goddamn wall, I have to admit she’s grown on me. It’s about time I grow on her. Good thing I can be a charming SOB when I need to be.



Marlo WHEN I CREAK open the roof door, my notebook and headphones in hand, I see Ever beat me to the punch today. When he’d dropped me off at the cafeteria and high-tailed it, I thought he’d had his fill of me for the day. I avoid his gaze and sit on the other side of the air conditioner. You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine. “We meet again,” he says with a smirk. I notice a smidge less irritation in his tone, and I’m immediately on guard. I know better than to take anything at face value. I have fourteen years of experience with Declan, and he cultivated me into the ninja I am today. I have the power to make grown men weep in a cut down fight. I go for the jugular. I take no prisoners. But I don’t know what to do with that weird ass smile plastered on Ever’s face right now. It’s creepy. “What is wrong with your face?” He jerks back, but keeps pseudo-smiling. “What? I’m smiling at you.” He acts offended, and I scoff. “You look like you crapped your pants.” He bursts out laughing, then stands up and moves closer to me. Right on the side of me. He rests his elbows on top of his raised knees and bumps my shoulder with his. What the hell? “Ya know, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together this semester. Don’t you think it’s time we call a truce?” “Now, why would we do that?” I ask, watching him closely. His eyes are a deep blue today, matching his shirt. They change depending on what he’s wearing—sometimes they’re mossy green and other times, a dark navy blue. His smile looks more genuine now, reaching up into his eyes and softening my resolve. “Do you even remember why you hate me?” “Because you’re a cake-crushing butt head,” I say, with a nod of my head. “Well, you demolished my shirt.” He bows his head and looks up at me. “But I’m willing to let that go … if you are.” I think over his proposition. I’m not normally a “let things go” kind of girl. No, I’m more of a “spike the peace-offering brownies with Ex-Lax” chick, if I’m being honest. In my experience, nothing says “don’t cross me, asshole” like the flying shits.

But he’s right—we’re going to be seeing a helluva lot of each other, and it would be nice to take off the gloves for a change. But can I trust him to do the same? Or will the laxative spiker become the spikee? Hmmmm… “I don’t like you,” I say, as nothing more but stating a fact. “But maybe you could.” And the crap face is back, but this time, it’s almost endearing. I’ve got to hand it to him, he’s trying. He just looks awful doing it. “I don’t trust you.” I narrow my eyes at him, and he flinches. Damn straight, bridge troll. Nobody knocks me down, insults my food, and gets off scot-free. “You probably shouldn’t.” “Well, at least you’re honest.” “There is that,” he says with a shrug, looking entirely unapologetic. Feeling like we’re at a bit of an impasse, I lean back and study him. His mop of hair is an utter mess, the plastic rainbow of his Pink Floyd T-shirt is cracked and broken, and his blue jeans are more white than blue, no doubt from thousands of washings and wears. He’s two steps away from looking homeless, but right on target for being the hottest boy I could ever dream of. What the hell is wrong with me? Ever reaches back and pulls out his wallet. He flips it open, revealing a joint nestled in the bend. He twirls it between his fingers, then tucks it behind his ear, all smooth-like. “Good thing it’s not lit. All the snaps and pops might blow up your pretty little head,” I say, with a saccharine smile and a bat of my lashes. “All the snaps and pops, wa wa wa,” he says with a high-pitched tone and a bobble head. I burst out laughing and touch my palm to my chest. “Is that supposed to be moi? It’s not my fault you’re a subpar pot smoker. It’s shameful, really.” I’m genuinely smiling now as he rests his head on his knees and grins right back. I hear a flick of metal on metal, and the familiar smell of a zippo lighter hits my nose. Ever plucks the joint from his ear and twirls the tip through the lighter. The flame rises when the rolling paper ignites. After taking a few small puffs to stoke the flame, he holds it out to me. “How about you test out my rolling skills? You may be pleasantly surprised, friend,” he says, almost like a dare. I reach out and take what he’s offering, in more ways than one, and he smiles his approval. The smokes slides down my throat, burns my lungs, and not long after, fuzzies my brain. After a few pulls, I tip it back over to him, and he joins me in a cloud of smoke. The joint doesn’t crackle and pop this time. Not even once. Who knew a friendship could be built upon a crap face and a tightly rolled joint? Certainly not me. Later that night, I sneak into the darkened bedroom with about as much grace as a newborn giraffe. I fumble through changing into my pajamas and shoving my smoky clothes to the deep down bottom of my laundry hamper. The rancid taste of weed lingers on my lips, feeling part sour and part burnt. I manage to brush my teeth, which feel a bit furry when I run my tongue along them, and wash my grimy face without waking my roommates. As I burrow under my covers after a harrowing ladder climb, I shut my eyes and bathe in the feeling that I’m hovering over the mattress, kind of like the weed lessened my gravitational pull by just a smidge. Not enough to hit the ceiling, but just enough to feel super fucking cool.

I smile to myself and ponder how this thing … whatever it is … with Ever all started with a cake doomed for destruction. I slowly drift off, thinking how delicious that smashed cake would taste right about now.



Ever “ALL RIGHT, YA ready, Low?” Remy asks as soon as the door shuts behind the customer. Marlo giggles and continues to dust her cupcakes with what looks like silver glitter. Me? I’m supposed to be slicing the andouille sausage for Etienne’s jambalaya. Instead, I salivate while watching Marlo make heaven in little paper wrappers while the tip of her tongue traces her top lip in concentration. “Hit me,” she tells Remy, putting down her supplies and placing her hands on her hips. Remy’s gaze darts to me, and I can tell this one is gonna be a doozy. “Cucumber, carrots … and basilinfused olive oil.” She looks to the ceiling and thinks for a moment, then picks up her duster once again. She shrugs, looking unfazed. “That’s an easy one. She needs carrots for a pot roast she’s cooking for her friend’s housewarming party.” She says nothing more. Remy and I glance at each other, confused. “What about the cucumber and olive oil?” I ask. Her mouth quirks up, and her eyes dance with laughter. “Those are for the after-party at home.” “Basil-infused olive oil?” Remy makes a disgusted face. She looks at both of us, her laughter finally breaking free. “She’s got that ‘not so fresh’ feeling today.” And then we all lose it. I lay down the knife before I slice off something important and try to catch my breath. Marlo is, hands down, the queen of The Grocery Game. Remy and I started the game last year on a slow afternoon, and it’s kept us occupied for more hours than I can count. Whoever checks out the customer chooses three items from their bag, and the other person has to make a story to coincide with those items. The key to The Grocery Game is the crazier the story, the better. “What’s all this ruckus? It sounds like a party in here. Everett, you’re running behind, boy. Slice, slice!” Etienne walks around the deli counter and squeezes my shoulder. He smiles and chuckles. “When Etienne’s away, the children will play.” “I took out a few packs of crawfish to thaw, Etienne. I thought we could try to add them to the chicken and sausage jambalaya. Delicious, huh?” I raise my eyebrows. He always encourages my suggestions and additions to his recipes. It makes cooking with him that much more fun. Plus, my ideas kick the recipes up a notch. Well, at least most of the time. I’ve been wrong before, but Etienne lets me screw up and learn from it. My taste buds don’t always appreciate it, but I do.

The bells chime, alerting us to a new customer, and Etienne stops to greet them, as he always does. He swipes a finger through Marlo’s almost-empty frosting bowl and licks his finger. He moans his approval as Marlo swats his hand and laughs. “Pure spun bliss in a bowl, pretty one,” he says, patting her head and turning to me. “Crawfish sounds like a wonderful idea, Everett. Always thinking, this one.” Marlo catches my eye and smiles, and for some reason, I can’t look away. I sense her approval of Etienne’s assessment, and that makes me … proud? I’m not sure what it is, but I like it. When I finally break away from her gaze, I catch Remy watching me with a calculating expression, and my smile fades. Now that? I really don’t like. I wonder if he still has Marlo in his sights… “I’ll be in the office taking care of some paperwork. Call me when you’re ready, Everett, and we’ll get started on the jambalaya, yes?” I nod and he starts walking to the back of the store. “Keep it to a low roar children. Don’t scare my customers away!” “You really enjoy cooking with Etienne, don’t you?” Marlo whispers as Remy rings up the customer. I nod and smile. She’s right; I do enjoy working with Etienne, but there’s more to it than that. He respects my opinion and treats me like I have something important to say. The adults in my life don’t normally treat me that way. Hell, I haven’t always acted in a way where I’ve deserved it. Etienne is a clean slate for me. He doesn’t know about my shortcomings, and he doesn’t care. We make delicious food together, and that’s enough. “Ready for your next challenge, Low?” Remy chuckles. She rolls her eyes and flicks her hands in a way that says “give it to me.” “Macaroni noodles … Nutella … and garlic.” Now this could go anywhere. Marlo’s mind is a maze of booby traps and land mines. Just when I think I know what she’ll say, she manages to surprise me. “The macaroni noodles are for her kid’s school project. She’ll be painting and gluing macaroni noodles on construction paper for half the night, poor thing,” she says with wide eyes and a pout. “Then she plans to spackle her husband’s ass with the nutella the second little Johnny falls asleep. Fun times for everyone.” She quirks up her eyebrow and pretends to work as Remy and me fall over laughing. “Dare I ask?” Remy shakes his head. Marlo looks at him expectantly and raises her eyebrows. “The garlic?” She giggles. “Duh. The vampires, of course.” We both stop laughing and stare at her, totally stumped. Vampires? “Huh?” “Wha?” “To keep the vampires away?” She stares at both of us, and then rolls her eyes. “Vampires love nutella, too, y’all.” Of course they do. Of course. “You got it?” I ask as soon as the storage room door clicks shut. Remy turns to me and pulls the baggie out of his pocket. “Don’t I always?” He’s right. He always does, which means I don’t have to look very far for my supply. It’s a convenience I appreciate, for sure. We make the exchange and I shove the weed way down into the side pocket of my book sack before getting back to work. We unload the day’s shipments, and Remy is quieter than usual. I can always count on him to crack a

joke or belt out bad rap at the top of his lungs, but today, he’s silent. “So what’s going on, man? No tall tales from the illustrious life of Remy Rodrigue?” I prompt, trying to spur him on. Remy’s bullshit makes the time fly by. He gives me a sideways glance and keeps unloading. What the hell? Once the box is empty, I crumple up the packing slip and chuck it at his head—barely fazes him. “You and Marlo sure have gotten chummy over the last few days. I mean, it wasn’t but two days ago I thought she’d rip off your head and shit down your neck,” he says, acid dripping off his words. “What, would you rather work with two people scratching each other’s eyes out all afternoon? I’d think you’d be happy that we worked out our differences,” I say, trying to get a read on him. The minute I finish talking, I realize that he probably does. If Marlo hates me, she would latch on to him, and he would be the hero of the day. The problem is I know better than that. Remy may be an okay guy, and I use the term ‘okay’ loosely, but that doesn’t mean he needs to get any ideas about him and Marlo as anything more than coworkers. I’m starting to realize Remy is a pet tiger—all cuddles and tricks until he smells blood in the air. He shrugs and sniffs, turning away from me. “I’m just saying, I find it interesting that you want to toss the chick overboard until I show the slightest interest in her. Never took you for a cockblocker, man.” I stand there for a second, stunned and completely baffled. Does this guy live on planet Earth with the rest of us? “Remy, I have so many problems with that statement, that I can’t figure out where in the fuck to start.” He tries to walk away, but I grab his arm before he gets very far. He stops cold and stares at my hand, then meets my eyes. “If you think making some off-handed comment about her tits means you’ve laid some type of claim to her, then you’re more screwed up than I thought. Low and I are just friends anyway, so calm the fuck down.” He jerks him arm out of my grasp and stalks to the store room door. “Dude, what has gotten into you lately? I thought we were friends.” Remy lowers his head and sniffs, turning the knob of the door. He opens the door and turns back to me with a sneer. “Nah, man, we’re cool. Thanks for the reminder, though. You rich kids are all alike.” And with that parting dig, he slams the door behind him, leaving me fuming. Part of me wants to run after him, tell him he doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. My parents may pay for my school tuition, but every penny I make here pays for my weekend gas money and anything else I need on my trips to visit Easton. I think my visits make them feel like neglectful parents, which they are, so they refuse to fund them in any way. The truth is, I’d hitchhike to Thibodaux if it came to that. But I let it go because I’d rather Remy think I’m a rich prick than show him an ounce of weakness. He thinks he’s got the market cornered on fucked up lives? That’s fine, he can keep on thinking that. But this rich kid is watching that asshole, that’s for damn sure. After helping Etienne close up and boxing up a few of Marlo’s cupcakes to take home, we start the trek back to school. She seems more at ease with me than before, or at least less likely to punch me in my junk. I guess Remy is right about one thing: what a difference a few days makes. “You won’t need to walk me back to the dorm tomorrow night,” she says with a smile. “I’m having dinner with my … Evelyn after work.” “With ‘your Evelyn’?” I raise an eyebrow and chuckle. “She’s your mom, right?” Marlo’s gaze darts to the sidewalk and she shrugs. “Well, yeah … I mean, she is, but…” After a long silence she doesn’t fill, I bump her shoulder. I give her an apologetic smile, letting her off

the hook. “Too personal?” I ask, cringing. “Sorry.” She shakes her head and tugs at a lock of hair that’s escaped her ponytail. She twirls it around her finger, and then releases it, then twists it up again. It’s a nervous habit of hers—one of her tells. She tugs and twirls her hair when she gets nervous, along with the cutest little sniff that she uses to buy herself time when she doesn’t know what to say. She scrunches her nose up like a rabbit and puckers her lips. She thinks she’s so cool and collected, but I dare her to play a game of poker with me. “Nah, it’s not that. It’s complicated.” She watches the cars creep by at a snail’s pace, avoiding my gaze. She sniffs. “I’m just not in the mood to get all ‘woe is me,’ ya know?” “Coming from a guy who spends way too much time in the land of woe, I get it. Say no more,” I say, and I mean it. She nods and I can tell she’s grateful I let it go at that. I understand complicated all too well. “Anyway, tomorrow will be our last day of work this week. I always leave town after my last Friday class, so I only work at the market Monday through Thursday. I didn’t know if Etienne mentioned that, but he doesn’t want you walking alone.” “Okay,” she says quietly, then bumps my shoulder right back. “Where do you run off to every weekend? Home?” I grip the back of my neck and try to think of a response that will appease her. Marlo may be a cool girl for shooting the shit and getting high, but I’m not looking to bare my soul or tell my secrets. My life is screwed up enough without adding someone else to my special brand of crazy. Being there for Easton and handling my parents takes all my energy right now. “Something like that,” I say, purposefully vague. This time, she flinches. “Too personal?” “Too personal,” I say with a nod. I touch her arm and her expression shows me she isn’t offended. “How about this? Let’s keep the family shit out of it. No awkward conversations about how we weren’t hugged enough as children. Let’s keep it light. Primo weed, stellar conversation, and out-fucking-standing cupcakes. Whattya say?” She grins and raises her hand. “Fan-fucking-tastic.” I slap her outstretched hand, relieved we’re on the same page. I’d hate to have to end this friendship before it even begins. Another time, different circumstances, maybe things would be different, but I’m not in the position to worry about “what ifs.” I have to take things day by day, and no girl, not even Marlo, can enter into that equation. We pass through Jackson Square on our way back to school. Marlo crosses the square and slides onto an outlying bench. “People-watching. It’s my favorite pastime,” she says as she watches a team of break dancers entertain a growing crowd. “The only things I could ever watch at home were horses grazing and cows taking craps, so this is the most entertainment I’ve had in … well, forever.” In that moment, I can see her. Right now, her legs are covered in well-worn jeans, but I can imagine her tan legs, pink toenails, and way too short cut-off jeans. In my imagination, she’s riding a horse … bareback. Screw it, it’s my imagination, I can do what I want. So, yeah, muscular legs wrapped around the horse’s body, the slow back and forth of the horse’s gait rippling through her as a smile dances on her lips. She’d nudge the horse’s side and take off in a gallop, turning to laugh at me, brown curls dancing in the sunlight. I swear, I can almost hear her laughter. She may not enjoy it, but I think I may like to people-watch in the country. She pats the seat beside her, bringing me back to the here and now, and I sit down. She oohs and aahs as the dancers jump and tumble. She jumps up and claps wildly when the main dancer does a running back flip over three guys kneeling on the ground. She can’t take her eyes off them. And I’m not sure why … I can’t explain it, but…

I can’t take my eyes off her.



Marlo Ever: Strawberry jam, mushrooms, and pepperoni. Go! I stare at the text message, suppressing the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. My fingers itch to respond, but I pull back. Keep it cool, Low. Nobody likes an eager beaver. That statement is wrong on so many levels… Ever and I had exchanged numbers last week when we’d become accidental coworkers, but he’s never called or texted me before. He’d left school on Friday after class, just like he’d said he would, and I didn’t expect to see him again until Sunday or Monday. Was I sweating it? Hell no! My weekend plans are full of movies, makeovers, and mayhem with Delilah and Charlotte. Charlotte may be a reluctant participant, but we lured her to the party with empty promises of flash cards and quizzes. She’s still a bit prickly after figuring out it was actually trivia in the form of Trivial Pursuit: Harry Potter Edition, but she’s warming up. I should note that she’s an expert in The Dark Arts category —I should have seen that one coming. Shady Charlotte could teach Voldemort a thing or two about evil stare downs. He Who Shall Not Be Named would wither under her scrutiny. Now one tiny text has me thinking about an entirely different kind of magic. For as much as I’d hated the bridge troll when I’d first met him, Ever is growing on me. The jury’s still out on whether he’s a fungus or a flower, but I’m having fun figuring it out. Even though I hate to admit it, seeing his name pop up on my phone gets my boobies all tingly. I peek again at my phone and try to think of a great grocery tale. I’m the reigning champion; there’s an expectation that comes with that title. Hmm… “Who’s knocking, lover girl?” Delilah waggles her eyebrows like a goofball. She tips her chin at the phone in my hand. “I know googly eyes when I see ‘em.” I lock my screen and toss my phone to the side. “Focus, Delilah,” I say, snapping my fingers and hoping I can divert her attention. “We’re talking cat eyes, not googly eyes. I was promised a lesson in liquid eyeliner. You backing out?” Delilah’s makeup bag is like a pirate’s treasure chest. As soon as my hand dives into the bag, she swats me and huffs. “Hands off the goods, girl. Roommate or not, I will cut a bitch for mishandling my babies.” She reaches in and pulls out the liquid eyeliner with reverence. I hold back the urge to giggle because

she is not even joking a little bit. Makeup is serious business to her. Delilah forgets all about my phone as she gives me a lesson, while I watch her in the mirror. She applies it perfectly, despite my fluttering eyelashes and head jerks. It looks easy enough to do, and after watching her make me look like Marilyn Monroe in two seconds flat, I feel confident in my makeup applying ability. “Oh, Low, you poor baby. You’ve fallen into Delilah’s makeover vortex. There’s no escaping now,” Charlotte says with a somber head shake, betraying the laughter in her eyes. Jeb enters the commons area right behind Charlotte, tugging her ponytail and propping his chin on her shoulder. Charlotte shrugs her shoulder to push him away, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I glance over at Delilah, giving her a look that says, “Now that’s googly eyes.” She snorts her agreement. “Charlotte, I thought you ran upstairs to change your clothes,” Delilah says with a smirk. Charlotte huffs and rolls her eyes at Jeb. “I did, but I picked up a stray along the way. You know how it goes sometimes.” “No offense taken,” Jeb says, smiling. “Offense intended,” Charlotte counters. “Now, now children, play nicely. Actually, y’all came at the right time. I just gave Low a liquid eyeliner lesson, so she needs to practice on someone.” Delilah looks back and forth between the two of them, but neither steps up to volunteer. “You know, Jeb,” I say, twirling the eyeliner between my fingers like a baton. “I’ve showered you in sugar for weeks now. Enough that I’m surprised you don’t have frosting oozing out of your ears. And we had a deal. Tricks for treats—that was our arrangement. You didn’t hold up your end of the bargain, friend.” Jeb throws up his hands in frustration. “You have a free pass to leave whenever you want, with your new job. My tricks are useless to you. What am I supposed to do?” I tap the eyeliner to my temple and look to the ceiling. “What should you do? What should you do?” I gasp and widen my eyes. “I know! Come sit your cute little butt right here and let me practice.” He grumbles and pouts, but trudges over to sit across from me on the carpet. He huffs and slumps his shoulders, looking so defeated, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Jeb is obviously a player from way back, and I won’t let him fool me. “This I gotta see,” Charlotte says with a laugh, clamming up when she sees murder in Jeb’s gaze. The laugh may stop, but her smirk remains. “Now remember, Low, it’s all about the follow through. Control is key. You want a steady, fluid motion for best results,” Delilah whispers as I pull on Jeb’s eyelid and ready the liner. “That’s what he said,” Jeb says, and we all crack up. I hold back my laughter and shake out my wrists. “Shut it, Funny Guy. That’s a good way to get stabbed in the eyeball.” I pull and prod his eyelids, readying my hand like Delilah taught me. He scowls and flinches away, and I can’t really blame him. Once I get started, I catch on quickly, and his eye doesn’t look half bad. When I finish off his lid with a flamboyant wing on the end, I move to the other side. I can’t leave him lopsided. “I’m thinking strawberry cupcakes with fresh strawberries on top,” he says and pulls away for a moment. “That’s what you’re making me next week as payment for this torture.” “What? This torture falls under the heading of Back Payment, I’ll have you know. But since I’m such a sweet friend, strawberry cupcakes, it is,” I say, capping the eyeliner and assessing my work. “Not half bad, Low. You’ve transformed Jeb into an emo rocker. I’m impressed,” Delilah says with a head nod. Before Jeb realizes what I’m doing, I snap a picture of my masterpiece. His eyes widen in surprise,

and he gasps, making his cat eyes look all the more ridiculous. I lock my phone before he has a chance to snatch it from me. He eyes me suspiciously and leans forward. “Whatcha gonna do with that picture, Low? Send it to Loverboy?” I huff and turn away, afraid my expression might betray me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Hmmmmm,” Delilah says, tapping her finger to her chin. “It has been an interesting few weeks for Marlo, hasn’t it, Jeb? Do you think Ever would agree?” I toss Delilah her eyeliner and stand up. I mosey over to the couch, plopping down, while concentrating all my effort on ignoring the two meddlers staring me down. “Oh, Ever agrees, all right,” Jeb says, his words dripping with innuendo. Me: Jeb is giving me a hard time about you, so he had to be punished. Lip stain is next. What have you told him? My message sends, and I toe-tap nervously, waiting for his response. “Sorry, I can’t hear you. My ears automatically filter out mindless drivel.” I hope my stalling works while I wait for Ever’s response. Hurry up, man! Ever: That asshole is yanking your chain. All he knows is that you work at the market. He’s fishing. “So we work together,” I say, shrugging. “So what? That doesn’t mean jack.” I smile, feeling smug with the knowledge that Jeb is in the dark. “Where do you run off to every night, Low? I mean, we don’t see you until after ten o’clock some nights,” Charlotte says with a devious smirk. She looks over at Jeb with a conspirator’s grin, and that’s when I know. They’ve been talking, and this is NOT good. “You know, come to think of it, Ever is gone every night until late, too,” Jeb offers. I feel a trio of stare downs coming my way, as I type furiously. Me: They’re onto our rooftop rendezvous. Bastards are comparing notes. “All of you should spend more time studying and less time cataloging my every movement,” I say with a sniff. Waffling is my name, and stalling is my game. Ever: Tell Jeb his skin is as smooth as calamine lotion. “Come on now, little Low. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just admit you’ve fallen victim to Ever’s masculine wiles, and you want to have his broody little babies,” Jeb says with a chuckle. Me: Wha? “I can see their little pouty faces already.” Delilah laughs. Ever: Trust me. All right, here goes nothing. I stand up, walk over to Jeb, and lower my hand to his face. “You know

what, Jeb. I’ll admit that—” I pause for a moment and run my thumb over his cheek. “Your skin. Wow, it’s as smooth as calamine lotion.” His eyes widen in surprise, and he jerks away from me. He jumps up to standing and eyes both Charlotte and Delilah with suspicion. “I-uh-I need to go wash this paint off my face. It itches like hell and I’m about to scratch my fucking eyes out. Charlotte, come help me?” Jeb pulls her up and drags her across the common room before she can respond. Delilah watches them leave with a look of confusion, and I take the opportunity to text Ever. Me: Worked like a charm. What the hell, man? Ever: Let’s just say that what started out as a remedy for poison ivy became a fetish of sorts. That’s all I’m gonna say. Me: And even that is TMI. Who knew a bottle of pink lotion would save me from fessing up to our new friendship? There isn’t really anything to hide. What’s the big deal if Ever and me are friends? But, the truth is, it feels like more than friendship sometimes. Nothing outside the lines has happened between us, but there’s a tiny whisper of “maybe” in the air. Saying anything out loud may burst the fragile bubble where secret friendship resides. I’m not ready to do that just yet. Me: Crisis averted. It isn’t until later that night, sitting up on the roof by my lonesome, that I remember Ever’s grocery challenge. I open up my phone to text him back, and hesitate. The truth is, I want more than just his words tonight. I feel strange admitting it to myself, but I miss the sound of his voice, his laughter. I think … I might miss him. Like all of him, even the prickly parts. I have lukewarm feelings about Ever. There, I said it. Not hot and steamy or anything. Maybe a hair warmer than tepid. That’s what I’m going with. Two degrees warmer than tepid. I open my contacts and scroll to his name. Broody Bridge Troll. What? He earned it fair and square. I hit the call button and put the phone to my ear. It rings once. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Rings twice. I should hang up before I wake him up. Rings three times. “Hello, Ever’s phone.” Her voice is like spun sugar, fashioned into a knife and driven straight into my gut. Where else would he be going every weekend, if not his girlfriend’s house? How could I have been so stupid? “Sorry,” I whisper, my voice wavering. “Wrong number.” I hang up, toss my phone to the side, and bury my face into my cradled arms. Did I say tepid? Correction. My feelings for Ever are ice cold. Polar snow caps.



Marlo “WHERE WERE YOU last night? I waited on the roof until after eleven,” Ever says the moment I meet him at the back of the classroom. I run my thumbs underneath the straps of my book sack and shrug. Before he can say another word, I turn on my heel and walk out the door, hitting the streets of New Orleans in record time. After my ill-timed phone call on Saturday night, I made the decision to stay the hell away from all things Ever for as long as humanly possible. He obviously has a girlfriend, and as much as I wish it was, her name is not Marlo Rivers. I’m a lot of things, but a boyfriend-stealing skank isn’t one of them. Avoiding the rooftop and eating meals at odd as hell times bought me a little time, but here it is, Monday afternoon. Time to face the music … the sad sack, stupid music. “Hey,” he says from behind me, catching up quicker than I hoped. I shut my eyes and suck my lips between my teeth, reciting my new motto where it pertains to Ever. He’s not your boyfriend. He never was. Quit being a stupid twit. I’ve said this to myself a thousand times over the last two days, and I still can’t get it through my thick skull … never mind my traitorous heart. That bitch needs a healthy dose of shock therapy. Sometimes the idea of something amazing, the promise of what’s to come, can sting twice as badly as an outright rejection. I could feel things changing between us—evolving into something new and exciting. As days passed, his features morphed from troll-like to something that can only be achieved with the aid of whiskey goggles. But with Ever, no alcohol was needed. Those freckles peppered across his nose begged to be touched. I wanted to lace my fingers in the loops of his jeans and jerk him close. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and just … sniff. Yes, I said sniff. Don’t judge. He’s not your boyfriend. He never was. Quit being a stupid twit. He falls into step beside me and bumps my shoulder, waiting for me to explain my sudden weirdness. I feel like I should blame it on Aunt Flo. She petrifies boys and men alike, and he would definitely give me a pass on being a twat waffle. On second thought, maybe I’ll save her for another day. She’s my ace in the hole, and I’m not willing to give her up just yet. “Hey,” I say, putting on a saccharine smile, hoping it doesn’t resemble the crap face. “What the hell? Why’d you stand me up? And what the hell are you running from? Is there a fire I don’t know about?” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You make it sound like a date. Jeez, can’t a girl stay in her room and study once in a while?” Cue super-girly eye roll and huff.

Way to play it cool, Low. Damn… “What? No—I mean, I know that. I know it’s not a date or anything. But I thought we were going to hang out, that’s all,” he says, looking more hurt than I can stand right now. He’s like a solar eclipse, but instead of blinding me, looking directly at him turns me into a swooning dipshit. I’m already acting like an idiot, so I opt for antique window shopping as we pass shops on Royal Street. I may not be able to meet his eyes, but his gentle tone undoes me a tiny bit. “I know it’s kind of been a thing between us, meeting up there each night, but I’m getting behind on my work,” I say, looking his way for a millisecond before going back to admiring cameo necklaces and century old costume jewelry. “I don’t think I’ll be able to hang out as much as I have been. My dad will freak if my grades slip, ya know?” “Oh, yeah. Right—I mean, I get it.” He slips his hands into his pockets and slumps his shoulders. “We still have the market, though, right?” He sounds so hopeful, and it tugs at my heart. I want to turn back time and never dial his number Saturday night. I need an eraser to wipe my memory clean. He’s not your boyfriend. He never was. Quit being a stupid twit. “Yeah, sure thing,” I say, keeping my tone light and noncommittal. The thin line of his lips and the quick head nod tells me he understands what I mean without me saying it out loud. This thing between us needs clipped wings. Mission accomplished. Not being a cheating ho bag really sucks sometimes… “Dude, I’ve got it,” Ever says, narrowing his eyes at Remy. He’s standing directly behind me, close enough for me to feel the heat of his body. Close enough to make a statement. “Ever, I’m headed toward Esplanade, anyway. You’re going in the opposite direction. Besides, she asked me to walk her.” Remy cocks his head in challenge. I step forward amidst the silence and stand next to Remy. I deflate a bit when I see the hurt lurking behind Ever’s irritation. It almost slips, but I keep my expression hard and unrelenting. It’s been nearly a week since I shut Ever down, and it’s getting harder each day. I want to shove him and tell him to go call his giggling girlfriend, but I’m no crybaby. Despite my cold shoulder, he keeps trying. The thing I dread the most is when he finally gives up. Acting like I’m basically mute on our walks to and from Creole Market, showering Remy with attention in an effort to ignore Ever, it’s eventually going to work. As much as it’ll break my heart, he’ll move on, probably sooner rather than later. “I walked you to Evelyn’s last week, Marlo. I don’t mind doing it again.” He keeps his focus totally on me, intent on making me refuse him myself. He won’t take Remy’s word for it. “I know, but Remy offered this week, and I’m going with him.” Without another word, Ever nods and swipes his bag off the counter. He turns on his heel and stalks to the door, ripping it open as the bell slams against the glass. “Ever,” I say before he leaves. He stops in the door, but doesn’t turn around. “I’ll see you at school,” I say when I can’t think of anything else to say. He shakes his head and keeps walking. And I feel like the jerk. “Ready?” Remy asks, interrupting my thoughts and offering me his elbow. I slip my arm through and smile. Instead of taking the sidewalk, he leads me through the French Market, in between the booths of sterling silver jewelry, eel skin purses, and pop art, while exchanging fist bumps and waves with several of the vendors. I watch him as we walk, taken with the way he looks, which is entirely different than I’m used to. He’s unconventional, and so at ease with himself and his surroundings. His rumpled and worn

clothes have a way of looking cool instead of homeless—a little bit vintage and a lot of don’t give a flying fuck. Being here with Remy makes me feel more connected to the Quarter. When I’m with the other students, I feel like a tourist. When I’m with Evelyn, I feel like we’re spectators. She’s too refined and elegant, too clean to get entrenched in the culture. But Remy feels like he’s a moving part of it all. He’s gritty and real, immersed in this place and these people. He’s as much a part of New Orleans as the water meter covers that pepper the sidewalks and roads. “How long have you lived here?” I ask as we snake our way from booth to booth. “All my life,” he says. “I’ve been prowling the streets of the Quarter since I was a kid, panhandling when I should have been at school.” “Where were your parents? Your momma?” He rolls his eyes and laughs. “No dad. But my mom? Here and there … mostly there.” What a huge departure from my life. It’s hard for me to fathom such a thing. Did young Remy walk these streets at night, alone and afraid? Did he wonder where his next meal would come from? He bumps my shoulder. “Hey, I’m not some sad story you hear on the news. You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Low. These killer looks and puppy dog eyes kept me rolling in it. The ladies loved me. Even at eight or nine years old, I could make it rain.” I burst out laughing. “Is that so?” I cup my hands over my mouth and make a roaring sound. “Hold onto your underwear ladies, here comes the ten-year-old Casanova extraordinaire, Remington Steel.” I giggle and nudge him with my elbow. “Get it? Steel?” I point to his crotch and bust out laughing. “Yes, Captain Obvious, I get it.” He laughs and keeps walking. “Don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. I could talk my way into a meal, some extra cash, a hit of this, a pinch of that, no problem.” “A hit of this?” I ask, feeling awkward. One look at Remy tells me he’s no saint, but it’s hard to imagine a child doing the things he’s talking about. “A pinch of that,” he says with a nod, and watches my reaction. He looks away and sniffs. “I only live a block or two away from Evelyn’s house.” I stop walking and turn to face him. “How do you know where Evelyn lives?” Only now do I realize it, but I never gave Remy the address to Evelyn’s house. He mentioned Esplanade when we were at the market, and he’s leading me straight to her house, but it never occurred to me to wonder how he knows where we’re going. “They’re customers at the market, remember? I’ve made many deliveries to her and Oliver over the last few years. Nice digs,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s the slightest touch of acid in his tone. “Oh, of course,” I say, feeling silly for questioning him. Why else would he know where she lives? We’re in front of Evelyn’s house in no time. I let go of Remy’s elbow and unlatch the wrought iron gate that separates the courtyard from the rest of the world. One step out of the gate is a bustling city, but inside is an oasis of lush greenery and trickling fountains, feeling miles away instead of mere steps. “You should stop by my place one night on your way back to school. You would dig my roommates,” Remy says. It feels as if he threw in the last part when he sensed my hesitation. “Yeah, maybe so,” I say with a shrug. “Thanks for walking me. See ya next week?” It’s Thursday night, so I won’t return to the market until Monday. The weekend is nearly here, which means no market and no classes. It also means no Ever. With all of the ignoring I’ve been doing this week, it shouldn’t be much different than any other day. Except he won’t be alone, and I know that now, which totally blows. “Sure thing,” he says, and then he leans in for a hug. I pat him on the back in return, but he squeezes a bit too tight, lingers a bit too long, and I feel strange about it. It’s nothing I can put my finger on—it’s more of a gut thing. It makes me pull away from him quicker than manners dictate. He doesn’t seem to notice and smiles. He points at me as he walks backward down the sidewalk. “Be

safe this weekend, all right? You’re not in the country anymore, Marlo. There’s more lurking in the shadows than cows and coyotes here.” And just like that, the bad feeling dissipates. He feels casual and friendly again, and I’m sure I’m just imagining things. He worries about me because he knows this city better than most. Just because we’re different doesn’t mean he isn’t a friend. It feels good to know he’s looking out for me. I close the gate latch behind me, and Remy disappears down the sidewalk. I bound up the stairs to the front door and dig the keys out of my purse. Evelyn had given me a set last week, saying she’s often holed up in her studio with the radio blaring, shut off from the world. At least that had been her initial reasoning for giving me the keys. Then she’d told me she wanted me to feel welcome, like I could come here anytime. She’d acted as if the last part was only an afterthought, but the way she’d waited for my reaction with clenched hands and hopeful eyes had given her away. She wants me here. In her home. I’d by lying if I said that didn’t make me feel good. I slide the key into the lock and turn the knob. With one foot over the threshold, the air of comfort and tranquility from the courtyard morphs into unease. A tense silence hovers as I part my lips to call for Evelyn. Before I make a sound, I hear shuffling coming from the parlor. “I’m so tired of your whiskey lips and limp dick. You disgust me,” she says, the sharp edge in her shrill voice making me cringe. “I hate you,” she cries, and I hear a scuffle break out beyond the foyer, peppered with grunts and cries. “Evelyn, stop,” Oliver shouts, clearly struggling with her. “Get a hold of yourself. You’re acting like a petulant child.” “I. Hate. You!” Each word is punctuated with a grunt, then an ear splintering crash. Then silence. Evelyn’s labored breaths disrupt the quiet, followed by Oliver’s eerily calm voice. “The person you hate is you, Evelyn. You will never be satisfied. Take a look around. Is all this not enough for you?” He pauses, and all I hear is Evelyn’s quiet sniffling in response. “That’s what all this foolishness is about. ‘I need to find myself. Explore my art.’ This is all a horrific joke. And this lost daughter act? Believe me, I see it for exactly what it is. A desperate attempt to stroke the ego of the illustrious Evelyn James. I see you … and so will she.” “You’re hateful. And wrong,” she whispers. “You don’t know anything. I just want to know my daughter … and my son.” I should tiptoe back over the threshold and quietly turn the knob back into place. I should hurry down the front porch stairs and send a text to Evelyn telling her I can’t make it tonight. She wouldn’t want me to hear this, and I wish with all my might I hadn’t, so the best thing to do is pretend it never happened. Slink away like a coward. Yeah, I’m not gonna do that. I cross the foyer, each footstep deliberate and punctuated. My heels dig in, and I imagine dents in the floor where my feet land. With each step, I push back salty tears threatening to spill out in anger. I reach the archway of the parlor and glass crunches under my soles. The floor glistens and twinkles from all the scattered bits of glass, and I find it strangely beautiful. I cross my arms over my chest, as much a defense mechanism as a statement. They both stare at me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and a small whimper escapes from Evelyn. She looks embarrassed. He looks … bothered. What a dick. “The only thing I see is a giant jerk,” I say, struggling to keep my voice from shaking. “You’re nothing but a bully, but it seems like Evelyn already sees you for what you are. We see you, make no mistake.” I turn to Evelyn and see tears splash against her already red and chapped cheeks. My gut clenches as the words she and Oliver hurled at each other like knives swirl through my mind. Confused and hurt, I’m unable to speak around the lump lodged in my throat. I shake my head at her, at a complete loss for words.

Without another word, I spin on my heels and leave, slamming the door behind me. I rush down the stairs, hoping the momentum doesn’t send me careening headfirst into the concrete. My feet can’t move fast enough to please my mind. I need to get the hell out of here before I break. After fumbling with the gate latch for far too long, I swing it open and break into a run. Before I make the block, I hit a wall of chest and a pair of arms wrap around me as a sob racks through my body. “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Ever says softly, tucking my head under his neck. I grip onto his shirt for dear life and inhale. And then I break.



Ever I DON’T HAVE the foggiest clue what just happened in there, but I’m sure as hell glad I followed Remy and Marlo on their little walk. I don’t trust Remy or his intentions, but I never thought her mom would be the issue. I run my hand down her silky brown hair and inhale the scent of her shampoo. Lavender. I lightly brush my lips over the crown of her head and hold her against me. Her body slumps into me, and her tears wet my T-shirt. I resist the urge to wrap my arm behind her knees and carry her away from here. She allows herself only a few minutes before she squares her shoulders, rubs her fingers under her tear-soaked eyes, and starts walking. When I don’t immediately follow, she looks back at me and gestures for me to move it. So I do. I fall into step beside her and slide my hand into hers. For the first time this week, she isn’t shying away from me. Ignoring me. Dismissing me. “What happened back there?” I ask. I keep my tone gentle, but I still need to ask the question. I’ve never seen Marlo so undone. “Not now, Ever. Just … not now.” Her eyes plead with me as she keeps moving at a brisk pace, relaxing a little more the farther away we get from Evelyn’s house. “I just need to get back to school right now without bursting into tears again. Do you think once we get there—would you come up to the roof with me?” “Of course,” I say, without an ounce of hesitation. “We can stay as long as you want.” Fuck, that’s what I’ve wanted all week long. Sometime during last weekend, Marlo made the decision to friend-zone me. Hard. Hell, I wouldn’t even call it a friend-zone maneuver. She put me in the “hardly acquainted” box. Screw that box. I watch Marlo as we make our way back to school, and she’s more beautiful than I ever realized. I mean, she’s always been gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. Damp cheeks smeared with salty tears, tiny curls furling at her neck from the straight hair she’s beaten into submission, and an air of vulnerability that I want to swoop in and save make her downright irresistible to me. I want to protect her from Remy. From Evelyn. From me. And isn’t that the shit of it. I could wreck her just as badly. I’m no better than any of them. Hell, I may be worse. What could a screwed up, head case like me have to offer someone like Marlo? Not a damn thing, that’s what.

We round the corner where Orleans Academy sits, enter Boozman Hall, and climb the steps to the roof in silence. It’s the good kind of silence. The kind that soothes. Not tense. More … companionable. Understanding. We push open the metal door and take our usual seats, but just a touch closer since I refuse to let go of her hand. She tilts her head back against the wall and closes her eyes. Without the bustle of the cars and people from the streets to hide it, I hear an incessant buzzing from her purse. She huffs and rips her phone from the side pocket, powering it down without answering the call. “Nothing good can come from me answering my phone right now. I don’t want to talk to her, and I definitely don’t want to talk to him,” she says with a sneer. I pull out my wallet and slide out a joint. I offer it to her as I dig my lighter out of my pocket. “A little help to forget?” I ask, but she shakes her head and pushes it away. “I don’t want to get high right now.” I shrug and put it away. “Sorry, I’m just trying to help. Getting high always takes away some of the load when life gets too shitty. I thought you might need to get away from it all.” “I guess that’s where you and I differ. I want to fly. You want to forget,” she chuckles and bumps my shoulder. “Weed is just fun for me, nothing more. I’m not in the mood for that tonight.” “Understood.” I nod, and consider the subject dropped. Getting high has made many a night bearable for me, but everyone deals in different ways. “Thanks, though.” “Did he hurt you?” I ask, feeling my temper rise at the mere idea of it. If he laid one finger on her… “No.” She shrugs and rolls her eyes. “Well, not in the physical sense of the word.” Thank God. “They were fighting,” she whispers as she keeps all her focus on twirling her ring around her finger. “They were saying hateful things. About each other. To each other. I’ve never heard anything like that before.” I barely hold in the scoff poised on my lips. Welcome to my world, is what I want to say. But I don’t want her there. She doesn’t deserve it the way I do. Marlo is too good for that. Too honest. If I collected every hateful word my parents slung at each other over the years, I could fill Webster’s Dictionary. Or ten. There is no shortage of blame-placing and guilt-tripping at the Montgomery household. “Then he turned it on me. He said she contacted me for selfish reasons and I’d see her for what she was soon enough,” she says, tears filling her eyes once more. She shrugs. “Evelyn left when I was so young. I don’t remember anything about her from before, but I wanted to know her now. But the truth is I took up for her tonight in a way she never did for me in the last seventeen years. What if what Oliver said is right?” And that’s when the tears roll over her lids and spill to her flushed cheeks. What the hell can I say to that? I don’t know a damn thing about her mother, but I tend to think someone who would leave a child behind without a second thought is capable of any number of despicable things. She doesn’t sound especially loving or trustworthy. “What if he is?” I ask her. “What if he’s right?” She jerks her head to meet my gaze, surprised by my question. I may not know what will make her feel better, but in my experience, lies coated in sugar and syrup are the wrong way to go. Her eyes slowly change from sadness, to confusion, and then finally resolve. A slow smile spreads across her face, and she nods slowly. “And what if he is?” Her expression is almost smug. “It doesn’t even matter, because I’m still me. I’m the same girl I’ve always been, and neither one of them can change that. Nothing they do or say will ever change that.” I squeeze her hand and nod my agreement. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right, Low.”

“Nothing they do changes who I am inside. Not her possibly selfish motives…” “Nope,” I say. “Not his ugly words…” “Right.” “Whether she ever invites me over again … and definitely not his limp dick.” “Wha?” My eyes widen in surprise, and Low throws her head back in laughter. She shakes her head and smiles. “You don’t want to know, trust me,” she says. I’m not touching that one with a ten-foot pole. She’s right, I do not want to know. “Thank you, Ever. Just … thanks.” I shrug and shoot her a sheepish grin. “I didn’t do anything but walk you home, and that’s no hardship, I promise you.” “You asked the right question, and I realized it doesn’t matter. In the grand scheme of my life, they don’t matter. What I saw today was about them—those are their problems, not mine. They don’t change who I am, and whether or not Evelyn is in my life, I’m gonna be okay.” “You will.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. I roll Marlo’s words around in my head, liking the feel of them, the solace they bring. The idea that my parents’ actions and feelings don’t change the person I am inside is invigorating. Can I pack up their guilt and resentment and hand it right back to them? No thank you, that’s not my baggage to carry. You can fuck off now, both of you. Can I do that? The real question is can I feel that? Really feel it and live my life on my terms. How is it, in a matter of minutes, this girl has an epiphany that I could never seem to understand in all these years living with my parents? Marlo runs her thumb across my wrist, and I raise my eyes to hers. She’s so strong. I see it in her eyes … the way she holds herself together … even the way she falls apart. Especially how she falls apart. And that’s when I know. Marlo is all the things I’m not, but everything I want to be. I can do this with her. I know I can, and I want it more than anything. I smile past the burning in my throat and the crushing in my chest. I tug her arm to pull her closer. “C’mere,” I whisper, memorizing the curve of her lips. Her smile reaches her dimples, rolls over her green eyes, making them sparkle from something other than tears. I lean toward her, and she follows. Until she doesn’t. Confusion replaces anticipation, and she peels her hand away from mine, scooting back to create some space between us. So I scoot forward, because screw that. That’s when her hands raise up to shove my chest. “What’s wrong, Marlo? Why are you pushing me away? Why have you been pushing me away?” She crosses her arms and huffs, looking like the indignant Marlo I’m used to. There’s no vulnerability here, that’s for damn sure. “I don’t think your girlfriend would appreciate you kissing me. In fact, I’m pretty sure that would make you a giant jackass,” she says, looking smug … and hurt. Too bad I have no clue what she’s talking about. So I tell her just that. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” “Oh no? So you weren’t with your girlfriend last weekend? You don’t leave school every weekend to see her?” When I continue to give her a blank and confused stare, she groans. “Ever, stop lying! I called your phone this weekend, and she answered.” What the hell is she talking about? I spent the weekend with Easton, like I do every weekend, only leaving for a few hours of sleep at Aunt Marty’s house. How could someone answer my phone, other than me?

Unless… “Were you the wrong number?” I ask, and she looks downright pleased. She nods, and now I’m the one groaning. “Low, that wasn’t my girlfriend. That’s the nurse taking care of my…” Wait, what happened to keeping it light? Primo weed, stellar conversation, and out-fucking-standing cupcakes? I guess that all went out the window when I’d followed her to Evelyn’s house. And if not, it surely disappeared when she told me about Evelyn and Oliver’s argument. And when my lips were two inches away from hers, a breath away from happy, those rules were in the wind for good. So we’re doing this. “Darcy is one of the nurses who takes care of my brother, Easton. He’s in a long-term care facility. He needs round the clock medical attention, so he doesn’t live at home with my parents. That’s where I go every weekend.” Each word I say chips away at Marlo’s resolve; I can see it. Her shoulders loosen, then her arms uncross. By the time I finish explaining, she’s leaning into me, close enough to touch. Kiss. “You take care of your brother?” Her eyes soften a bit, as if knowing about Easton endears me to her. “We take care of each other,” I say, and it’s the God’s honest truth. Marlo nods. “So, she’s not your girlfriend?” she asks, her voice only a shade above a whisper. I shake my head. “Then why did she answer your phone?” “I was helping Easton change his clothes. He likes me to do those things when I’m there, so Darcy grabbed my phone because I had my hands full. I should have looked up the call after, but I just forgot about it since it was a wrong number.” I sigh and shake my head. “God, is that why you’ve been avoiding me all week?” She lowers her eyes and shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t want to be a big, fat ass cheater. I like you, but that’s not me.” Her lip quirks up in a half-smile, and then twists into a pouty scowl. “And if that’s who you are, then I take it back. I don’t like you at all.” I grab under her knee and pull her closer and laugh. “I just told you, I’m not dating Darcy,” I say, not letting go of her knee. “Can you think of another reason to push me away?” She shakes her head, and I see her reservations melt away. She watches me through lowered lashes and whispers, “Will you tell me about Easton?” “Another day,” I say, not entirely sure if I’m telling the truth. “I have my mind on other things right now.” I lean in and run the tip of my nose along her cheek, loving the feel of her, the smell of her. Vanilla and something else warm. She smells golden—like sunshine warming my skin on a bitter, cold day. I lean back just enough to meet her eyes, and her lashes flutter. I love that I can tame the fire in Marlo with my touch. Her edges aren’t as sharp under my gaze. I don’t think many people see this side of her. I imagine it’s just for me, and my cock hardens at the thought. “I don’t want to push you away anymore,” she whispers. “Good to know,” I say as I close the gap and pull her bottom lip into my mouth.



Marlo I’VE BEEN KISSED before. I swear I have. It’s a fumbling of lips and teeth, too much spit or not enough, usually accompanied by a darting tongue that tries to tickle my tonsils. That’s not this. Ever’s lips on mine isn’t even in the same galaxy. Kissing Ever is like breaking the surface of the ocean. Legs kicking, arms flailing, and then that precious moment when air rushes into your lungs, giving you the one thing you need the most. Yeah, kissing Ever is just like that. When his teeth lightly tug on my bottom lip, he owns me. I swear, my shirt almost flies off of its own accord. Of course, I keep my cool despite his lovely lips … sort of. His tongue slides gently against mine, and I inch closer to him. He pulls away to taste my upper lip, and I grip his shirt with both hands. Maybe my hands slide under the shirt to touch his hot skin, but only an inch or two. When he lets out a long sigh, and his fingers brush the sides of my cheeks just so, I slide my legs between his. I want to pull his ribs loose and burrow deep inside of him, and even then, I’m not sure if it’s close enough. He slows the kiss, still tasting me, sucking my lips, teasing me with his tongue. When I open my eyes, he’s right there with me, hazy eyes and parted lips. I run a hesitant finger over the freckles on his nose, and he runs his thumb across my swollen mouth. I finger his hair, tugging playfully, and he kisses my dimple, poking me with his tongue. We explore each other slowly, thoroughly, and my thumb runs over his stomach to the thin line of hair trailing below his belly button. He shivers, and I swear the bulge pushing into the back of my thigh isn’t a banana in his pocket. It makes me feel powerful—that I can turn him on that way. This is the first time I can remember wanting that power. Boy’s erections were always a nuisance to me in the past. He doesn’t expect me to do something with that, does he? Nuh-uh. Let me be clear, those are not the thoughts running through my mind as I bend my knee and push my thigh more firmly into Ever’s hard-on. Not even close. His hips raise to my pressure, and he drops his forehead to mine with a long sigh. “I knew kissing you would be good, Low, but that was … I don’t know what that was,” he says with a chuckle, stealing another kiss. “We should try it again. You know, figure it out.” And we do.

“If you put that grubby finger in my icing bowl, I will snap it right off,” I say, armed with a whisk in one hand and a pastry bag in the other. Ever pouts and extends a finger. I lunge forward, and he flinches. I win. He gets back to work beside me, stealing occasional glances as I place the cupcakes in the display case. I smile as I pipe the lemon frosting and bump his hip. “You can lick the bowl when I’m done, ya big baby,” I say, never looking his way. “If you two are done playing footsie behind the counter, there are two new loads of inventory to stock in the back,” Remy says as he gives Ever a disappointed glare. When did Remy become Etienne’s little enforcer boy? Hell, Ever said he’s the one who started the grocery game. He needs to untwist his panties pronto. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Ever says with a chuckle, shoving Remy’s shoulder as he rounds the deli counter. Remy loosens up, if only slightly, as he and Ever fall into step. Before they make it to the grocery aisles, the bell chimes above the door, announcing a new customer. We all lift our heads toward the door that’s framing a very intent and somber Oliver. Obviously coming here straight from work, his three-piece suit looks as determined as he does. Fight or flight takes over, and I push away from the counter to hide before common sense and good manners win out. “Marlo,” he says, managing to look apologetic and smug at the same time. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment. Would you step outside with me, please?” I look at Ever before I answer, and he rushes back to me, grabbing my hand. “You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says. “Or I could go out there with you, if you’re uncomfortable.” I get all tingly at the thought of a protective Ever, but I need to face this one on my own. Oliver is a jerk, but I’m not afraid of him. It’s Monday, and I’d spent the entire weekend missing Ever and avoiding Evelyn. Ever had returned on Sunday, like always, but I kept the silence going with Evelyn. She’d called every day, but I wasn’t sure what to say to her. A weekend of hiding out is long enough. It’s time to face Evelyn … and Oliver. I shake my head. “No, it’s okay,” I say as I move around the deli counter and head for the door. “I’ll be fine.” Ever reaches for my hand, and I turn to face him. The concern in his eyes melts me. “I’ll be right inside the doorway, if you need me.” I nod and walk toward poker-faced Oliver, passing through the door he holds open for me. The door shuts behind us, but we stay in the tiny alcove of the store entry. I peek through the window and see Ever hovering. Oliver remains silent, hands on his hips and eyes to the sidewalk. I don’t think he’s used to being in a position of humility. Quite frankly, I’m enjoying this way more than I should. Squirm it up, assface. You deserve it. “I have no interest in half-baked apologies,” I say, looking him directly in the eye. When met with pure douchery, rule number one is “show no fear.” “I understand,” he says, his mouth twisted as if I jammed a lemon in it … not a bad idea, actually. “I do. What you heard the other night was—unfortunate, to say the least.” “Okay…” Please don’t talk about the limp dick. Please don’t talk about the limp dick… He sighs and runs his hand over his face. “Marlo, there are many layers of love, history, and even hurt, when a couple has been together as long as we have. Evelyn and I are complicated, and we say things we don’t mean sometimes.” “You say things you don’t mean to get overheard,” I say, frustrated with him talking to me like a naive

child. I don’t need the “Mommy and Daddy love each other very much” speech. “Yes, that’s true, I can’t deny it. I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand, and I certainly didn’t intend for you to hear it. I’m sorry you did.” “Do you believe what you said?” I ask, and he looks at me, confused. “Do you believe she sought out my brother and me for selfish reasons? That she doesn’t have my best interest at heart?” Oliver lets out a long sigh and grimaces. He watches me for a moment, sizing me up. I give nothing away. “I won’t mince words with you, Marlo. You deserve honesty, and I’ll give you that much. I think Evelyn truly believes she is sincere in her motives. But Evelyn has a fluid relationship with the truth; it’s a malleable thing she can bend to her will. The woman who is trying to be in your life is such a departure from the woman I’ve been married to for the past ten years. Evelyn loathes ties of any kind. She has never been home to Mississippi in all the time we’ve been together. When we met, we both agreed we had no want or need for children. In all the years we’ve been together, she never mentioned you or your brother.” I clutch my stomach and let out a small gasp. This one admission, the fact that Evelyn had never mentioned one word of us to him, cuts more than all the years she had been absent in my life. It’s stifling. Oliver, on the other hand, goes on as if he just told me he had a turkey sandwich for lunch today. “So when she drops this bomb on me a couple of years ago, that she has two children I never knew about, I felt blindsided, understandably. It makes no sense to me that a woman who spent the last decade ignoring any semblance of family would all of a sudden seek them out. Why now? I may be wrong, I truly hope I am, but I wonder why she would choose to find you now.” He doesn’t sound malicious, really. Selfish? Absolutely. He’s probably one of the most self-centered people I’ve ever met. Somehow, he’s found a way to make Evelyn and me reconnecting all about him. He’s truly bewildered by his wife’s actions, and although it’s obvious he doesn’t like me very much, I don’t think it’s personal. How ridiculous is that? He doesn’t like me, but it has nothing to do with me. As silly as it sounds, I know it’s the truth. I could be anyone at all and he’d be put out by me. I’m disrupting his carefully constructed life. So did Evelyn, and he’s irritated. He thinks Evelyn is the selfish one, but I’m beginning to think Evelyn may know Oliver is the true culprit. “You know, you ask why now. Do you know what I wonder?” He raises his eyebrows in question. “Why not before? What kept her from contacting Declan and me before?” The dream of having my mother reenter my life is far less heavy than the reality. The details weigh down the unfocused illusion—complicate what had always felt simple in the mind of a child. As Oliver’s eyes narrow and darken, I know he isn’t seeing a child when he looks at me. He sees an adversary. “Are you implying that it’s my fault you grew up without a mother? Because, if that’s the case, you’re way out of line,” he hisses, leaning in like a teacher scolding an unruly student. I step back. “That’s not what I mean.” I shake my head, frustrated. “I just think, instead of assuming that Evelyn has dishonest motives, maybe consider that she may have been protecting you and your marriage by waiting to contact us. I mean, I don’t know that, of course. But why must we always believe the worst in people? Why would you automatically assume the worst about your wife, of all people?” Oliver takes a step back and places a nervous hand to his forehead. The unflappable appears good and flapped. Mission accomplished. “She made her own choices a long time ago, long before you were ever in the picture. That blame lies with her. But I doubt it’s as black and white as that.” He gives me a grim smile and nods. “No one blames you either, Marlo. Of course, no one blames you; you were an innocent child in all of this. I apologize if I made you feel attacked or uncomfortable. Christ, I came here with the intention of rectifying this unpleasant situation, and I’ve only made it worse.” I hear the bell ring, and turn to meet Ever’s concerned gaze. He steps outside and moves closer,

placing a firm hand on my arm. Oliver may as well be the smoking receptacle for all the attention Ever gives him. “Is everything okay out here? Do you want to come back inside with me, Low?” he whispers, but only a decibel shy of his normal voice, well within earshot of Oliver. I shake my head, and Oliver raises his hand in protest. “No, he’s right. I’ve taken too much of your time, and my words are failing me today. I only meant to come here and apologize,” he says, looking truly remorseful. “Also, I’d like you to consider answering Evelyn’s calls. She only wants to make amends, and it would mean a great deal if you gave her the opportunity to do so.” “I’ll think about it,” I say, but Oliver looks doubtful. “Maybe you’d still like to have dinner Thursday night?” Oliver says with a hopeful expression. “Marlo, do you think that’s a good idea?” Ever asks, wearing a frown, making it known he does not. “That would be wonderful. You should come,” Oliver says, and then gestures to Ever. “The both of you. Evelyn would enjoy the company.” I look over to Ever, who shrugs and nods, obviously more agreeable to the offer now that he’s included. Who knew he’d be such a watchdog? “We’ll see you then,” I say, forcing a smile that Oliver returns. “I think it’s best for all involved if I sit this one out.” He unbuttons his jacket and slides his hands into his pockets. “At least for now. I believe I’ve done enough for the time being.” With a terse nod, Oliver leaves us standing in the alcove. I turn to Ever and wiggle my eyebrows. He laughs and draws me closer. “What do you think of all of this?” he asks. “Honestly, I spent the first part of our conversation playing the grocery game in reverse.” He pulls away without letting go of me and furrows his brows. “Reverse grocery game.” “Yeah, in my version, I get to pick the three grocery items Oliver most deserves.” I smirk, and Ever laughs. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What did you choose for Mr. Personality?” And now I really smirk. “The biggest cucumber in the store, the hottest hot sauce, and a bottle of Jack.” He tilts his head, prompting me to explain further. “That cucumber has a date where the sun doesn’t shine. You’d likely have to remove the stick first, but you get my drift,” I say as Ever cracks up laughing. “And the hot sauce?” “That’s his lube.” “Wow, that’s the stuff nightmares are made of, Low. I’m clenching my ass cheeks just thinking about it.” He chuckles. “How about the Jack?” I shrug and examine my nails closely. “Because I’m not a total sadist.” I roll my eyes, but stop short. “But if I change my mind, I can always douse him in it and set him on fire.” “I guess it’s a good thing he won’t be at dinner Thursday night.” “Eh, after our talk, I guess I can amend the list … slightly,” I say, and Ever waits for my response. “I’ll let him have the basil-infused olive oil instead of the hot sauce.” Ever bursts out laughing as he ushers me inside and kisses my temple. “I knew deep-down you were a softy, Low.”



Marlo CLICK-CLICK. CLICK-CLICK. CLICK-CLICK. I narrow murderous eyes at Jeb, and he stops mid-click, thumb hovering over the top of his pen. He shrugs, looking apologetic, and refocuses his attention on his philosophy textbook. Jeb is the worst study partner ever. He has the attention span of a squirrel on crack, and a complete inability to keep still for longer than thirty seconds. He’d lured me to the commons room under the guise of helping him with his philosophy paper. Since we each chose a different topic to write about, I’d told him I didn’t think I’d be much help. He hadn’t seemed to care. He chose to answer the question, “Is acting morally a necessity for happiness?” Very telling choice. He only has the one pen because I confiscated the other one when he kept using them as drums to beat out the opening riff to “Bullet the Blue Sky” by U2. The fact that I’d recognized the song gave him a “kindof woody,” and he hadn’t even looked the tiniest bit remorseful at his admission. I’d told him to tie his “kind-of woody” into a blood-cutting knot and get to work. That had gotten his attention … for thirty seconds. I refocus on my work, answering the question of “Are there universal moral issues that are right for all persons at all times?” I’d walked into the assignment certain the answer to the question was a definite yes, but now I’m floundering. Murder? What about war? Stealing? What if a mother’s child is starving to death? Lying? To protect those I love, I think lying is morally sound. Rape? Never rape. There’s never an instance where rape is okay, so maybe there’s one that’s wrong for all people at all times… Before I can delve further into questionable morality, I look up and find Jeb tinkering with a daisy chain of paper clips. “Digging in my book sack again, you little thief?” I cross my arms and glare. He shrugs and wraps the chain once around his neck, leaving a long tail at one end. He picks up two pens, obviously having stolen back the pen I’d confiscated, and drums out a riff I can’t place. He keeps doing it over and again, getting more and more frustrated as I shrug, clueless. “Really? Even with the hint?” he says, picking up the paper clip tail. He shakes his head and feigns disappointment. “’Pretty Noose’ by Soundgarden. Jeez!”

“Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to let you down.” He looks down and grabs his crotch. “Kind-of chubby totally gone. That’s the breaks, Low. Maybe next time.” “I’m think I’m gonna pass, ya freaking perv,” I say with a chuckle. I put down my pencil and cross my arms, resigned to the fact I’m not getting any work done with Jeb around. “Since it’s obvious you have no intention of letting me get any work done, let’s chat.” He nods, and matches my crossed arms. “Let’s.” “How long have you been Ever’s friend?” Jeb grabs the end of his paper clip noose and pulls it up high. He flops his head to the side and shuts his eyes, tongue dangling out of his mouth. “Sorry, I’m dead and unavailable for comment,” he spits out around his tongue. I grab the end of his noose and pull him forward with a jerk. He lets out a grunt, and his eyes fly open in surprise. “Oh, look, he’s risen from the dead,” I deadpan, and drop the paper clips. “I’m not asking you to break the bro-code or anything, Jeb. If I ask something you don’t want to answer, you’re more than welcome to say ‘none ya business,’ okay?” He ponders my question, looking to the ceiling for a moment, then smiles. “All right, Low Down Dirty Shame. I’ll play. I’ve been friends with Ever since I arrived at this fine establishment of education the middle of my sophomore year. So … about two years.” “Wow, you’ve survived at Orleans Academy for two whole years, Jeb? I’m impressed.” I give him an honorary nod, smirking the whole time. “Why haven’t you told me about this amazing feat before now?” He brushes imaginary lint off his shoulder and shrugs. “I don’t like to brag.” I burst out laughing. “Bullshit.” His lips widen into a full grin, and I’m taken by all that is Jeb. His smile is infectious, warming anyone lucky enough to see it. He has such an easy way about him, like he’s aware of all the bad in the world, but chooses to revel in everything wonderful. While Ever holds two-ton weights in his hands, Jeb grasps at the end of a massive helium balloon. I bet their friendship gives each of them a balance they may not even realize they need. “So, tell me about Ever’s last girlfriend,” I say, jumping headfirst into the fire. All he can say is no, right? “Can’t.” “Over the line?” “Nah, but I’ve never met one of Ever’s girlfriends. He’s never dated a girl from school, never shown interest in any girl at Orleans Academy. Until you,” he says, watching my reaction closely. My stomach flips, and I fight the grin creeping onto my face. I don’t think I’m an overly jealous person, but it makes my day to think I’m the only girl Ever has dated here at school. Jeb raises a hand to stop my musings of being Ever’s one and only. “He’s had some flings with some of Remy’s friends, and he’s had a girlfriend or two back home, but I got the feeling those were fleeting and served a particular purpose,” he says, with an eyebrow raise. “You know what purpose I’m talking about, right?” I huff and throw a wadded up piece of paper at him. “Yes, Jeb, I know what you’re talking about. I’m not a fricking idiot.” Wow, talk about washing those warm, fuzzy thoughts away with a vengeance… “Simmer down, woman; don’t kill the messenger.” I glare at him, and he inches back in his chair with a frightful expression. “Let me finish, all right? So there’s been the occasional chick, but he’s never, and I mean never, spent this much time with anyone. Even me.” “What do you mean, ‘even you’?” How can he say that when he lives with Ever?

“Look, Ever’s my boy, and I’d do anything for him. But he’d never let me, because he keeps me at arm’s length. I see him come back here every Sunday, torn the fuck up. I’ve heard some downright hateful conversations between him and his parents. I see him disappear more nights than I can count, only to come back after I’ve gone to bed, fumbling around and smelling like weed. But anything I don’t see with my own eyes or hear myself? I’ll never know. Because he doesn’t share. Now, I’m guessing I haven’t told you anything you don’t already know?” He looks for my confirmation, and I give him a terse nod. He raises his hand in affirmation. “Exactly. Because, for some reason, he’s decided to let you in.” Jeb’s words are weighty, and I want to be worthy of Ever’s trust. I also want to know what I did to deserve it in the first place. I want to know why I’m important to him. “It’s a lot of responsibility. He’s a great guy, and he deserves an amazing girl,” he says solemnly. I’ve never seen Jeb look more serious, a total about-face from the boy drumming U2 only moments ago. I guess there is something Jeb can be serious about. “I’ve got this,” I say, meeting his challenge head on. I smile, grateful that Ever has such a good friend on his side. “You deserve good things, Jeb.” “No, I really don’t.” He smiles when he says it, like this fact holds no bearing on his mood or his life. It’s just a simple fact. “You’re wrong.” He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I shrug. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. I wish you could see the guy I see. Because that guy is amazing. How can you want great things for Ever and not even entertain the possibility that beautiful things, great things, could be right around the corner for you?” Before Jeb can respond, the commons room door opens, and Charlotte and some guy file in, carrying book sacks and take-out containers from the cafeteria. I may be biased, but the guy looks like a poser to me—a Bill Gates wannabe with fake glasses and a pocket protector. Jeb sits at attention, eyes trained on Charlotte as she actively ignores him. And now I see what this homework session was all about. “What’s up, Charlotte,” Jeb says as she passes, reaching out to touch her hand. “Stop talking,” she practically spits out, wrenching her hand away. Jeb deflates as I sit here and watch this tragedy unfolding. My heart breaks for him, and I reach across the table to grab his hand. He pulls back and smiles—no less wide, but a helluva lot more fake than the one I saw earlier. “Because the beautiful things in this world are always too eager to show me exactly what I don’t deserve, that’s why,” he says as he unlatches the paper clips from his neck and shoves his books into his bag. “I hope she comes around, because I can see how much you like her. And I really think … she might like you just as much.” I hesitate on my last words, not wanting to give Jeb false hope. I truly believe Charlotte cares for him, but I’m not sure she’ll ever do anything about it. His lips quirk up into a sad smile, and he huffs. “Her head is harder than my dick, and that’s saying a lot. Believe me, when it comes to Charlotte, there’s no ‘kind-of woody.’ The damn thing could beat a Crusader in a sword fight most days.” “Pervy Perverson,” I say with a chuckle. “I have to admit, Jeb, I’m a little hurt. What does she have that I don’t? I may flash a little nip your way, see if I can turn that woody from ‘kind of’ to ‘petrified.’” He barks out a laugh and shakes his head at me. I’m glad to see his humor beating down his sorrow. I hope I can trust it; that it’s not just a show for my benefit, but he’d never admit it. Jeb is more guarded than he seems, despite his carefree nature. Maybe he and Ever aren’t all that different, after all. “See you around, Low Down Dirty Shame.” As Jeb trudges across the commons room, and out the door with a longing glance in Charlotte’s direction, I’ve never wanted to throat punch my roommate more.



Marlo “HELLO?” I CALL out, edging open the front door, only to be met with a billow of smoke. I wave my hands frantically and cough, attempting to clear the air … and my lungs. “Evelyn? What the…” Ever sets me aside and widens the door. “Wait here until I figure out what the hell’s going on,” he says, covering his face with his shirt and running into Evelyn and Oliver’s house. Moments later, he’s back with Evelyn in tow, sputtering and looking a little sheepish. I have my cell phone in hand, ready to dial, if necessary. “Are you all right, Evelyn? Do I need to call the fire department?” After getting a closer look, I don’t see any sign of burns, other than the red flush of embarrassment painted on her cheeks, along with smudges of something black and greasy all over her blouse and face. “I-I wanted to cook something special for you. I’m not a very good cook, but I swear I followed the directions, step by step. I don’t know what happened,” she stammers, pulling at her ruined blouse and sighing. Ever pulls his lips together and suppresses a smile. “No harm done. We just need to air out the place for a bit. Evelyn may have taken the term blackened redfish a bit too far.” Evelyn lowers her head and wrings her hands. She looks almost repentant, and a whole lot embarrassed, so I keep my mouth shut for the time being. That is, until I see her shoulders shaking as she snickers. “I turned those filets into charcoal briquettes with scales!” She hoots with laughter as she clutches her stomach. The dam breaks, and we all laugh until tears cloud our eyes, although that can partially be attributed to the smoke still flowing out the front door in a steady stream. Ever walks around the back of the house and opens another door to create an airflow and get rid of the smoke more quickly. “Why don’t we relax in the courtyard for a bit and let the place air out?” Evelyn suggests. “Once it’s a little clearer, I’ll grab your birthday cake, Marlo. We can have dessert first. How does that sound?” I steal a quick glance at Ever, and his eyes are on me, questioning. Yes, my birthday is tomorrow, but I never really gave it much thought. Besides, what would I have done? “Oh, Ever, my birthday’s this week, in case you were wondering.” Yeah, I don’t think so. “That sounds great, Evelyn. You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.” I smile, and she seems pleased. We pass the time talking about school and the market, and I’m surprised how relaxed I feel. When I’d spoken to Evelyn on the phone earlier this week, the conversation felt forced and unnatural. All the

forward momentum created from our weekly visits had evaporated with one unfortunate hiccup. I guess I should be grateful she almost burned down the house, because it seems to have shaken the nerves out of us. After the smoke dies down, and Evelyn goes inside to grab the cake, Ever nudges my knee with his Converse. He scoots his chair closer, his knees on either side of mine, casing me in, and his hands rest on the tops of my thighs. He squeezes gently and smiles. His lips only show a tiny smirk, but his mossy green eyes are grinning. “That fireman maneuver? Running inside the house to save the day?” I lean in, only an inch of air separating us. “So hot.” “Yeah? You know what else is hot?” His breath dances across my lips, bridging the distance between us. “My birthday isn’t for another month. That makes you the older woman. My young and impressionable mind can’t resist the feminine wiles of a bonafide cougar.” “Ha!” I sit back and cross my arms. “Young and impressionable, my ass.” He chuckles, then a slight frown tugs at his lips. “I wish you would have told me it was your birthday. I feel like a jerk left holding the bag. I wish I had something to give you.” “I don’t need a single thing,” I say, and it’s the truth. Spending time with him is the only present I want from him. “My birthday is actually tomorrow, but I didn’t tell you because it’s not a big deal. I’m not a girl who needs the big gesture.” His hands move from the top of my thighs to under my knees, and he pulls me forward. “Bullshit. You are exactly the kind of girl that needs the big gesture. Maybe ‘need’ is the wrong word. But you deserve it. I know that much.” He looks down and watches his thumbs running back and forth over the tops of my thighs. He lifts his head, meeting my gaze, and whispers, “I’m gonna make it up to you.” Before I can respond, Evelyn bounds through the door holding a rectangular cake box with a stack of paper plates and utensils teetering on top. She places the cake on the table and hands each of us a plate and fork. “It’s a bit nerve-wracking choosing a birthday cake for a baker, so I decided to go local. I ordered you a praline king cake with a cream cheese filling. Have you ever had king cake before, Marlo?” Evelyn opens the box, and reveals the most decadent twisted pastry, drizzled with caramel and pecans. My mouth waters after just one glance. “I’ve heard of king cakes before, but I’ve never eaten one,” I say, lifting my plate, ready to dive in. “They’re a Mardi Gras tradition in these parts, but most bakeries let you special order them year round,” she explains, filling each of our plates with delicious gooeyness. She hands me my plate first. “Happy birthday, Marlo. I’ve missed more birthdays than I can ever make up for, but I’m grateful to be here with you today.” I take the plate from her and resist the urge to stand up and hug her. It took a lot of courage for her to say that, especially in front of Ever, and her vulnerability shows in her unsteady hands and shaky smile. “Thank you. I’m glad to be here, too.” As I slide a piece off my fork and into my mouth, I let out a moan. The mixture of caramel, pecans, cream cheese, and cinnamon is like an eruption on my tongue. Oh yes, this baker is learning how to make a king cake pronto. Happy birthday to me. Luckily, Evelyn hadn’t burned all the fish, and there was more than enough left to salvage dinner. When Ever had volunteered to take over Evelyn’s cooking duties, she was all too happy to oblige. In fact, she had been so happy he’d offered, she’d wrapped him in a big bear hug. Ever had taken it in stride. “Evelyn, there’s a pack of crawfish in your fridge. Do you mind if I make an étouffée to go on top of

the fish? It would be delicious.” He peeks his head out from behind the refrigerator door, and Evelyn claps her agreement. “Of course, of course. And if Etienne taught you how to make it, I’m sure it will be divine,” she says, rubbing her hands together and closing her eyes. “Okay, I’ll need onions, bell pepper, celery…” Ever says, as he rummages through the fridge. “Hmmm, I’m not sure I have those.” Evelyn rounds the kitchen island and stands behind Ever. He turns around with bell peppers and celery in his hand. After placing them on the counter, he finds onions and garlic in her pantry. He points to the pile of veggies on the counter and looks at Evelyn. “These are must haves in a New Orleans kitchen. Make sure to always keep them on hand. Onions. Bell peppers. Celery. These are the Holy Trinity of Cajun and Creole cooking,” he says after holding up each ingredient. “Holy Trinity?” I ask, eyeing him curiously. “That’s what I said. The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” he says, doing the sign of the cross, kissing his fingers and raising them in the air. “And garlic is a close number four. If the first three are the Holy Trinity, I guess garlic would be Mary.” “The virgin or the whore?” The words fly out without a second thought, and I slap my hand over my mouth. Luckily, Evelyn laughs right along with Ever, so I relax back into the stool. He chuckles while putting the onion on a cutting board and getting to work. “Whoever is most important, so I’m gonna go with Virgin on this one.” I watch Ever as he expertly slices and dices, the muscles in his forearms never looking quite so manly as they do tonight. He cooks at the market all the time, but I’m always focused on my baking, so I don’t pay much attention. He moves so effortlessly, obviously from muscle memory, and I’m in awe that he hasn’t lost a finger yet. His movements are so quick and fluid, and in no time at all, there’s a gorgeous meal arranged on the kitchen island, ready to be eaten. Evelyn and I can only take credit for the salad … and Ever cut the cucumbers and avocado for us. But, hey, I poured the dressing. “This is delicious, Ever. I’m in awe that a young man your age can whip up such a magnificent meal. The baker and the chef,” she says, beaming at us. “The two of you are always welcome here, no matter if we are around. You’ve got an open invitation.” My fork stops mid-bite, and I watch her closely. What in the world does she mean by that? Does she have any idea what she’s proposing to a couple of teenagers? “I just mean if you two need some alone time, mi casa es su casa.” She giggles and shrugs. “Oliver has several trips over the next few months, and I’ll be accompanying him, and then I have market … so, like I said, the house will be empty. Please feel welcome to use your key and security code that I gave you, Marlo.” I turn my attention to Ever, and he looks far less shell-shocked than me. I swallow my surprise and give Evelyn a short nod. “Yes, thank so much, Evelyn. I appreciate it.” Jeez, if my dad only knew what she was offering … I have a feeling his feathered hair would blow back and his eyes would pop out of their sockets. But what Daddy doesn’t know…



Ever REMY’S APARTMENT IS only two blocks from Evelyn’s, so Marlo and I swing by before heading back to school. He didn’t have any weed on him at work today, so this little visit is a necessity. I thought Marlo would be uneasy when I brought it up, but it didn’t faze her at all. I ring the bell to his apartment, and he meets us at the gate to let us in. He lives at the end of the dank alleyway flanked with molded and broken latticework from the houses on either side. Remy lives in the rear of the house on the left. The music is audible when we get halfway down the alley, and I recognize Layne Staley’s screams when Remy opens his front door. A girl with purple dreads and a row of lip rings sits at Remy’s kitchen table, playing cards by herself. One hand holds her chin as she taps her cheek, while the other hand fiddles with her pack of Pall Malls. As I look through the kitchen into the living room, I see more people milling around, oblivious to our arrival. The kitchen feels like it’s been coated in a thin layer of burnt cooking grease, and cabinets with no doors overflow with cups, opened cereal boxes, and more cans of Vienna sausage than any one person should own in a lifetime. Dirty dishes tumble out of the sink and onto the counter, only stopped by an impressive collection of take-out containers of every variety. I’ve been here several times before, but I’ve never seen the place in such grotesque technicolor as I do tonight. It’s as if I slipped on my 3D glasses and got way more than I bargained for. I tug at my collar, battling the overwhelming need to bathe, and the growing guilt for subjecting Low to a place like this. She doesn’t belong anywhere near this shithole. “Lana, how about you keep Marlo here company while I visit with my man, Ever,” Remy suggests, and Lana nods grudgingly. Remy grabs Lana’s dreads and tugs her head back. He puts his lips on hers, while eyeing Marlo and pointing to the empty chair, motioning for her to sit. I look to Marlo for any sign that she’s afraid, but she only smiles and waves at me. I follow Remy down the hallway, and he pulls out his keys when he gets to his bedroom door. He sets about unlocking the two deadbolts, and simultaneously giving me the side eye. “How was high tea with New Orleans royalty? Must be nice, rubbing elbows with the elite. Sorry you had to come slum it over here,” he says with a fake chuckle and an honest sneer. “Shut up, man. It’s not like that. You make it sound like Marlo is part of that scene, and she’s not. That’s not who she is,” I say as Remy shuffles through the top drawer of his dresser. “You see her at the

market. She’s cool.” He shakes his head as he takes out a dubsack of weed and sets it on top of the dresser. “It’s just that— you know what, never mind. I don’t know what I’m saying. None of it makes a difference, anyway.” I hand him a twenty and pocket what I came for, wondering if he’s gonna come clean about what the hell is bothering him. I can’t imagine he still thinks he laid some imaginary claim on Marlo. Remy’s a grown ass man. It would be a pussy move to piss, pout, and moan about a girl he never even had one date with. Shit, he never even asked her out at all. I take his silence to mean he’s gotten the hell over whatever crawled up his ass, and step toward the door. I grab the handle and turn around to look him in the eye. “We cool, Remy?” He lays both hands on the dresser and leans in as he shakes his head at me. He pushes off and stalks toward me, shoving my shoulder as he passes. “Yeah, asshole, we’re cool.” He makes it halfway down the hall before he turns around and tosses another baggie at me. I catch it one-handed and stare at the tiny white rectangles in the palm of my hand. “What the hell is this?” “I had a couple extra, and I thought you might want to try them out. They’re Xanbars … they help take the edge off,” he says, and winks as he saunters away. I see Marlo walking toward me, and I shove the baggie in my pocket before she sees it. Remy’s never supplied me with anything other than weed, and I honestly didn’t think he dealt anything else. Before I put much more thought into it, Marlo slips her arms around my waist and squeezes. “Ready?” “You have no idea,” I say with a relieved sigh, as we get the hell out of this place. “I’m sorry I brought you over there. It was a stupid thing to do,” I say, with hunched shoulders and my hands stuffed in my pockets. “Hey, it was fine. I mean, someone needs to take a firehose to the place, and Remy needs some serious lessons in housecleaning, but I don’t care about that,” she says with a smile. I open my mouth to apologize again, but she lays a finger on my lips. She keeps on walking without me, and I have to weave through other pedestrians to catch up to her. I catch Marlo’s swinging hand in mine, and she undoes me with a simple smile. Simple doesn’t seem like the right word, because there’s nothing simple about Marlo. Pure, maybe. Emotion coming from a place of total honesty—that’s what she gives me. Other than East, I don’t think I’ve ever had that with another person. My relationships are usually tainted with obligation, anger, regret, or some combination of the three. “We’d be magical, you and me,” she whispers, nuzzling her head into my neck as we make our way back to school. I lean down and kiss her forehead, smelling her hair without being too conspicuous. She’ll think I’m a goddamn creeper if she catches me sniffing her. Lavender. It’s mixed with the smell of smoke this time, thanks to Evelyn’s keen cooking prowess. “Magical, huh?” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but if it’s about the two of us, magical about sums it up. How else can I be transformed from the doomsday asshole of a few weeks ago into the optimistic, carefree guy standing here today? Magic and Marlo. “Oh yeah. Your food and my baking? We’d run them all out of town,” she says with a sweep of her hand. “People would line up around the block to eat at our restaurant. Magic.”

I chuckle. “I bet they would.” We walk in silence for a stretch, and Marlo is deep in thought. I leave her to it, just enjoying being beside her, the silky feel of her palm sliding against mine. “Do you think it’s strange for Evelyn to offer us her house when she’s not home? I mean, what kind of parent would do that?” she asks, looking baffled by the entire thing. “A guilty one,” I say, and she looks even more confused. Good for her. I’m glad Marlo doesn’t know the concessions a mother or father will make to assuage their guilt for crimes of the past. It means she has at least one parent with his head on straight. “Whether it be divorce, neglect, poor decisions … the what doesn’t really matter. Sins of the past tend to make for leniency in the future. ‘Sure you can drink a glass of wine with dinner, then maybe you’ll forget I haven’t made it to a baseball game all year.’ Get what I’m saying?” She releases a long sigh. “Yeah, but it sucks. I was kind of psyched at the prospect of us having a place to hideout, but now it feels more like a consolation prize. ‘I left your for a decade and a half, so use my house as ‘Booty Call Central.’ I mean, who does that?” Welcome to my world. I hate that she has to see this side of things. Things have spiraled so far out of control in my family, consolation prizes disappeared long ago. Guilt doesn’t hide behind new cars and extra privileges. It stands front and center, for all to revel in its supreme repugnance. “Hey, I don’t want you to think Evelyn is a bad person. I’m not saying that at all. Parents are people, just like you and me, and we don’t come with instruction manuals. She’s fumbling through this, but it says a lot that she reached out to you after all these years. Right?” I smile at her when she nods her agreement. “I’m gonna focus on the positive when it comes to Evelyn. No matter, what, I’m still me, right?” I nod slowly and tip my head to the few raindrops dotting my forehead and cheeks. I meet her gaze and brush an errant raindrop off her cheek. I watch her lashes flutter as she looks up into my eyes, and I whisper, “Magic.” Then I tip my head and cover her lips with mine. The kiss lasts only a moment. We open our eyes and watch each other without parting. She giggles into my mouth as the drops of rain become fat and plenty. She grabs my hand and races down the sidewalk, dodging sidewalk cracks and potholes like a stealthy ninja. I’m three hops away from face planting when I pull her into the storefront alcove of an antique lace shop. We’re soaked. I don’t think there’s a single inch of my body that escaped the rain’s wrath. The heavy rain roars above us and splatters onto the sidewalk and road. The sheets of rain fall behind us, acting as a curtain to the outside world, shielding us from the chaos just steps away. My fingers weave into her drenched hair, and I lean her against the store window. I run the flat of my palm from the back of her neck, down her chest, to rest over her fluttering heart. Her back bows to meet my touch, and I crush her body to mine as my forehead rests on hers. My lips crash into hers as she claws at my shirt, needing more, and I groan at her acceptance. Yes, I need it all. I take a bite of her cold lips, in direct opposition with her warm tongue that slides into my mouth. We’re both hungry, starving for each other. “I don’t want to leave you this weekend,” I whisper. “I want to be with you for your birthday, but I can’t stay. I can’t leave East alone. I’m so sorry.” Before I finish talking, she’s already shaking her head. “I don’t care. I don’t care about that. It’s just a day,” she says, framing my face with her hands. “You’re here today, and that’s what matters. So kiss me.” I look up to see the shop owner crack open the door, her lace shawl pulled tight and her hair rolled like a 1920s flapper girl. Just when I think she’s going to throw us out into the pouring rain, her lips curve into a conspiratorial smile and she quietly shuts the door behind her, leaving Marlo and me in our alcove with the curtains drawn from the world.



Marlo I WAKE UP the next morning to my ringing phone and the morning sun barely peeking through the blinds. After avoiding a nosedive off the top bunk to my certain death, I swipe the phone from the desk below. “What?” I whisper, not even attempting to clear the frog from my throat. “Happy birthday, Low. I wanted to be the first to talk to my baby girl on her big day. And don’t say a word, because no matter how old you are, you’ll always be my baby,” Dad says, sounding like he’s been awake for hours. “Dad, we don’t have a Rowdy the Rooster here. We don’t get up at—“I turn the phone over to catch the time. “Five in the morning. We don’t even get up at six in the morning.” He chuckles, unfazed by my snark, and I hear Nana grumbling in the background. “Hand it over. It’s my turn.” There’s a rustling over the phone, a distinct clank, and then incoherent muttering from my dad. He should know better than to fight Nana. Nothing good ever comes from that. “I can’t believe you’re a state away and I can’t give you a birthday hug. I need to squeeze you, Low. Tight, tight.” I sigh, a smile tugging at my lips while my eyes stay shut. I imagine Nana with the phone in one hand and a spatula in the other. If I had to guess, she took a spatula to Dad’s head when she ripped the phone away. I bet he’s scowling on the other side of the kitchen right now. “I wish you were here, Nana. Or I was there. I just … I wish we were all together today,” I admit, feeling more homesick in this one moment than ever before. “Thanksgiving break can’t get here soon enough. And then Christmas. I just might squeeze the life out of you when you get here, girl. That’s if Fisher doesn’t drown you in slobber. That old mutt is useless without you. The squirrels don’t even catch his attention.” Thinking of Fisher is a pang to my already homesick heart. I don’t miss Texas, not really. I miss my family, and that’s where they happen to be. I wish I could erase the miles between us, but we could all be in the place that makes us happy. Being here feels right to me—just as right as it feels for my dad to be in the fields and with his cattle. “Give Fisher big kisses for me. And Dad, too,” I say, feeling rushed, knowing she’ll grow tired of talking on the phone any minute. She doesn’t have the patience for it. “You can even hug Declan, too. Maybe give him a wedgie while you’re at it.” She laughs. “I keep far away from your brother’s drawers, thank you very much,” she says, before clearing her throat. “I love ya, girl, even if you’re growing up way too fast for my liking.”

“Love you, Nana,” I whisper, letting sleep and dreams of home overtake me as I hang up the phone. Although nothing can beat Nana’s five layer chocolate fudge cake, a birthday must-have at my insistence, my eighteenth is shaping up to be memorable in its own right. An early morning roommate party in the top bunk with a pile of Pixie Sticks and Chewy Sweet Tarts? Check. A text from Evelyn, inviting me to an old-fashioned slumber party at her house tomorrow night? Check. A quasi strip tease and terrible rendition of “Happy Birthday,” Marilyn Monroe style, courtesy of a tone deaf Jeb? Check. Yes, today is shaping up to be quite the birthday in every way except one. No Ever. I didn’t see him in the cafeteria for breakfast or lunch, and I haven’t passed him in the hall, either. It’s odd not to bump into him at least once in a day. And now, as I sit in fine arts, with my neck craned to the door waiting for him, I really start to worry. He’s going to see his brother for the weekend, like always, but he never leaves until after class. Surely, he wouldn’t take off without saying a word? No “happy birthday,” “kiss my ass,” nothing? Class begins with no Ever, and I feel deflated. Just last night, I was the luckiest girl in the world. Now, I feel like nothing more than a convenience, or an afterthought … or maybe he doesn’t care about me at all. When I think of him just disappearing without a word, I wonder if what he feels for me is even a fraction of what I’m beginning to feel for him. I trudge back to my dorm room, fighting back the bummed feeling threatening to overtake this day. After tossing my book sack into the corner of the room, I grab my phone from my desk drawer with the intention of calling Evelyn to firm up our plans for tomorrow night. Two new texts from Ever are waiting for me. The first one was sent at seven o’clock this morning, right after I left for breakfast. Ever: I hate to leave without seeing you today, but something’s come up with Easton. I’m so sorry, Low. Happy Birthday. You don’t know how much I wish I could be in two places at once today. I smile, because after talking with Nana and Dad this morning, I know exactly how he feels. Unlike me, Ever lives in a perpetual state of conflict about this very thing. It must be so difficult for him to want to be there for his brother and attend school hours away from him. I wish I understood more about Easton’s condition, but Ever is an expert at evading that particular topic. It’s not like it takes much effort to distract me—a little tongue action, and I turn into a puddle of goo. Ever: There may be a birthday something waiting for you at our spot. A giggle escapes as I dash out the door without a second thought. I pass Charlotte and Delilah on the way out, but wave them off when they try to stop me. I bound up the stairs, grateful the fourth floor is empty. I don’t want any wandering eyes to catch me on the roof. By some miracle, Ever and I are the only students who know about the hideout, and I want to keep it that way. Alone time is hard to come by at school, and I cherish every second I get with Ever. I see it the second I open the door. A tiny box sits right in our spot, against the wall. It’s all very boylike. It’s just a cardboard box held together with what looks like an entire roll of scotch tape. No wrapping paper, no ribbon, and no card to speak of. I chuckle to myself, thinking of Ever having an all-out

war with the tape. From the looks of this box, the tape won, hands-down. I tear the layers away, open the lid, and peek inside. It’s no bigger than my fist, but it’s the most beautiful bunch of blue flowers I’ve ever seen. I gently lift them out of the box and see the stems are held together by a white ribbon tied into a perfectly cinched bow. No scotch tape this time. I bring the bouquet closer, and that’s when I realize they aren’t flowers at all. It’s colored paper that’s been expertly folded and glued, and I love knowing I can keep them forever. They’ll never wilt away and die. There’s a note attached to the white bow, and also an envelope at the bottom of the box. I decide to go for the note first. Happy birthday to Low, I wish like hell I didn’t have to go, But Mary and Jane will keep you company, If you just untie the bow. I finger the silk ribbon, hating to ruin the perfection of it all. Curiosity get the best of me, and I gently tug. The ribbon falls away, and the stems of the flowers roll to the side, revealing a carefully placed joint in the middle of the bouquet. I gasp and close my hands around the stems, looking around for witnesses, even though I’m alone. I bark out a laugh, my nerves taking over. I quickly slide the joint back in place and tie the ribbon around the flowers. I enjoy getting high as much as the next person, but what’s the fun in smoking by myself? I’d rather save the joint for when Ever is here to keep me company. I place the flowers back in the box and open the envelope. There’s one folded sheet of paper in there, and I recognize Ever’s slanted script right away. I wish I had the balls to pick the third floor lock and sneak into your room right now. But I know if I did that, no way in hell could I leave you. I’m so sorry I won’t be here when you wake up. Happy birthday, Low. Even though I have to be somewhere else today, don’t think for a second that part of me isn’t there, with you. I know I’m missing this one, but I hope I’ll be there for many birthdays to come. I’ve never been able to think more than a day or two into the future. Until you. Now you’re all I see. And I don’t see that changing. Ever It takes Ever four rings to answer the phone, and when he does, he sounds exhausted and frustrated. I hate to bother him when he’s obviously stressed, but I want him to know I can be there for him the way he’s been there for me. “Marlo,” he breathes, my name coupled with a sigh of relief. “Is everything all right, Ever? Is there anything I can do?” The chances of me being able to help Ever right now are slim, but it’s important to me that he knows I want to. “Yeah, everything’s okay now. Easton had a seizure last night. He’s had a seizure disorder since birth, but they seem to be happening more frequently in the last year.” He lets out a tense sigh. “The one last night was especially bad, and he gets so disoriented and agitated after. One of his nurses called me because they knew I’d want to be there for him. I got here as soon as I could, and besides a bruised up left arm, he’s doing well.” “Thank God,” I say, relieved that Easton is okay. No, I’ve never met him, but I hear the love in Ever’s

voice any time he talks about him. It’s obvious how strong the bond is between the brothers. “I’m glad to hear he’s all right.” “Yeah.” There’s a short silence on the line, and I wonder what he’s thinking. “I wish you were here. I mean, I have to be here with Easton, but I wish you could be with me.” “I got my present.” I chuckle. “The flowers are beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” “Well, someone gave me short notice that it was her birthday, so I had to be resourceful. I owe that junior, Alice, a term paper on Wuthering Heights and a pair of Jeb’s boxer shorts.” “What the hell does she want with Jeb’s underwear?” “Hell if I know. The things I do for you.” He laughs. “She may be a strange chick, but she makes some pretty sick flowers, right? They’re forget-me-nots.” Like I could ever forget him. “They’re perfect. And you won’t hear any complaints out of me about Jeb’s underwear. She can make a shrine to the stinky things, for all I care,” I say with a laugh. “As for the rest of your present, I’ll save it for when I see you Sunday night. There’s no fun in partying alone, is there?” “Oh, I don’t know. Alone is the only way I partied until you, Low. It was getting pretty lonely on that roof before you showed up.” “Hmmmm,” I say, because I’m at a loss. When I think of Ever sitting up here night after night, getting high all alone, it bugs me. It feels so isolating and depressing. Ever can be a bit broody, but I see less and less of that side of him every day. I change the subject, telling him about my day and about the slumber party with Evelyn tomorrow night. He seems more relaxed by the end of the call, and I hope I played a part in that. “So Sunday,” I say, already counting the hours until I see him again. “Sunday. And Low, about last night.” “Yes?” My cheeks flush at the thought of us drenched from the rain, grasping at each other as if we were starving. I close my eyes and remember the feel of his palm pushing against my breast, the hungry gasps as he sucked my tongue, my lips, the curve of my neck. “Last night was…” “Everything,” I blurt out before my mind can stop my mouth. He chuckles softly. “Exactly. It was every single thing. And so are you, Low. I just … I want you to know that.” “Okay.” Not the most intelligent response, but it’s all I’ve got right now. “See you Sunday?” “Okay.” Jeez, I sound like an idiot. We say goodbye, while one solitary thought runs on a constant loop through my mind. Every. Single. Thing.



Marlo “I ESPECIALLY LIKE long chains.” Evelyn reaches up and drops the locket around my neck, then shifts back a bit to admire it. “They’re a great way to bring attention to the girls.” She grabs her breasts and squeezes before falling back into the chair with laughter. I look down and see she’s right. My boobs look fantastic. I grab them and squeeze, too, making Evelyn laugh even harder. Her wine swishes in her glass, dangerously close to sloshing out and staining the rug. She doesn’t seem to notice or care. Dusk is settling, and I’ve been at Evelyn’s house since early afternoon. Most of the students at Orleans Academy live close enough to go home on the weekends, so the dorm can get pretty boring on Saturdays and Sundays. We started the day with lunch at Galatoire’s, then headed to her favorite spa for mani/pedis. Once we returned to her house, Evelyn brought down three jewelry chests brimming with rings, bracelets, and necklaces of all types and style. Her taste ranges from gypsy to vintage, and everything in between. I have a sapphire cocktail ring on my left hand, an emerald on my right, and the most gorgeous vintage cameo choker laced through a black ribbon wrapped around my throat. With the new addition of the longchained lockets, I’ve never felt so fancy. “That choker is beautiful on you, Low,” she says with a soft smile. “Wear that choker with those beautiful waves piled on top of your head, and Ever will be itching to kiss your neck all night long.” I smile at the thought and finger the edge of the cameo. “He pretty much wants to kiss me all night long as it is.” Evelyn sighs and takes a sip of her wine. “Young love. There’s nothing like it in this world. It’s the stuff dreams are made of, isn’t it?” “I think so.” In truth, Ever makes my blood rush more than any dream I could conjure. “My grandmother used to tell me young love is old love, only with wings. Before all the doubt and insecurities creep in. But it’s no less real. Do you think that’s true?” She looks through me more than at me, introspective, but also a bit cloudy. My eyes flick to the buffet table, taking in the two bottles of wine, one empty and the other well on the way. “I don’t know. It feels real to me. I’m probably too young to be a judge,” I say with a chuckle. “I didn’t grow up seeing old love. I mean, not in the husband and wife type of way.” “But you knew a great deal of love growing up.” It’s a statement, not a question. It’s true, so I only nod. “What was Marcus like when you were growing up? I imagine he was a wonderful father.” “He was,” I say, without a moment of hesitation. “He’s strict, but never cruel. We’ve always

understood the rules and why we have them. I don’t think he’s ever uttered the words ‘because I said so.’ He just isn’t that kind of dad. He’s always there for me, but never close enough to smother. He always leaves enough rope for us to either hang or save ourselves. It depends on the day which one we choose. But he loves us regardless.” She brings her glass to the buffet for a refill, but not before I see her glassy eyes. She keeps her back turned and rests both hands on the buffet, head lowered. “From the very beginning, when you were a tiny baby who nearly fit in the palm of his hand, he knew what to do. There was an ease about him I can’t explain. I was in awe.” She turns and shrugs, visibly holding back tears. “I was also envious. What was second nature to him was like clawing through quicksand for me. I tried to be the mother you and Declan deserved, I truly did, but I was such a disappointment.” Watching her lip quiver, feeling her shame pulsing through the room like an electric current, is agonizing. These are the answers to my questions, but I never imagined it would be so painful to hear them. Instead of resolve, I feel heartache. Without thinking, I blurt out the question swirling in my mind. “Is that why you left? Because you thought you were a disappointment?” She stumbles back to her chair, rubbing her chest like her heart physically aches. “It was part of it, certainly, but things weren’t as simple as that. Your father is a special man in so many ways. He saw me … he saw too much. “I told you before, Marlo, I didn’t come from a happy home. The only thing my father ever taught me was how to keep my door loc—” She clutches her blouse and gasps as if the words are stabbing her in the gut. “Marcus saved me all those years ago. I’ll always be grateful to him for that. At least I thought he did at the time. God, when I left with him, I could finally breathe for the first time in my life. But once I stopped moving; once we settled into our quiet life, I realized I’d never be free from those nightmares. I would always be ruined, and I couldn’t hide from him. I loved him too much, and he knew me too well.” Thankfully, I’ve never lived with the type of demons Evelyn talks about, but I can imagine how having children of her own would drudge up old memories and unresolved feelings. And I know one thing for certain about my dad—he tackles problems head on. I’m sure that posed a problem for a woman intent on hiding. When I look at Evelyn, even now, years later, I see her covered in steel armor held together with Elmer’s Glue. One misstep, and it all comes tumbling down. She’s a strong woman, but she’s held together with nothing but glue and metal. “He doesn’t like to ignore problems, does he?” I offer with a knowing smile. “I felt like an open book with him. And for me, hiding is how I survive, even now. Without it, I’d fall to pieces.” She meets my eyes with a determined expression. “It’s not an excuse. But it is an explanation … an apology. I’m sorry, Marlo, for not being the mother you needed. I wish I were a different person. I wish I could have been that for you.” “I had a good life,” I say, hoping to ease her mind. I reach over and grasp her hand. “I have a good life.” I squeeze her hand gently and nod. She returns the gesture and swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispers, and takes another sip of wine. “Thank God for that.” Fresh tears fall onto her cheeks, and she stares out the living room window, stoic and still. I’m afraid all of this may have been too much, too fast for Evelyn, and I’m not sure how to console her. Before I can figure out what I should do next, I hear keys jingling in the foyer, and Oliver peeks around the doorway. Evelyn startles and frantically wipes her cheeks. “Oliver, I didn’t expect you until tomorrow. What a wonderful surprise.” Her tone betrays her words, visibly reluctant to have an audience to her tears. She rises from her chair

and straightens her clothes as she slowly walks to greet Oliver, one unsure foot in front of the other. “My darling,” he says, hands in her hair and thumbs brushing her cheeks. “What’s wrong? What’s upset you?” He searches her face, concern etched in his expression. He bends his knees to meet her eye level and she buries her face in his neck. When he looks to me with a questioning expression, I fumble with the rings and necklaces, stuffing them back into the jewelry chests. “I-I should go,” I say, standing and waving awkwardly. “I thought you were staying the night, Marlo. You’re more than welcome to sleep in one of the guest rooms,” Oliver offers, but I shake my head. “I should get back. It’s been a long day, and Evelyn’s tired.” Oliver slides an arm around her waist and guides her through the living room, toward the stairs. She stumbles beside him, head resting on his shoulder. When she reaches the stairs, she turns to me. “Thank you for spending the day with me, Marlo. I’m sorry for being so emotional. I don’t know what came over me,” she says, touching her forehead and shutting her eyes. If I had to guess, two drained bottles of wine are at the starting line of what came over her, but I don’t share. “No, thank you, Evelyn. I had a good time. See you Thursday?” “Yes,” she says with a smile, but then it falters. “Wait, not this week. Oliver and I are leaving Monday morning for one of his conferences. We’ll be gone the entire week. But feel free to use the house should you need it. Next Thursday?” I smile and nod. “Marlo, please wait for me here. I’ll be down in just a few minutes to drive you home,” Oliver says, starting up the stairs without waiting for my response. Elevator music flows through the speakers of the Porsche Cayenne, and I fight the urge to doze. This isn’t classical—it’s straight up muzak, and I scowl at Oliver for his terrible taste in music. “So things got a bit tearful tonight, did they?” he asks. His eyes flit between me and the road, which is not the greatest idea on city streets littered with cavernous potholes. I grab onto the “oh shit” handle and hope he didn’t leave a piece of his tire in that last crater. “They did. She shared a little bit with me about her past, and what things were like for her when I was a baby.” I try to keep my answer as vague as possible, hoping I’m not betraying Evelyn’s confidence. “That’s huge, Marlo. I know you don’t realize this, but those are things she never discusses. In the ten years we’ve been married, I can count on one hand the amount of times we’ve talked about her past. She had some liquid courage coursing through her veins tonight, but even then, she’s usually silent about those things.” “Does she ever talk to her father?” I ask, wondering how much he knows. The small snippet I learned tonight feels like a Rottweiler gnawing at my insides as if they’re his favorite chew toy. “No, absolutely not. I’d never allow it,” he says, jaw clenching at the mere thought. It’s obvious Oliver is in the loop about Evelyn’s childhood with that one answer. “We all live in a world of bumps and bruises. No one lives on this Earth for very long without collecting a few scars. That’s the meat of all of us—what makes us who we are. Evelyn’s life didn’t start out with just bumps and bruises. That man left a rotting, festering wound in his daughter, and nothing would make me happier than to make him pay with my bare hands.” Oliver’s knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel, trying to hold his temper in check. He comes

to a slow stop in front of the dormitory, and shifts in his seat toward me. “It’s hard to love a person who isn’t able to show themselves to you. But I love her the best I can. I love the parts she lets me see, and I pray that it’s enough for her.” What a difference a week makes. Not long ago, I barely suppressed the urge to junk-punch this man, and now I’m fighting the overwhelming need to hug the shit out of him. It’s clear to me that Oliver is the glue that keeps Evelyn from falling to pieces. I can’t imagine it’s an easy job. “Thank you for taking care of her,” I say as I reach out and pat his arm. He chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe I owe you another apology. I always seem to forget that you’re only a teenager, and I tell you things you shouldn’t know … that you may not understand. I forget you’re the child in all of this.” I open the door, and one foot hits the sidewalk before I turn to him. “I may be the daughter in all of this, but it doesn’t mean I’m a child. I appreciate you being honest with me. I can take it, Oliver. Trust me.” And with that, we say goodnight, feeling a bit more connected than we did before.



Marlo I CALL EVELYN right after breakfast on Sunday morning to check in and make sure she’s all right. I’m surprised when I find her upbeat and almost chipper. No one would suspect just last night, she was crumbling under the pressure of her past. Whether it was the mistakes she’d endured or the ones she’d made, I can’t be sure. I imagine it’s a mixture of both. But today, there isn’t even a hint of sadness in her voice as she chatters on about hundred-pound suitcases and shopping marathons she has planned for her week in New York City with Oliver. “They’re gonna leave without us if we don’t shake a leg, Delilah.” I cross my arms and lean my head against the doorway as I watch her curl her eyelashes between mascara applications. “It’s church, not a night on Frenchman Street.” She rolls her eyes, a difficult feat with the eyelash curler in the mix, and pouts her crimson-stained lips. “Baby Jesus doesn’t care what you’re wearing,” I whisper, but she ignores me. “You could wear granny panties and he wouldn’t mind.” That gets her attention. She whips around, grabs her purse, and meets me toe-to-toe in the doorway. “Let me find a pair of granny panties in this dorm room, and I will have a public bonfire in the courtyard downstairs. And I’ll be sure to invite Ever.” She stomps down the hallway to the stairs, and I follow closely behind. If she cared half as much about keeping a boyfriend as she does about our panty situation, maybe somebody would last longer than a carton of milk. Really, what can I expect from the girl who coined the term “monogamish”? We catch up with the group, right as they’re leaving school. I’ve been going to St. Louis Cathedral every Sunday since the first week I moved to New Orleans. It’s become part of my routine. “I still don’t get why you keep coming with us to church, Low,” Delilah says as we trail behind the others. “You’re not even Catholic.” I shrug. “It’s relaxing—the ritual of it all, I guess. It’s so ceremonial. My church at home wasn’t like that.” “Ceremonial is just another word for boring. Sit, stand, sit, kneel a couple times, sit, then leave. I barely even have to tune in anymore. I just go through the motions, half-conscious.” I see what she’s saying, but the customs are still intriguing to me. It’s interesting, a priest covered in intricate robes, surrounded by crystal and brass, preaching to a businessman and homeless man together. The difference in patrons at the cathedral is staggering, and they all look comfortable and welcome. There

are rich and poor in my little town in Texas, but I’ve never seen such disparity displayed in plain sight. It’s disturbing and humbling at the same time. “Oh,” Delilah says, “I hope we get there a little early. I need to go to confession.” I laugh. “Now that’s a ritual I can’t understand.” “What? I tell the priest my sins, and he absolves me. Pretty simple, if you ask me.” “He absolves you?” “Yes.” “Just like that?” “Well, I have to say some Hail Marys, some Our Fathers … how many depends on how much fun the week was, but yes.” I shake my head and laugh. I imagine Delilah spends most of mass saying her penance, but what do I know? I’ve never received punishment prayers for my sins. “Are you actually sorry?” She thinks on this for a moment with a quirky smile on her face. “Sometimes, yes.” And we both burst out laughing. She sounds so ludicrous. “Look, I’m always sorry that I’ve committed the sin, even if I have every intention of being a repeat offender.” I nod my head in understanding, even though I don’t think that’s how it’s actually supposed to work. Seems to me God would want you to be sorry and try not to do it again. “Why not just talk to God? Can’t you tell him you’re sorry yourself?” “I guess I can, but I like to do it this way. It feels good to do it.” “To do what?” “To give it to someone. I give my sins to the priest, and take my penance. I feel lighter. Weird, I know, but it’s true. Plus, it’s the rules, and we Catholics like our rules,” she says with an eye roll. It’s an interesting concept, giving your sins to someone. I think about it throughout mass as I watch the family two pews ahead, little girls with lace veils and perfectly pressed smocked dresses, and the haggard woman across the aisle, greasy hair, black fingernails, and wrinkles on her cheeks and forehead that look like they’ve been chiseled with a carving tool. Can we give away our sins, just like that? And what if we could give away our hurts just as easily? What if Evelyn could walk into that confessional and hand over the sins of her father and be done with it? Would she feel lighter? I can imagine it. “Here Father So-and-So, I need to give you the baggage of my life to hold for a while. It’s too big of a burden for me to carry, so have at it, man.” Yeah, right. It seems like this system works better for the sinner than the victim… Ever sucks my bottom lip and groans, hand eagerly twisting in my hair. I knead the strained muscles in his neck and shoulders, feeling them loosen under my fingers. “I wish I hadn’t gotten back so late. It feels like I’ve only seen you for seconds, and it’s already time to go,” he says with a frown. I’d run up to the roof as soon as he’d texted, about thirty minutes ago. I’d found him elbows to knees, head tipped to the sky, already lit joint to his lips. I’d taken a drag or two here and there, but the vast majority of the smoking was done by Ever. Sunday nights seem to be the hardest for him, like leaving his brother each week fills his body with enough tension to snap his muscles in two. I smile and tilt my head, letting the hazy feeling flow through me like a gentle, rolling wave. “We have

all week together. You’ll be tired of me by Friday, just watch.” His squeezes my neck and runs his nose over my cheek, soft and slow. I lean into him and inhale, a smile playing on my lips. “Not a chance,” he whispers, as he kisses me once, twice. “We’ll see,” I say, running my hands through his hair and gently tugging. “Oh, you get me Thursday night, too. Evelyn and Oliver are gone for a conference, so no dinner this week.” He grabs my hips and pulls me closer until I’m straddling him. He slips his hand underneath my shirt and runs his fingers back and forth across the small of my back. I shiver. “What if you have Thursday dinner at Evelyn’s anyway … with me?” His expression is hopeful and sweet, his voice barely a whisper, as if he’s worried what I’ll think of his suggestion. “Yeah?” I scoot in closer, craving the friction of his body against mine. “I could cook,” he says, widening his heavily-lidded eyes in suggestion. “Or not … whatever you want.” “I want,” I whisper before rolling my body into his, tipping my head back at the pleasure, the tension it builds. “I really, really want.”



Ever MARLO AND I walk hand in hand down the sidewalk, stealing nervous glances at each other along the way. It’s funny, we spend most nights alone together on the roof, but this feels different, more exciting and real. We’ve both been looking forward to tonight all week long. I carry the groceries from the market, while she holds a pastry box of her already-baked honey bourbon banana cupcakes. The market smelled like a little slice of heaven all afternoon, thanks to her, and I’m surprised there were any cupcakes left for us to take at the end of the day. My other hand is laced with hers, and we feel like any other couple walking home after work. Just for tonight, I want to pretend that’s exactly what we are. No school, no outside pressures, no parents—just Marlo and me. “How about you cook the pasta, and I’ll sauté the shrimp and garlic sauce?” I bump her shoulder as she nods, but she doesn’t meet my gaze. “Hey, what’s going on in that head of yours?” She shrugs, opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. No words come out. I stop walking, and pull her over out of the sidewalk traffic and tip her chin up to me. “Hey, you don’t think,” I start, but hesitate, not wanting to make her more nervous than she already is. “You don’t think I’m … expecting anything tonight, do you?” Before I finish the sentence, her eyes dart to the ground and her shoulders slump. Shit. “It’s not that I don’t want … that. I mean, being with you feels amazing, but I don’t think I’m ready to boink just yet.” She grimaces, and I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Boink?” I try to stop laughing when I see her crossed arms and irritated expression, but it’s no use. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to boink. It sounds like … cartoon sex.” “Keep it up, and you won’t have any kind of sex with me, cartoon or otherwise, you giant ass,” she mutters as she stalks away from me. I grab her arm before she gets very far, and pull her back into my chest. I snake my arm around her belly and bury my face in her neck. The vanilla smell of her hair, the feel of her pulse in her neck, her firm, round ass pushing against my dick. Yep, I’m hard. Calm the fuck down, dude, or she’ll think you want to boink her. And then I’m laughing again as Marlo tries to extricate herself from me. I drop the grocery bag and turn her around, pressing my lips to hers. She doesn’t fight me for long, and what started as a fight quickly turns into a very public make-out session.

Yeah, not exactly helping the boner. I pull away gently, swiping a thumb over her swollen bottom lip. “I just want to be with you, Low. Doesn’t matter if we’re sitting together, fully clothed in the cafeteria, or if we’re buck naked in bed.” I pause for a second, then flinch. “Okay, so it matters a little bit…” She slaps my chest before I can finish and laughs. “Jerk!” “What? I can’t help it. You’re … you. The thought of you naked and a stiff wind can give me a terminal case of blue balls. Who am I kidding? You could be wearing a turtleneck and give me blue balls.” I squeeze her arms and raise my eyebrows. “Even you in a garbage bag. A nun’s habit … actually that’s way hotter than it should be.” “Okay, okay, ya sick perv, point made. But I don’t want to lead you on or anything. I like fooling around … like isn’t a strong enough word for how I feel about it. But I’ve never…” She stops talking and watches me. I wait. She watches. I wait some more. She huffs and crosses her arms. “Iveneverhadsexbeforeokay?” she whisper-yells in rapid succession. Sweat, actual beads of sweat prickle my forehead, and I rest my hand on the brick wall for balance. I’m lightheaded … woozy. “Seriously, Low, stop right there. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear your goal right now is to make sure I can knock down this brick wall with nothing but my dick,” I say, slightly hunched over, hand on my hip. “I can’t take any more.” “Are you mad?” she asks, looking worried. “Mad? Why in the world would I be mad?” I shake my head and wrap her in a hug. Well, a sideways hug so I don’t stab her to death. “What you’ve done, what you want to do, and even what you don’t want to do—those things will never make me angry. I promise you that, Low. I don’t want or expect anything to happen tonight other than supper and spending time with you. However you want to spend that time is fine with me.” I feel her relax in my arms, and she lays her head on my shoulder. I run my hand over her hair, curly and wild today, and squeeze her closer. “Thank you. I feel so much better.” She lets out a long sigh. “Good. Whew,” I say with a laugh, swiping my hand across my forehead. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about you attacking my virtue with your out of control boinking. What a relief.” She bursts out laughing as she pushes away from me and starts down the sidewalk. She throws me a glance over her shoulder and winks. “You coming, or are you too scared?” I lean down and grab the handles of the grocery bag and jog to catch up with her. I’ll never admit it, and I hope she’ll never know, but the truth is… I’m terrified. I sauté the onions and garlic in the pan as Marlo salts the pot of water and turns up the flame. I love being with her in the kitchen this way. It feels so natural. We’re in sync, barely talking because there’s no need. I peeled the shrimp while we were at the market, so there’s virtually no prep work. I chose to cook shrimp and garlic pasta for that very reason—maximum time with Marlo. My phone buzzes on the counter, and I see Remy’s name. “Can you catch that?” Marlo swipes the phone off the counter and answers it. “Hey Remy, what’s going on?” She’s quiet as she listens, and I raise my eyebrows in question. She just smiles at me.

“Oh yeah, just stop by Evelyn’s house. We’re here cooking,” she says. I shake my head in protest, but she waves her hand at me dismissively. “Yeah, no big deal. We’ll be here … okay, bye.” She ends the call and places the phone back on the counter. “He wants to drop something off to you, so I told him to stop by. No biggie,” she says with a shrug. “I’ll call him back and tell him never mind,” I say, reaching for the phone. I paid him for a dime bag, but he didn’t have anything on him at work today. I told him we’d settle up next week. I’m straight for the weekend, so no need to meet up before work Monday. Problem solved. No reason to see him until next week. But Remy obviously has other plans. The asshole no doubt heard Marlo and me talking about our plans for the night, and saw an opportunity to insert himself. I’m not sure what he thinks he’ll accomplish, but the bottom line is I don’t like him in Marlo’s space. Hell, I don’t like him in her presence at all. I’ve got nothing to go on but my gut, but that’s enough to make me weary. Marlo, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to mind him in the least. I reach for the phone, and Marlo places her hand over mine. “It’s no problem, Ever. He’ll just stop in for a minute. No worries. Remy’s cool.” She carries on as if the conversation is over, and I leave it alone instead of bringing attention to my mistrust. I don’t have anything too concrete to say anyway. I’ll just meet him at the door and get rid of him as soon as possible. “So … you mentioned your virtue,” Marlo says, question in your tone. “Were you joking?” “I never joke about my virtue,” I say, clearly joking. I raise my eyebrow and smirk. I notice the nerves returning in Marlo’s posture and she sighs. “I’m serious.” “What exactly are you asking me?” Part of me hopes she doesn’t have the nerve to ask, because I honestly don’t want to admit the truth—my virtue and I haven’t been acquainted in quite a while. “You’re gonna make me say it? Christ, you’re difficult,” she says with a huff. “Have you ever had sex, you big jerk?!” Damnit, there’s no hiding now. She’ll get over it. I’m sure this won’t be a deal breaker. She’ll be disappointed, though, and I’ll have done that. I should be used to the feeling, but it’s different when I’m letting her down. It’s a whole new level of suck for me. Being sorry for something I have no control over? That’s actually an all too familiar feeling. “Yeah, I have,” I say, and I see it right away. The dimming of her smile, the slight falling of her shoulders, her downcast eyes. I step in closer, taking the spoon out of her hand and laying it on the counter. She sighs and looks away, but I grab her waist and pull her closer. “Low,” I say, and wait for her to meet my eyes. When she does, I wave a hand over my shoulder. “That? None of that matters to me, okay? I hope it won’t matter to you, either.” She nods and smiles grimly. She tries to look away, but I catch her chin. “That was never this,” I say, motioning between the two of us. “Nothing for me has ever been this before. You’ve got to know that … feel that.” “I do,” she whispers, pushing up on her toes to press her lips to mine. “None of that matters, Low. Because now, with the choice of every girl in the world, I’d still choose you. Always,” I say, kissing her forehead. It was an inevitable conversation I never wanted to have, but I’m sure as hell glad it’s over and hopefully settled. I don’t care about anyone from my past, and neither should she. In the past, I used sex as a way to escape. What I told her was the truth. This? This thing between us, is not about that. I don’t want to escape. I’m not looking for a way out. I’m looking for a way in. Her lips say she’s over it, but she feels stiff in my arms. I hate that she feels so wound up over nothing, but I’m not sure what I can say to make her understand how little my past matters to me. I can only

hope it won’t matter to her. Then I remember the pills Remy had given me a few weeks ago. I pull away from her and grab my wallet out of my back pocket. They’re in a folded piece of paper in one of the credit card slits, so I pull it out. “Hey, wanna half one of these with me?” I ask, opening the paper and showing her the pills inside. She raises a brow as I grab one of the knives on the counter and chip the pill in half. “What is that?” I shrug and pop one of the halves in my mouth and swallow. “It’s just a nerve pill. I took them this weekend when I was with Easton. He was inconsolable when I got there, and it really freaked me out. It just mellowed me out and helped me relax. This is just a half, so you may not even feel anything.” She looks at it between my fingers with her head cocked to the side and her brows furrowed. A few seconds pass, and then she takes it from me and pops it in her mouth. She grabs her cup of water from the counter and smiles. “Bottoms up.” Then the doorbell rings.



Ever REMY, OF COURSE, had overstayed his welcome. He’d seemed intent on ruining the quiet dinner I had planned for us. After reluctantly giving him some of our pasta and shrimp, I’d nearly pushed him out the door to get him to leave. I close the door behind him to find Marlo in the doorway of the kitchen with two wine glasses. “Evelyn had a few open bottles of wine in the refrigerator. I thought we could have a glass,” she says, handing one to me. I take a small sip and smile. “She won’t notice it’s missing?” I cringe as the tangy liquid kisses my tongue, but I hide it behind the glass. The truth is, the smell and taste of wine turns my stomach and has for years, red wine especially. This is white, maybe a chardonnay, and not quite as bad. The thought of merlot or cabernet brings memories of my mother’s purple-stained lips and rings from her wine glasses on every surface imaginable in our house. Whether I’d caught a whiff when she’d leaned in to kiss me goodnight, or while she’d clutched me during a crying jag, all too common toward the end of me living in that house, the acidic scent on her breath had always rolled my stomach. I can remember early Wednesday mornings, before the sunlight broke, listening to the garbage truck roll down the road, one house at a time. When the glass bottles had crashed and shattered onto one another on their way into the truck bin, I would smash my pillow over my face to mute the sound. It’d felt like an announcement to the entire neighborhood that my mother was drunk and unhinged. I doubt she ever heard the bombs exploding on those early mornings like I had, having passed out cold hours before. I never plan to share any of this with Marlo, of course. I never want her to see me that way—like some helpless victim. I haven’t been that in years, so I don’t see a reason to relive it with her. Uncle Jeffrey had barely gotten the invitation out of his mouth, and my bags were packed, ready to make the trip to New Orleans. As far as I’m concerned, Uncle Jeff, Aunt Marty, and Easton are the only family I have. My parents fall into the category of necessary evil. “Nah, trust me. When I say a few open bottles, I mean five or six,” she says with a chuckle as she takes a small sip. “She’ll be none the wiser. I didn’t even empty the bottle.” I walk into the living room, and she follows close behind. I grab the glass from her hand, placing both on the coffee table before I sit on the sofa. She curls up into my side and wraps her arms around my waist. “What if this were us? What if this was our life?” she whispers, her breath on my neck being all the stiff wind I need.

“Maybe it will be,” I say, as I turn into her, laying her down underneath me. “God, I can only hope.” Our bodies line up perfectly, and her hands round the curve my ass at the same time her lips touch mine. Hell yes. “If this were us,” she breathes in my mouth between kisses and licks. “I’d take off your shirt to feel you pressed against me.” She pulls the material over my head and tosses it on the floor, her lips only leaving mine for the briefest of moments. Heavy pants and sliding tongues fill the room, swirl in my head, and go straight to my dick as I roll into her on sheer instinct. As delicate fingers trace my chest, stomach, the waist of my jeans, I touch her, kiss her, devour her in return. Her back arches, and her mouth opens on a satisfied sigh, so I reach around and pull her closer, push into her deeper. Thin sheets of fabric are the only thing keeping virtue from high-tailing it out the damn door, along with my resolve to take things only so far with Marlo. Get your shit together, man. No boinking allowed. And that’s when her nimble fingers flick open the button of my jeans. “Whoa, whoa,” I say, voice raspy and labored. “Slow down, Low. I’m riding the line of respectful and taking advantage here, but I’m no saint. We need to slow dow-ow-ow-own.” Her hand slides inside my jeans, over my boxers, and down the length of me—slow, snug, and so fucking sweet. I swear, one pump, and I’m begging my dick not to blow. I drop my head to her shoulder and silently pray for control … for stamina … for her to never, ever stop touching me. “I just want to feel you,” she whispers as she squeezes me. “We won’t go too far, I promise.” I flick open the buttons of her blouse, one by one, leaving kisses in my wake. The round curve of her breast pushes against black lace, and my teeth graze her. “How far is too far?” I lift my eyes to meet hers, pulling down the cup of her bra at the same time. My tongue grazes the pink flesh, and her head tips back on a sigh. “Hmmmm, Low. How far is too far?” “I’m not sure anymore,” she whispers, pulling at my boxers just enough for my tip to peek out of the waistband. Her thumb runs across the top, and I swear, I see goddamn stars. My hips roll of their own accord as her thumb spreads the drop of wetness over the head of my dick. “I don’t want to stop, though, Ev.” My lips clamp onto her hard nipple and suck as I grind into her shamelessly. I’m beyond holding back. I couldn’t stop the train barreling forward at Mach speed if I wanted to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. Marlo’s pants become moans. Her moans become cries. Her body stiffens underneath me as she throws her head back in ecstasy. The arch of her body, the squeeze of her thighs against my hips, the unrelenting pressure in my cock, ready to explode—it’s all too much, and I shoot off onto her stomach with more force and pleasure than I’ve ever felt in my life. I kiss her. I keep kissing her, knowing with complete certainty I never want to do anything else in this world but this. Her lips on mine, the feel of her tongue, the sound of her bated breath—it’s the most perfect drug. I’ll never get enough. I’ve righted my jeans and cleaned her up, but her shirt remains unbuttoned and I’m mesmerized by the rise and fall of her chest. She watches her fingers run across my stomach in a lazy pattern. Then my phone rings.

I reach over to the coffee table and tip the screen toward me. Dad. Damn … talk about throwing a wet blanket on a hot flame. I kiss Marlo quickly on the forehead. “I have to answer this or it’ll be the start of World War Three,” I say as I lift up off the sofa. “’kay,” she whispers holding my hand in hers until I’ve gone too far and she has no choice but to let go. I keep walking, wanting to get as far away from Marlo as possible, wanting to separate the world I want from the world that won’t let me go. I tap the green button and brace. “Hello.” “Everett,” he says, partly as a greeting and wholly as a curse. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” I sigh as I open the front door and walk out into the courtyard. It’s a talent that only my parents hold, the ability to infuriate me in ten words or less. “Why don’t we skip the back and forth where I pretend to care and you just tell me what I did wrong this time?” “Watch it. Don’t forget who you’re talking to.” His voice is sharp and threatening. There’s nothing that would make me happier than to call his bluff, but there’s too much at stake, and the asshole knows it. I keep silent and wait for him to elaborate. Anything I say at this point will sound like poison to him. “Easton had another seizure this weekend. You didn’t think that warranted a phone call? You do realize that we’re his parents, Everett. Not you.” His voice is rising with his anger, and it only fuels my own. “Do you?” I flinch as soon as the words leave my mouth. There is way too much truth in those two words to leave them unsaid. “You are dangerously close to me taking action to ensure you don’t forget again, boy, so I’d watch your mouth.” His tone is dead calm and calculating. I need to regroup and quick. I inhale deep and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to center my thoughts and reign in my temper that’s amping up more and more by the second. “Look, Dad, I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing bile, along with my pride. I’m actually surprised at how much it costs me to call him Dad. It’s a testament to how far this family has fallen. “I honestly thought Brookdale would have contacted you themselves. I didn’t realize they hadn’t. I guess when I didn’t hear from you over the weekend, I should have realized the mistake and called.” “Yes, well,” he blusters, surprised I didn’t continue to buck him. Unlike him, I’ll always put Easton first. It’s a concept he and my mother will never completely understand, but will certainly use to their full advantage to manipulate me. “They must have assumed you would call us. I’m glad you were there, Everett, but we’re his parents. We need to be kept abreast of anything going on with him. Imagine my embarrassment when I call my sister and she knows more about what’s going on than I do.” Of course. I should have known this call had nothing to do with Easton or what was best for him. Aunt Marty had embarrassed him by knowing more about his sons than he did, and he’s lashing out. As always, he’s only worried about himself and what others see when they look at our family. The insides can be rotting for all he cares, as long as the outside shell still shines. Rotting from the inside out—I’ve never heard a more fitting description for my family. The words coming out of my mouth and the thoughts swirling in my head are in direct opposition of each other. I carry on two conversations—the farce that falls from my lips and the barbs that I can’t allow myself to say. “Neither one of us meant to leave you in the dark,” I say behind gritted teeth. “It won’t happen again.”

I wish you’d go straight to hell, where you belong. “See that you don’t. Your mother and I will schedule a visit to Brookdale as soon as possible,” he says in his most self-important tone. “East would enjoy that.” He’d undoubtedly have a seizure from the sheer shock of you showing up at all. Maybe you should stay the hell away, as usual. “It’s just been so busy at work lately. And your mother … well, she’s having a hard time right now.” Spare me your empty excuses. “I’m sorry she’s not feeling well.” I say the words, but I’m physically unable to leech the edge of boredom out of my tone. Because that’s exactly what I am. Bored. Fucking tired of the same old conversations that never change a damned thing. Dad sighs, sounding as exhausted as I feel. “She’s … I don’t know, Everett, she’s just unable to get over things. Unable to forgive me … forgive her life for the way things turned out.” Say what you really mean. She’s unable to forgive ME. “Maybe it’s time to adjust her medications. I’ll call the psychiatrist today,” he says, his voice brightening at his suggestion, like he just solved world hunger. Great idea, Dad. Throw some pills at the problem. That’s the Montgomery way, isn’t it? “Sounds great, Dad. Look, I need to go,” I say, ready to end this call five minutes ago. “Yes, of course. Give Easton a hug for me and your mom when you see him tomorrow.” What? You’re not coming this weekend? I’m so shocked. “Will do. Goodbye.” I hang up before he can reply. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t think I can stomach one more word. I hang my head and lean on the back of the patio chair. Has it only been ten minutes since I’d laid on the sofa with Marlo, wrapped in her arms and legs, completely engrossed in her body, her scent, our connection? It feels like a lifetime ago. I don’t know how long I stay outside, buried by my thoughts and anger, but I hear the click of the door. Her arms wrap around me, one gripping my waist, the other trailing up my chest. When her lips touch the skin beneath my shoulder blades, I sigh and release some of the irritation pulsing through me. When her tongue trails from my back up to the curve of my neck, I easily slide back into the moment where only the two of us exist. When her teeth sink into the base of my neck? You guessed it. Stiff. Fucking. Wind. My lips creep into a smile, and I turn to face her. I take her into my arms as I slide my phone into my pocket. “Sorry for the interruption,” I say, brushing her hair out of her face and behind her ear. “Believe me, I’d much rather be with you than take that call.” Marlo pulls me back to the door, looking over her shoulder as she goes. “Then come back to me.” I let her pull me back into the house, through the foyer, right into the living room. As we fall back onto the couch together, only then do I notice the two empty wine glasses on the coffee table … and the also empty bottle of wine right next to them. My eyes dart back and forth between Low and the wine on the table. She lets out a small chuckle and shrugs. “Oops.” Instead of laughing with her, I sit up and grab the wine bottle, tipping it upside down. Nope, not a drop. “Was I gone that long?” I ask, raising my eyebrows in question. She lets out a little huff and props herself up on her elbows. “Long enough. I decided to entertain myself.”

“Oh, you certainly did that,” I say, pointing at the glasses and holding up the bottle. “It’s just that … you drank your wine, my wine, and the wine from the refrigerator. Low, I gave you that nerve pill earlier.” Her plump lips form a perfect “O” and her eyes widen in recognition. Yeah, “oh” is right … more like “oh shit.” What in the hell have I done?



Marlo THE WORLD WHIZZES by in a kind of slo-mo frenzy of light streaks and traffic trails as Ever and I amble down the streets of the Quarter. I feel so light, as if Gravity has taken a smoke break and left my body. Who knows how long she’ll be gone, but I’m hoping she’s got a whole pack of cigarettes. Maybe I could bum one … the thought makes me laugh more than it should. Ever wraps his hand around my waist and says, “Please, Low, you need to walk faster.” I can only laugh and tell him, “I’m not walking, I’m floating.” And I am. Gravity is as drunk as I am, making each step feel like I bounce away from the Earth before she comes to her senses and pulls me back. It’s like the world is my own personal trampoline. I hold onto Ever to keep my balance, but I feel like my spine is a wet noodle. I sway my hips back and forth and watch my hands as they cut through the thick air. If I took a break from my body, if I left for a little minute to just watch, I know I’d see light streaks and traffic trails with each flick of my hand and roll of my hips. I’d look like art. I creep up the side of Ever’s neck, clawing at his shirt and pulling his ear down to me. “What’s the rush, huh? Let’s go back to Evelyn’s,” I say, whispering in his ear. He keeps pulling away from me like I’m yelling at him, but I tug at his collar to keep him close. “I’m so sorry, Low. I’m gonna get you back to the dorm. I’m just … I’m so sorry.” “For what? I’m fine,” I say as I blow out a puff of air and flip my hand. “It’s all good, Ev. It’s freaking great.” He pulls out his phone and dials, while keeping one hand around my waist. “Are you calling Gravity? I wanna talk to her.” “Huh?” “What?” “Low?” “Nevermind,” I say, not willing to waste energy explaining. I curl up into Ever and snuggle into his neck. He’s so warm. I love it … I could love him. “Man, I need your help. It’s about Marlo. Where are you?”



Ever BY THE GRACE of God, and burning biceps, I get Marlo and me over to Lafitte’s Bar. Remy waits outside, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. As we get closer, his smile inches up, up, up to a full blown grin. “Remy, I messed up, man,” I say, so frustrated, angry at myself for letting this happen. He laughs and motions to Marlo, who’s clutching onto my shirt and burying her flushed face in my neck. “Looks to me like you scored, dude. Congrats.” “Shut the fuck up.” “What? I’m just saying—” I shove him back when he approaches, absolutely disgusted by what he’s insinuating. “I said shut up.” He throws his hands up and takes a step back, sneering at me. “No problem, man. Looks like you got this, anyway. You don’t need me.” I sigh and shake my head just as the piano kicks in and a mellow voice croons “Moody Blues” over the sound of laughter and clanging glasses. Marlo’s semi-limp body sways to the music. Her hands unclench from my shirt, and she pushes away, arms overhead, eyes shut. “I love this song, Ever. I wanna dance.” A smile plays on her lips as she twirls in slow motion, her foot catching on a broken piece of sidewalk. She lurches forward into Remy’s arms, laughing hysterically. He lifts her up and slides an arm around her waist, pulling her into an impromptu dance. She giggles and drops her head on his shoulder, swaying and humming. “See, all’s good, man,” he says. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I gave her half of a nerve pill. I took them all weekend, and that never happened,” I say, pointing to Marlo. “We had a few sips of wine, but then I left her for a few minutes. When I came back, she’d demolished the whole fucking bottle.” The chorus kicks in and Marlo’s head pops up with a lopsided smile. She points at me and giggles. “’cause I love you … yes, I love you … oh, how I love yooooooouuuuuuuuuuu.” Remy chuckles and hands her back to me, where she continues to rock her hips to the music. I would do anything to take it back. I wish I knew what part of my idiotic, malfunctioning brain decided it was a good idea to break out the pills. We had everything we could possibly need to have a perfect night together, and I threw gasoline on the flames. “Xanbars plus alcohol—with her size, any amount of alcohol will do the trick—equals a good fucking

time and an eraser for the brain. Just the way it is. She’ll sleep it off, no harm, no foul.” He pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and lights up as I stare at him in disbelief. Are we seeing the same thing? “No harm, no foul? Are you kidding me? I drugged my girlfriend, Remy!” I holler. A few passersby stare, registering my words. I curse to myself, and lower the volume. “How the fuck am I supposed to get her back to school, safe and sound? Oh, and not kicked the fuck out for doing drugs, man?” I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never forgive myself if she gets in trouble … or even worse, if something happens to her. The worst part is I’m not in the least bit surprised. This is what I do. I fuck up —I take what’s good and pure and suck the life out of it. I’m nothing but a leech, and I was a fool to think that anything could change that. I know it, my family knows it, and Marlo will know soon enough. “Look, she’s on the fast track to Snoozeville, so my advice to you is get to the dorm as soon as fucking possible and sneak her in. She’ll be fine, but you just need to find her a bed to crash in sooner rather than later,” he says, waving his hand as if to say “no big deal.” “Oh, is that all? I wish I would have thought of that. Maybe … maybe I can teleport her into bed, Remy!” He reaches forward, grabs my collar, and jerks. “Watch your fucking mouth, Ever. I didn’t tell you to blitz your girl. You did that shit all on your own,” he says in a low and threatening tone. He lips curl into a sneer. His eyes rake over my face like I disgust him. “Leave it to you to sleep a girl and not even enjoy the spoils. You’re on your own, man. Figure it out.” He flicks his cigarette onto the sidewalk and watches me as he strolls back into the bar like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I’m lost, without a clue of how I’m going to get both of us out of this unscathed. One thing I know for sure, I’ll never pull it off alone. I scroll through my contacts, and hit CALL. “This better be good, man, I’m in the middle of Sanford & Son.” “Jeb, I need your help.” The side door to Boozman Hall creaks open, and Jeb’s big head peeks out, grinning. “Who’s your best bud, huh?” A less-pleased, and definitely not grinning, Delilah pushes through the door and glares at me. “I’m gonna string you up by your balls, Ever Montgomery.” I’m so pissed at myself and worried about Marlo, I don’t even register Delilah’s threat. No one is angrier at me than me. I drag Marlo forward since she’s unable to put one foot in front of the other at this point. I would have thrown her over my shoulder three blocks ago if I didn’t think it would raise suspicion. She may not be a dead body, but she sure in the hell is dead weight. “I’m glad you brought reinforcements. We’re gonna need ‘em,” I say, catching Marlo behind the knees to carry her now that we’ve made it inside the building. Her fingers lace through the hair at the back of my neck, and she nuzzles my ear with her nose. After what I’ve done, she’s leaning on me, trusting me. And that makes the hatred I feel for myself crawl up my spine and seep deep into my bones. I’ll never deserve her, never be worthy of someone like her. Nothing will change who I’ve been since the very beginning, not even her. I ruin things. I break people. “How else were you two going to get onto the girls’ floor, huh? I’m your way in,” Delilah says, dangling a key from her fingers. “Our RA, Danielle, has the flu, so she chugged half a bottle of Nyquil and

hit the sack hours ago. Lucky for you … not so lucky for her.” We climb the stairs to the third floor as quietly as we can. Delilah leads the charge, peeking around corners and listening for opening doors. When we make it to the third floor hallway, Jeb stays behind to act as lookout, and I follow Delilah to their room. She closes the door behind me and turns on a desk lamp. “Put her in my bed. I’m gonna sleep with her to make sure she’s all right.” She points to the bottom bunk, and I get moving. “No way I trust you to get her into the top bunk, anyway. Not really trusting you with much of anything right now, if I’m being honest.” I don’t even argue. I can’t, because I don’t trust my judgment either. I pull off her shoes one by one and unbutton her jeans. Delilah swats me away before I pull them down. “I’ll be damned if you’re getting a peep show. Turn around.” She shoves my shoulder, and I do as she says, utterly defeated. “I wouldn’t … I didn’t—” I struggle for the words to defend myself, to tell her I’d never intentionally disrespect Marlo. My eyes flick from the floor to the bed across the room, where Charlotte lays wide awake and glaring. She watches me, stoic and calculating, and I take it. “You crossed a line tonight,” she says, her face giving nothing away. “You know that, right?” I nod and shut my eyes. “Yeah.” After tucking Low in, Delilah rises to grab extra pillows and blankets from the top bunk. I kneel by the bed and lay my head on Low’s chest. I listen to the steady thump of her heart, wishing for it to calm me. “I’m sorry I let you down,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry I let you down.” And even now, after all I’ve done, her hands move up my back lazily. She lets out a contented sigh as her fingers lace through my hair. With a chaste kiss to her forehead, I rise, meet Delilah’s disapproving gaze, and walk out the room.



Marlo MY EYELIDS FEEL like they’re weighed down with sandbags. I pry my sticky lips open, more than sure some of that sand made its way into my mouth. I groan, then flinch, because the sound causes imaginary knives to jab me in both of my temples. “Ahhhh, the party girl finally awakens,” Delilah says, ten octaves too high, making me cover my ears so I don’t die. Her hand wraps around my wrist and pulls. “Oh no, you don’t. Ever woke me up, banging on the hallway door. I distracted him by telling him you’d want coffee when you woke up, but he’ll be back in just a few. I’m not dealing with his persistent ass again, so you need to get up.” I creak open one eye and curse the sun. She pulls the blinds closed, and the room dims just enough to not kill me. I throw back the covers, and try to figure out how the hell I ended up in the bottom bunk. “What the hell happened?” I ask, as I take in my stained blouse and bare legs. And if I’m not mistaken, I sniff … I’m pretty sure I smell like ass. And not a clean one. “Well, I only saw the end result, but from the way you looked last night,” she says, leaning in to sniff me, then scrunching her nose up in disgust, “and from the way you smell this morning, I’m guessing you got up close and personal with the bottom of a bottle, my friend.” “What time is it?” “Lunch time, ya little wino. I reported to the office that you were in bed with a virus, and that cleared you for the morning. But we have advisor meetings this afternoon about next semester. That’s mandatory, so get up, get up, get up!” I groan and roll out of the bed with not one ounce of grace, landing on all fours, shirt twisted and panties wedgied in my ass. Even in my current state, I find it in me to scratch my ass with a well-placed middle finger. That’s what she gets for being so damn chipper. Delilah gains back some coolness points by gathering my clothes and helping me get showered in record time, all while I roll through the events of last night through a cloudy memory. I remember dinner with Ever, visiting with Remy, some serious business wet humping, and then … it all gets a bit fuzzy. Yoga pants are all I can muster today, along with my wet hair thrown into a high bun. I’m glad Delilah woke me when she did because my advisor appointment is in an hour. If I miss that, Mrs. Santo would probably sign me up for comparative literature just to teach me a lesson. I walk out into the stairwell, book sack in hand, two tiny hairs better than dead. When I look up and find Ever crouched over on the bottom stair, I see he’s not doing much better than me. His clothes are a rumpled mess, his hair sticks out in every direction, and his face is dark and unshaven. Okay, the unshaven

face is pretty damn hot, but the rest of him looks like he’s been run over by a dump truck. There’s a cup of coffee sitting beside him. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees me. He stands up and hands me the coffee. He’s on me in a moment, hands squeezing my neck, eyes searching my face. “Low, thank God. How do you feel?” One side of my mouth quirks up as I hold his wrists. “Eh, I’ve been better. I’m hoping this coffee will bring me back to life.” “I-I don’t know what to say except I’m so sorry. I was so stupid…” “Wait,” I say, confused. “What are you sorry for?” He shakes his head and looks to the ground. “I gave you that pill. And then you drank the wine. It was so stupid of me—” I put a finger over his mouth to stop him and shake my head. “No, that’s not what happened. I took the pill, and I drank the wine. That’s my fault, not yours.” His expression is doubtful, only looking up at me for a moment. “What exactly do you remember from last night, Low?” “I was just going over it in my head, and I think I remember most of it. Dinner, Remy coming over, us fooling around … after that, it gets a little hazy.” I search my brain for the precise point when things go blank, but it doesn’t work that way. I see little snippets, but not enough to piece together the puzzle. “Oh! I remember “Nights in White Satin.” God, I love that song …” “What kind of asshole takes advantage of his messed up girlfriend? I’m so sorry I let things go that far, Low. I should have realized you weren’t in your right mind—” “Ever, stop! I knew exactly what we were doing.” “I promise you, it won’t happen again. I won’t let it happen again, okay?” He pulls me closer, eyes a bit frantic and pleading. I huff, more than a little frustrated with him. “It damn well better happen again. Please, stop beating yourself up about this. Honestly, the parts that I remember of last night were amazing. The not remembering things is kind of scary, so I probably won’t take any more pills, but I know I’m safe with you.” “You’re too trusting of me,” he says. “I was so scared. I even called Remy to help, and that asshole pretty much told me I was on my own. I should have punched his smug face.” I chuckle, giving him a little shake and a smile. “It’s not like he could make me unswallow the pill. You’re being way too hard on yourself and Remy. I’m the one at fault here, so let’s forget about it, okay?” “I should have protected you,” he says. The guilt painted all over his expression is frustrating … and so, so sad. My Ever carries the weight of the world, and all its problems, on his shoulders. “You did,” I say, and he shakes his head in protest. I squeeze his neck and kiss his scruffy chin. “You did. Now, will you please protect me while I walk to the cafeteria and lay down some greasy food on top of this queasy stomach?” That gets me half a smile, but even so, he still feels a million miles away. “I’m impressed with these marks, Marlo. It’s challenging coming in to this environment in your senior year, but you’ve flourished. Congratulations,” Mrs. Santos says with a pleased smile. My haggard appearance notwithstanding, I beam at her praise. My smile may look more like I’m grimacing through the pain, but the emotion is real. I worked hard for those grades—juggling a new school, friends, rediscovered family, and my job at the market. “I know we discussed this at the beginning of the year, so it should be no surprise to you, but once this

semester’s over, you’ll have all your basic requirements for graduation.” She flips through the papers on her desk, nodding her approval. There’s a stack of folders to her right, undoubtedly each of her students’ records and grade reports. “This next semester is all about AP classes and bulking up your college application. How do you feel about that?” “How do I feel about technically graduating high school in a few weeks? Ummm … fabulous?” I say with a laugh, and she laughs, too. “Yes, well, I hope you take this opportunity to build onto the foundation you’ve started here, not just rest on your laurels. This is your opportunity to wow the admissions boards, impress those teachers who will be writing your letters of recommendation, get a jump start on your college career. Are we on the same page?” Is there a tiny part of me that wants to be the star student in basket weaving … or vegetable gardening? Absolutely. But somehow I doubt that Orleans Academy offers such intellectually titillating courses. I push the thought aside, anyway, knowing in the end, it means too much to me to make Nana and Dad proud. Riding the easy train all semester definitely won’t accomplish that, no matter how intricate my basket is. I lean forward in my chair, course schedule open in my lap. “Okay, what do you have in mind?”



Marlo “HEY, ARE YOU coming to dinner at Evelyn’s tomorrow? They’re back from New York, and she asked about you when she texted.” I quicken my pace to catch up with Ever, dodging and weaving around the oncoming people. He shoots me a slight glance over his shoulder, but doesn’t slow down in the least. “I’ve got too much going on. I don’t think I can,” he says without even taking a second to think about it. “I’m sure you can spare a couple of hours. I’ll even cover for you at the market so you can study in the storage room,” I offer, reaching for his arm. He pulls away. He. Pulls. Away. “I said I can’t.” I come to a complete stop and just stare at his retreating back. I don’t chase, and I sure as hell don’t beg, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why Ever is dead set on making me do both. He’s half a block away before he notices I didn’t follow, and has the nerve to act put out when he does. He tosses his hands in the air and stalks back to me when he finally gets the message that I’m not budging. “What the hell, Marlo? Come on,” he says, irritation flickering over his face. “What the hell? What the hell?” My voice rises with each word, and I give him a quick shove. “I should be asking you that question. You haven’t met me on the roof since last week; I can count on one hand how many times you’ve talked to or texted me all week, and now you’re backing out of dinner at Evelyn’s?” He releases a labored sigh. “I’m not backing out. I never said I would go in the first place.” I reach up to shove him again, and he throws his hands up in defense. “Look, not all of us got glowing reports at our advisor meetings, okay?” He starts walking again, head lowered and shoulders hunched. I catch up to him and tug the back of his shirt. “Hey, I can help you, if you want. I can be a brutal slave driver, if you need someone to keep you motivated. We can study in the commons room instead of meeting on the roof,” I suggest, wishing he didn’t look so defeated. I hate sounding like I’m begging for his attention, but I won’t let him go so easily. “I don’t need help. I just need—” he says as we walk up to the entrance of the market. He opens the

door, and turns to look at me with a resigned frown. “I just need some space, Low.” The bell on top of the door rings as he enters, and I hang back, completely and utterly stunned. “I’ve seen more of you this week than I have all year, Marlo. What gives? Trouble in paradise?” I flinch at Charlotte’s remark, because it’s absolutely true, but also because I feel like a giant girlie douchebag who ditches her friends for boys, then pops back up like a bad habit. I can’t remember the last time I hung out in our dorm room with the girls. “You could say that,” I mutter under my breath. “Is it wrong that I want to hack off his annoying balls and give them to the cafeteria to serve to him as meatball stew?” “Damn, girl,” Delilah says with a laugh. “You want to feed him his own testicles? Gotta say, I’m a little afraid of you right now.” “Good,” I say, imagining a castrated Ever slurping his stew, none the wiser. I feel oddly comforted … and a little off kilter, but I roll with it, anyway. “Revenge is a dish better served in a stew.” Charlotte closes her notebook and turns around in her desk. “He narrowly missed castration last week when he carried your comatose ass into this room. Why should this week be any different?” “My drunken state really wasn’t his fault,” I say, and Charlotte shoots daggers at me. “What? It’s true, I swear! It was all my doing. Believe me, I’m beyond pissed at him, but just not for what happened last week.” Delilah clucks her tongue and shakes her finger at me. “That’s why I like to keep things easy breezy. Stay away from the broody ones, Low. They’re nothing but trouble.” I laugh, more than happy to change the subject and get the attention off Ever and me. Honestly, I’m not even sure if there is an Ever and me anymore… “You don’t stay with anyone long enough to even have a fight, Delilah, broody or otherwise.” Charlotte rolls her eyes, her expression daring Delilah to deny it. She just shrugs and smiles. “What can I say? I love beginnings. The fire, the sizzle, the newness of it all. Nothing that happens after the beginning could ever compare to that, so I do the logical thing. I find another beginning.” I bark out a laugh. “God, when I think of my beginning with Ever, I don’t know how it could have been any worse.” “Huh, maybe it was a sign,” Charlotte says, cocking her head to the side and giving me a grim smile. I don’t want to believe that. The beginning may have been rocky, but the middle? The middle makes me gooey just thinking about it. And I refuse to believe this is our ending. I don’t know what’s going on with Ever, but I know we’ll get past it. Just last week, I didn’t think we could be any closer or feel any stronger for each other. Today? Ever left for the weekend without so much as a word. It stung like a bitch, and I want to shake him. I want to force him to tell me what’s swirling around in that head of his, but that’s not how he works. Unfortunately, he’ll only open up to me when he’s good and ready. For his sake, he better hope I’m still willing to listen. With only a week left until Thanksgiving break, I feel the pressure of time crushing my chest. Sunday night, I sit cross-legged on the roof, journal in hand and ear buds going full blast. Ever never shows…



Marlo “FOR YOU,” I say with a giggle and a curtsy, the beater in my hand outstretched to a grinning Remy. He licks the vanilla bean frosting off the beater, then moans in pleasure. Remy’s had a lot to grin about this week with all the extra attention and baked goods I’ve been showering him with. Ever’s cold shoulder is about one degree away from giving me frostbite, so I’d much rather spend my time shooting the shit with Remy. If it makes Ever jealous in the least, well that’s a score for the home team in my opinion. “That’s goddamn delicious. I think I’m in love,” Remy says with another lick and groan. I giggle. Ever rolls his eyes. He’s got some nerve. Brass balls, I tell you. No calls, no texts, no late nights on the roof, and no freaking explanation for any of it. All I get is an escort to work every day who has mastered the art of flat expressions and one-word answers. How do you think you did on that test, Ever? Good. What are you doing for Thanksgiving break? Nothing. Exactly how big is the foot that is expertly jammed up your ass? Huge. Okay, so maybe I didn’t ask him the last question, but it’s only because I already know the answer. The foot in his ass makes Shaquille O’Neal’s clod hopper look puny. It’s giant. It’s so big, it could fill up all the space he’d asked me for when giving me the brush off. Speaking of that, who goes from the wet hump of the century to nada in a matter of days? Me, that’s who. And I’m not happy. I’m hurt. And confused. And downright pissed. I look across the store at Ever restocking shelves, and I have to admit, he looks miserable. He’d asked for space, and I’m trying to honor that, as hard as it may be. I’m sure he’ll talk to me when he’s ready, and I should be patient with him. But I deserve an explanation, don’t I?

He’ll come to me when he’s got his shit sorted, so I should keep quiet. He’d asked for space, and that’s what I should give him. Yeah, I’m not gonna do that. I’m done doing that. After cleaning up my station, I mosey on over to him and the box of olive jars he’s unpacking. I grab a few jars, and stock the shelves right alongside of him. This earns me a side glare. Like I give a shit. “So, this is how it’s going to be from now on?” I ask Ever as I straighten the labels on the shelf. “You ignoring me? Pretending I don’t exist? How very mature of you.” He shakes his head and sighs. “It’s more mature than you know.” “It’s mature to pretend we weren’t together just last week? It’s all grown up to just drop me without a word of explanation? How the hell do you figure that? Because when I look at you, I don’t see anything but a coward.” His expression is defeated, and he doesn’t even flinch as I fling insult after insult. It feels a lot like kicking a dead horse in the gut. Telling him exactly what I think of his disappearing act is not nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be. “I know that, Marlo. Don’t you see? I am a coward. And a jerk. And a screw up.” He runs a rough hand over his face, and I hear the scrape of his five o’clock shadow. “You deserve to be with someone who’s as amazing as you are, not an asshole who can’t see past the fog of his fucking life. I’m doing you a favor. Take it.” He lunges slightly at his last words, eyes more alive than I’ve seen all week. Alive with what? I’m afraid it’s resolve. “That’s ridiculous. I know this is about that stupid pill,” I whisper low enough so no one else can hear me. “I’m not letting you walk away from me because you blame yourself for something I did. I should be thanking you for taking care of me when I was an idiot. So thank you.” I reach for his arm, but he steps back, unfazed by my argument. “You would say that. I would expect you to say that. You have this way about you, Marlo. You make excuses for those you care about. You have this knack for taking care of people who need it, but don’t necessarily deserve it.” He picks up the empty box and dangles it from his hand. It drags the ground as it swings, scraping the floor back and forth. “I certainly don’t deserve it.” I swat the box from his hand, my anger and frustration infinitely stronger than his grip, and it skids across the concrete floor. He watches it until it comes to a stop, then turns to stare at me with an incredulous glare. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. If you gave two shits about me, you would never turn your back on me without a word. I damn well know I don’t deserve that.” I stalk away from Ever and rejoin Remy at the deli counter. He shakes his head as Ever sulks away looking utterly defeated. “Easy killer,” Remy says under his breath. “I thought I was going to have to jump up and defend poor Ever.” I release a pent-up sigh. “What can I say? When I get mad, I get handsy.” I shrug. “He’s being a stubborn ass. I want to shake some sense into him.” “Aw, now give him a break, huh?” Remy bumps my shoulders and smiles apologetically. “You deserve better,” I mock, with furrowed brows and a deep Ever-like voice. “I’m damaged goods. I’ll damage his goods, all right.” That gets a laugh from Remy, but he sobers quickly and touches my arm. “You didn’t see how torn up he was that night, Low. He feels like he let you down, and I promise you, nobody is better at beating the shit out of Ever than Ever. Patience is a virtue.” I narrow my eyes at Remy, then honor him with Marlo’s special nipple twist.

“Yow!” He grabs his left nipple and pouts like a big, fat baby. “And revenge is a dish better served cold. So if my patience doesn’t pay off, I’ll twist more than his damn nipple, I can promise that.” Remy inches ever so slightly away from me, watching for any sudden movements and rubbing his left nipple. I’ve made my point. Simmering underneath my anger is a ball of dread, knowing there are only two days left until I leave for Thanksgiving break. Then, shortly after that is Christmas break. I’ll be a state away for most of the next two months, with little to no contact with Ever. Even worse than that, he and I are oceans away from where we were just a few short weeks ago, and I haven’t the foggiest clue how to bridge the gap.



Ever MARLO AND I leave the market together. Well, scratch that. We leave the market at the same time, but definitely not together. A heavy coat of tension and frustration hovers over both of us, turning my stomach and stifling my voice. It’s suffocating. I think of Marlo as my freedom, my air, but right now, I can’t breathe. I wish I could make her understand how into her I am, how deep this thing goes for me. But she also needs to understand, in the end, my feelings don’t change a thing. I need her to see this from my perspective, and I hope she won’t hate me for it. She rounds the city block to make our way back to the dormitory, but I catch her arm and tug. I tip my head in the other direction and give her a tight smile. “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 can 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 are 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. “I’m here,” I whisper, gently squeezing his neck. “I’m here for whatever you need.” “Just … just,” he says, eyes clenched shut, face in a flinch, as if waiting for the inevitable blow. “Just don’t let go.” “Never.” I don’t have to think. My answer is automatic and the most important truth there is. My lips are a breath away from his, brushing his with every word spoken. “I won’t ever let you go.” I’m not sure how long we lay there—a minute, an hour, a lifetime. The truth is I’d stay with him for as long as it takes. Moments of unimaginable sorrow seem to make the clock tick backward, make you feel like you’ll never be able to climb out of the hole where you’ve been buried. Time stands still as Ever ages ten years in this one, singular day. I feel the will, the hope, the want for this life being leeched from his body with every shuddered breath he exhales, and it kills me. His breathing quiets to a somewhat normal cadence, and he shoves his head under my chin. I ignore the dampness on my neck, pretend it’s sticky sweat instead of salty tears, wishing like hell that were true. My eyes grow heavy and my own breathing evens out as the rhythmic motions of my hands through his hair calm even me. My muscles loosen into gooey liquid, my bones to chalky dust. My body is languid, and my thoughts are loose. I straddle sleep and wake with the efficiency of a drunken tightrope walker. How do you measure the weight of a whisper? It’s infinitesimally heavier than any word spoken aloud. Whispers shouted into the void, when no one else is listening? Those are the heaviest of all. So Ever’s faint “I love you” told to my presumably sleeping form (closed eyes and open ears) weighs a metric ton. It anchors me to him … for forever, I think. When I wake in the morning, Ever is gone.



Marlo THE SCREEN DOOR creaks behind me, but I keep my head down as I scratch Fisher’s belly. He’s flipped over on his back, legs sprawled out like a dead roach. Every time I move my hand away, he paws me to death until I start again. He’s a demanding mutt, that’s for sure. The tips of Nana’s red gardening shoes come into view, and just by the position of her feet, I can tell her arms are crossed and her eyes are narrowed. At yours truly. That’s never a good thing. “Girl, you about done with the long-arming and lip-hanging? I miss my granddaughter, but I don’t believe she’s made it home from New Orleans, yet. Seeing as there are only a few days left of Thanksgiving vacation, I’m hoping you can hurry this snit up a bit,” she says as she tosses some bacon in the yard, making Fisher high tail it down the porch steps. Traitor. “I’m not long-arming, Nana, I’m just … pissy.” “Girl, you been pissy and temperamental since the day your smiles meant more than gas. A regular Sarah Bernhardt from the word ‘go.’ That I’m used to. This mopey mess is new, and I don’t like it one bit.” She sits down on her porch swing and pats the seat next to her. I push up to standing and join her, trying my best to loosen my arms and suck in my pout. All is quiet except for the creak of the swing chains and Fisher’s bacon-chomping. “I’m not getting any younger, child. Spill it,” Nana says in a huff. So I tell her—the condensed, rated-grandma version, that is. I leave the wet humping, sneaking into Evelyn’s, and the “dope” at the porch steps. I also tell her I’ve been texting and calling all week, and Ever hasn’t responded once. I’d even called Jeb to see if he’d heard from Ever, but he knew less than I did, if that’s even possible. “I wish I could be in two places at once. I want to be here, with my family for Thanksgiving, but I’m so worried about him, Nana. I don’t even know what’s going on, but I can tell it’s bad. Like, really bad.” “Low, I’m so sorry this boy is going through something awful, especially with these parents you’ve told me about.” She shakes her head and lets out a labored sigh. “Boy, I tell ya, I wish I had the right to revoke parenting licenses. I’d be swiping those bad boys right and left, and giving these fools a slap across the head while I’m at it. I’ll never understand people. How you can look at your own flesh and blood and do anything but love them is a mystery to me.” “I don’t think I know the half of it, and I can tell they’re terrible to him.” A frown pulls at my lips at

the thought of Ever spending the week with them. He’ll have to stay up on the roof the entire night to wind down when he gets back next week. Nana places a hand on my knee and puts down her foot, stopping the swing. “I know how badly you want to fix things and make it right, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’ve done all you can for now. He knows you’re here for him; there’s no way he can doubt that. All you can do is be there when he needs you.” I admit, the pout is back in full effect. She’s right, I don’t want to hear it. “It took me a long time to learn this, and I’m hoping I can save you some heartache with one small piece of advice.” She reaches for me and tips my chin to meet her eyes. “You can’t help someone until they’re willing to accept it. Do you get my meaning?” I nod and even manage a crap smile, hoping that will appease her and we can move on from this topic. I don’t know what I expected her to say or do, but all my life, Nana was the person who could fix anything. Speeding ticket? Taken care of with one quick call to her best friend, Sally, the secretary to the mayor. Fender bender in the supermarket parking lot? Nothing that a little bit of Nana’s nail polish and a hammer couldn’t fix … I’m taking that one to the grave. I realize now how ridiculous it is to think that she can fix this particular problem, but I was hoping for a miracle, I guess. “You know who taught me that?” she asks, and when I shrug, she looks away and frowns. “Evelyn.” Now she’s got my attention. Even now that she’s somewhat back in the picture in a small way, saying Evelyn’s name around Nana is akin to saying Voldemort. So for her to bring up her name freely? I’m shocked. “Really?” She nods slowly, then huffs. “What didn’t I do to try and help that girl? I knew from the second Marcus brought her here, she was a haunted soul. I tried and tried, but I knew it was a hopeless cause. I tried for you. And for Declan. But at that time, Evelyn was too far gone, too deeply buried inside that head of hers, to see my outstretched hand and grab it. No matter how hard I pushed, she just wasn’t ready. There’s a part of me that’ll always blame myself, wonder if I pushed so hard, I pushed her clean away.” “Aw, Nana, you can’t think that way. I’m sure you did what you thought was best,” I say, squeezing her hand. I kick up my heel and push the swing back into motion. The slight breeze and the rhythmic back and forth has always soothed me. Even as a baby, Nana and I would sit out here for hours, on this very swing. “You’re right, I did what I thought was best. It came from my heart, but it may not have been what she needed, and that’s on me,” she says, solemnly, almost apologetic. “Same goes for your boy. He’s going through something heavy right now. Grief and pain are fickle things—three people can experience the same slight and have three different reactions to it. It’s the bitch and the beauty of the human condition, isn’t it? I obviously don’t know him, so I don’t have the insight you need. But you’ve got to trust him, Low. Trust him to tell you what he needs. Can you do that?” Can I? Every ounce of my body wants to bulldoze through this—break down doors, tear down walls, shake it out of him, if it comes to that. But after thinking on what Nana has said, that feeling is more about me. This is not the time to be selfish. I’m gonna have to trust him. “I can do that,” I say with a determined nod. Nana slaps my thigh and stands. “Good girl. Now, do you think you can enjoy these last few days with your family? I know it’s hard to believe since you can be such a horse’s bee-hind, but we kind of miss you around here.” I bark out a laugh and nod at her. As if on cue, Fisher lets out a labored howl as he scours the front yard for more bacon. Nana lets out a huff and waves a hand at him. “And can you take this useless mule back with you? I’ve had about enough of his pissing and moaning

to last me a lifetime.” Fisher howls again, and Nana growls, yes, actually growls, back at him. The poor guy tucks his tail and cries, looking to me for reinforcements. I raise my hands in the air and giggle. “You’re on your own, Fish.” And that old bastard has the nerve to growl at me.



Marlo I RETURN TO school after break, ready and determined. Final exams? I’m gonna make them my bitch. End of the year reports? My professors will weep from the words I weave. Ever? One impromptu bump-in, and he’ll wonder why he didn’t call me sooner. Yeah, turns out an impromptu bump-in with a vanishing boyfriend is harder to accomplish than I initially thought. The first week back is almost over, and I haven’t seen him once. That bastard … I mean that poor, poor soul … is in the wind. According to Jeb, he never had returned to their dorm room after he’d left the Thursday before break. When Jeb had questioned the RA out of concern, he’d let him know Ever would be staying with his uncle off campus indefinitely. He isn’t returning Jeb’s phone calls either. Since he hasn’t attended one fine arts class all week, it’s safe to assume he isn’t coming to campus at all. This week is dead week, and next week is finals, so I guess Ever is preparing for exams at his uncle’s house in lieu of attending class. Yep, in the wind. The only way I can think of to check on him is at Creole Market. Etienne and I had decided I wouldn’t return to work until next semester, giving me the extra time to prepare for finals and pack up my room for semester’s end. Ever, on the other hand, had opted to continue working for gas money and incidentals, so he could continue to visit Easton every weekend. Without my after school job, my free pass to leave campus whenever the mood strikes has been revoked. Except, of course, for Thursday nights. I’m looking forward to seeing Evelyn for dinner tonight. I’m even glad to see Oliver. But as I miss the turn for their house and keep walking to Creole Market, they aren’t at the forefront of my mind. I’m too busy looking for the invisible boy. The bell rings over the door, and Etienne grins from behind the counter as he reaches for me. I oblige, and he smacks a wet kiss on the back of my hand. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, my pretty one! How could you leave me with these boys?” He clutches his chest and throws his head back dramatically. “You must never leave me again. I forbid it.” I laugh at his antics. “I miss you, too, Etienne. But I have a feeling your sweet tooth misses me more than your heart does.” He gapes in horror. “Never. How can you say such things? But since you brought it up, I’ve been

missing your chocolate and amaretto cupcakes the most. Can I trouble you to whip up a tiny batch? Not many, I won’t even sell them—they’ll all be for me.” I swat at him, and he dodges me. “How generous of you, you old goat.” I lean on the counter, doing my best impression of calm, cool, and collected. “Are you the only one working today, Etienne?” “No, no, the two amigos are in the storage room making space for new inventory. I’m running out of room, outgrowing my little store. Sooner or later, we’ll have boxes stacked up to the ceiling.” Etienne raises a finger, and I can sense the diatribe about raising rents in the Quarter and the inevitable squashing of the small business owner gearing up. I walk toward the back of the store with an apologetic wave. “Sorry, but I just need to talk with Ever for one second, and then I’m due over at Evelyn and Oliver’s house. It was so good to see you, Etienne.” “And you, my pretty one. Until we meet again,” he says with a stately bow. “January?” I scrunch my nose and nod. “January.” I turn the knob of the storage room just in time to see Ever, rolled up dollar bill attached to his nostril, snort a mile-long line of … something … right up his nose. What. The. Hell. He holds one nostril closed while hovering over the counter, then expertly sniffs the line of powder within seconds. He tosses his head back and closes his eyes, running a thumb across his flushed nose. His gaze falls to the counter, and he presses a finger to the minuscule amount of residue left behind and then sucks the powder off his finger. Only then does he notice me standing there. It’s been over a week since I’ve seen him, felt his tears dampen my skin, his words of love warming me from the inside out. But standing here, in this moment, it may as well be a lifetime ago. I barely recognize him. His warm and inviting eyes now look coal black and overly dilated. His broad shoulders and wide frame look almost skeletal. Is it even possible to lose weight so quickly? His once tortured expression looks empty and cavernous. God, how I wish for tortured. Tortured means he’s got a ways to go to come back to me. Empty means he’s already too far gone. Am I too late? “Am I interrupting something, Pablo Escobar?” My voice is acid, and the dig is unavoidable. Snorting powder up his nose is a far cry from a few drags off a joint, and I’m not letting it slide. “Low.” That’s all he says. One word, no expression change, merely an impersonal acknowledgment of my presence. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? You ignore my calls for over a week, leave me in the dark, and what? Nothing?” He gives no outside indication that my words are seeping through, and I charge forward into his space. Remy’s hand grabs mine before I make it very far, and I’m surprised by his presence. I didn’t notice him there until now. “Low, now may not be the best time to talk to him. He’s a little … out of it,” Remy says, managing to look sympathetic and smug all at once. The downward curve of his lips says he’s worried, but the fire in his eyes tells another story. I’m just not sure what that story is yet … “Ya think?” I look at Ever, glossed over and vacant, then turn back to Remy. “Did you have something to do with this? He doesn’t do stuff like this. Ever doesn’t snort cocaine!” My voice is shrieky and loud, louder than is safe with Etienne only a room away. Remy shushes me

and pulls me to the corner of the storage room. “It’s not cocaine, it’s … look, he needed to calm the fuck down. If you would have seen him before, you’d know this is an improvement.” “I find that hard to believe.” I let out a frustrated sigh and try to figure out what’s next. What should I do? “Believe what you want, but Ever’s a big boy. Nobody made him do anything he didn’t want to do. So that blame I see swirling in those pretty green eyes? Turn that shit right back to him.” Remy raises his hands in the air like he’s washing them of the entire thing, and walks away. At some point during my conversation with Remy, Ever must have stumbled into the bench against the side wall. He’s horizontal, on his back, eyes closed and a sickly euphoric smile playing on his lips. I crouch down to his level and brush his hair off his forehead. I’d do anything to take away whatever is haunting him, to bear that burden for him, because watching this is like shards of glass shooting through my veins, tearing me from the inside out. “Please, Ever, tell me how to help you,” I plead, tears clogging my throat. “I’ll do whatever you need. We can get through it together, if you’d just talk to me.” He slowly turns his head in my direction, and his eyes creep open like it physically aches to do it. “I’ve been going through it since the day I was born, Low. I can’t ‘get through it’ for one more goddamn day. I’m just so tired of the hurt. I need it to … I just need it to stop.” He shakes his head in weary exasperation, like if he had the energy he’d punch the wall in, but this is all he can muster in his altered state. He sniffs and rubs his nose with distracted irritation. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Ever. What’s going on? I need you to trust me if I’m going to help you. Just…” I rack my frenzied brain for the words that will pierce the fog. I touch his chin and turn his face to look at me. “I need you to believe in us. I need you to believe in me the way I believe in you.” He lets out a bitter laugh and pushes my hand away from his face. “You just don’t get it, Low. I ruin the ones I love. I’m like a leech that sucks people dry. Everything I touch turns to shit. Every fucking thing.” He reaches for me and wraps his hand around the base of my neck, snaking his fingers through my hair. His eyes are more alive, his body more awake than it was just moments before. His fingers curl slowly, methodically, gripping my hair and pulling to the point of pain. I wince as he pulls me closer, and I peer into his almost black eyes. “So your faith? It’s lost on me. Now go home.” He pushes off, pulls his hand away as if I’m hot coals, and turns from me. “I don’t believe that, Ever. I don’t care what you say,” I say, my voice getting louder and louder as he shakes his head and purses his lips. Without one word, he stumbles to standing, and walks away, leaving me to talk to no one but myself. The bathroom door slams shut, and I hear the lock slip into place. He’s done. And I wonder if I should be, too.



Marlo I STEP OUT into the alley behind the market and find Remy leaning up against the wall, one knee raised, a cigarette dangling from his lips. There’s a part of me, a large part, that wants to string Remy up by his dangly bits and watch him suffer. I know damn well where Ever got the drugs, whatever they were. Maybe I should take a page out of Nana’s book and call it all dope. Cocaine, meth, whatever—does it really matter which one Ever’s using to ruin his life? I feel so helpless and confused about how to help him. Past stealing sips of Darryl’s whiskey and long pulls off his weed, I’m clueless. My barn parties with my neighbor didn’t prepare me for this. Should I talk to his uncle about what’s happening, or should I give him time to figure it out on his own? Was this a one-time thing, or has he been hitting the hard stuff for longer than I realize? I have more questions than answers right now, but one thing’s for sure. I have got to get through to Ever, one way or another. “Where’s Boy Wonder?” Remy asks, frowning. “As far away from me as he can get,” I say, and then shrug, holding back the tears. “Bathroom. What the hell is going on, Remy? What happened?” He takes a long drag off his cigarette, then it billows out his nostrils as he shakes his head. He flicks the ash off the tip of the cigarette, and takes another pull. “Hell if I know. All I can tell you is he showed up at my apartment, middle of last week, torn the fuck up. He spent Thanksgiving on my couch. He’s crashed at my place more often than not in the past week. But he’s not talking, so I don’t have a clue what’s going on. All I know is he’s determined to forget about it.” “I thought he was staying at his uncle’s house. Isn’t he looking for him? Isn’t he worried?” This doesn’t make any sense to me. Ever’s uncle seems like a responsible adult. He’s the headmaster of Orleans Academy, for Christ’s sake. How could he let Ever just disappear like that? “I get the impression Ever’s been given a long rope. As long as he checks in with his family, they’re letting him deal with his shit however he wants. At least for now.” Remy drops his cigarette to the ground, smashing the cherry with the tip of his worn boot. He stuffs his fists into his pockets, and shifts his gaze to the market door, silently telling me he’s done with this conversation. Unfortunately, my time is up anyway, because Evelyn and Oliver are waiting for me. “Do you have him, Remy?” He gives me a confused look. “Is he covered? Are you going to make sure Etienne doesn’t see him like this? Are you going to make sure he gets home … or to your home, safe and

sound?” “Been doing it for the past week, Low. I’ve got this, don’t worry,” he says, then notices my expression. “Much. Don’t worry much. And call me if you need anything. I’m on your side, you know?” I give him a curt nod and a tight smile. He squeezes my shoulder and goes back inside. Even with his reassurance, I can’t shake this impending sense of doom creeping up my spine. It feels like the domino has been tipped, and I’m helpless to stop the forward motion. All the pieces keep tumbling down. “Marlo, have you given any thought to what you’d like to do after graduation? I assume college is in your future?” Oliver asks as we sit down in the formal living room after dinner. Evelyn pours a scotch from the tower of crystal and liquor on the wet bar as he waits for my answer. She hands it to him with a sweet smile and perches on the arm of his chair, her focus on me now, too. “I plan on going to college, but I don’t have a clue what I want to study, or where I want to go. It’s all vague and out there in the future. It’s not real to me yet, so I’m saying yes to the idea. The actual plan is still up in the air,” I explain. College applications are looming, and some of the other students already started the process. Unless you’re Charlotte, and all applications have been completed and sent in already. Damn overachiever. Turning a blind eye and a deaf ear won’t work for much longer, but so many “what-ifs” and “maybes” hang over my head, it’s hard to concentrate on a future that’s yet to come into focus for me. Evelyn stands up and joins me on the couch, her hand resting on my thigh. “Darling, Oliver and I want you to know that we have every intention of continuing to invest in your education. We’d be honored to do it, if you’d let us.” I look back and forth between them, and they’re both beaming at me. It’s real. It’s genuine. It was a rocky start, but I believe it’s the start of a family. Mentally adding both of them to my list of loved ones feels right, and I hope Declan gives them the chance I did. I don’t think he’ll regret it. “Wow, that’s such a generous offer, and I can’t thank you enough, really,” I say, feeling like my words aren’t enough, don’t even begin to scratch the surface of how grateful I am. “I’ll have to talk to my dad, of course, but I truly appreciate the offer and the chance to come here, to Orleans Academy. I loved having the time to get to know the both of you.” We chat a bit about next semester’s classes and my upcoming finals. Despite the drama and turmoil circling, I’ve managed to stay on top of my studies and I feel confident about most of my exams. I’ve been using studying as a distraction from my worries, which should work out in my favor. If I can’t get the boy, I damn well should get the grades. “Oh, that reminds me. Would y’all mind if I stayed over here tomorrow night, and maybe Saturday night? Exams start Monday, and most of the students are staying at school instead of going home for the weekend. The dorm is going to be a madhouse, and I’d love to have some peace and quiet to study.” “Of course,” Evelyn answers as Oliver nods his agreement. “We’ll be out of town for a cocktail party tomorrow night, but we’ll be back first thing Saturday morning. You’re welcome to stay both nights. If you’d like to invite your roommates to stay over and study, that would be fine. Ever is welcome to stop by for a study session, too, if he’d like.” Evelyn mentioning Ever stopping by surprises me. I guess it shouldn’t, since she’s been so lenient with me from the very beginning. I’m not sure if she trusts me more than she should or if she’s just that non-parental. Whatever the reason, I’ll take it and run. “How is Ever doing, Marlo? I sent Jeffrey my condolences, but I was only able to leave him a

voicemail. Such a tragedy,” Oliver says, shaking his head and mashing his lips into a thin line. Now, why didn’t I ask Oliver from the beginning? It completely slipped my mind that he and Jeffrey are friends. I’ve been digging in the dirt all week when the answer has been sitting on the tip of my nose the entire time. Nice one, Low. “He’s not doing all that well,” I say as I shove my hands between my crossed legs to hide the fine tremor. I manage a tight smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m a bit in the dark about the specifics. I know something terrible happened last week, but I haven’t had a moment alone with Ever since.” I give Oliver an expectant look and wait for him to fill in the blanks. I’m practically salivating for whatever information he has, but thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes, well, I can understand Ever not wanting to discuss it. I’m sure he’s devastated. How does one get over losing his twin brother? People always say the bond between twins is impenetrable. Two halves making a whole. How heartbreaking to lose the other half of yourself? So young…” Oliver takes a sip of scotch as I try to makes sense of his words. “Twin brother?” I ask. “Do you mean Easton?” “Yes,” Evelyn says with a nod. “Ever and Easton are twins.” Twins. Twins. Ever lost his twin… The weight of it, the sheer magnitude of his loss, sits like a block of cement on my chest, robbing my lungs of breath. I hear his words playing on a continuous loop in my head as he unraveled beside me in my dorm room just two weeks ago. I can’t breathe. Don’t let go. How will he find a way to breathe again without him? Every weekend. He spent every weekend with Easton. He never missed, not even once. We take care of each other. I run my hands over my eyebrows, down my cheeks until they make a tent over my lips, as if I’m praying. And maybe I am. Praying this is all a dream. Wishing I could make it go away. Hoping Ever can find his way through this. Begging God to give Ever a break. Can’t he get a fucking break? “I know Easton was … sick, but how did it happen?” I ask, only now realizing how little I know about his condition. Ever had always guided conversations away from this topic, and I’m not really sure why. Had he been ashamed of Easton for some reason? No. Absolutely not. Nothing but pride and love had shone in his eyes at the mention of him. He would never have felt ashamed of him, I know that for sure. “He passed away suddenly, from a seizure,” Evelyn explains, her voice low and gentle. “It doesn’t make any sense,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “I don’t understand.” “Easton was born with cerebral palsy, and because of that, he had many struggles, including a seizure disorder. I’m not sure of the specifics, but I know he used a wheelchair and was mostly non-verbal. Something happened in the womb while Ever and Easton’s mother was pregnant. Most of the blood supply shifted to one baby, while the other got very little.” Oliver grimaces and shakes his head. “I’m certain I’m not explaining it right—I’m no doctor—but the gist of it is one baby starved while the other

flourished. Easton started his struggle before he was even born. It’s tragic … so tragic.” I shut my eyes and try to digest all this new information, but I can’t hear a thing over the static in my mind. I ruin the ones I love. Ever flourished while Easton suffered. I’m like a leech that sucks people dry. He believes the blame lies with him. Everything I touch turns to shit. It’s like ice water thrown in my face … a line drive straight to the gut … a revelation I want to reject, because … no. If what Oliver says is true, if these are indeed the pieces of the puzzles clicked firmly into place, Ever will never overcome the guilt of simply living. Breathing in and out will be a privilege he doesn’t believe he deserves. It’s too big of a burden for the strongest of men, much less the most broken of boys. Ever… I lay in bed that night, finger hovering over the send button, wishing I knew the magic bullet that would pierce Ever’s steely resolve. I don’t understand why he’s determined to go through this alone. He needs someone, even if it’s not me, to walk down this awful road with him. No one should shoulder this type of grief all on their own. I wish I could erase the image of his glassy eyes and fumbling limbs, too high and too numb to feel a damn thing. There’s no such thing as moving on without dealing with the demons … it just doesn’t work that way. I’ll never understand the loss he feels, but I’m beginning to think neither can he. He’s on an endless search for numb, and I see the crash landing from a mile away. The truth is, there is no magic bullet. There is only me, him, and the truth. Or at least the truth as I see it. As I punch “send,” I only hope he can hear me over his guilt. Me: Broken Ever sat on a wall, Broken Ever had a great fall, All the king’s horses and all the king’s men Knew Marlo would put him together again. Tomorrow night 7 pm at Evelyn’s Just me and you Let me help…



Marlo I STEP INTO Creole Market with a singular goal in mind—grab Ever’s favorite things in hopes that: 1. He’ll find solace in comfort food, because food is love. At least that’s what Nana says. 2. I’ll replace some of the lbs. that were sorely lacking last time I saw him. A link of boudin and crackers? Check. Spicy pickled green beans? Check. Salted caramel ice cream with shaved mocha flakes? Check. Looking at the groceries bundled in my arms, it occurs to me that Ever is one anchovy pizza away from preggo. “Where’s the party, and am I invited?” Remy asks as I place the food on the counter. He rings up the items, one by one, placing them in a paper bag. “I’m afraid this is for a party of two … at least I hope it is. The two being Ever and me.” I catch Remy’s almost imperceptible flinch, and my heart sinks. “What, did he say something to you? Have you seen him today?” “Uh, yeah, I saw him early this afternoon before I left for work. He was parked on my couch watching a Teen Mom marathon.” Huh, I guess preggo is too busy getting parenting advice from MTV to text me back. I know there’s a chance he won’t show tonight since he never answered me back, but I’m doing my best to stay optimistic. “Sounds … important,” I say, grabbing my grocery bag from the counter and hugging it to my chest. Remy shrugs, looking sympathetic. “Ever is having a tough time figuring out what’s important right now.” “That’s one thing I never used to worry about with Ever,” I say, frowning. Unwavering. That’s how I would describe Ever, at least until a couple of weeks ago. Losing Easton tilted his world completely off its axis. It’s obviously left him lost and confused. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Remy says, and I narrow my gaze at the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Stumbled.” “What?” “He may have stumbled, but he hasn’t fallen.”

I stomp to the door, ignoring him as he calls out to me, frustrated that he has such little faith in his friend. Irritated that there may be a tiny part of him that’s enjoying this. Sometimes I feel as if Remy is on Ever’s side, and other times, I feel like he’s patiently waiting for the crash and burn. Eight o’clock. One hour late with no call or text, and I force myself to face the inevitable. He’s not coming. There’s a hollowness in my chest as I picture him laying on Remy’s crusty couch, zoned out to mindless television instead of facing me. He used to escape with me, used to find solace in the time we spent together, and now he can’t get far enough away. I should eat the snacks I bought while studying for my finals, and forget I even asked him to come over. I should forget him. Yeah, I’m not gonna do that. I’m through the door and down the sidewalk before giving it a second thought. Determination resounds with every stomp of my foot on the pavement. Irritation whistles with every swing of my arms. Anger bellows with every huffed breath blowing out of my flared nostrils. I push the doorbell to Remy’s apartment with undue force, as if my intensity will result in a louder ringing. Remy’s head peers through the front door, then he trudges to the gate, hands shoved into his jean pockets. He stops at the gate without opening it, shakes his head, and gives me a grim smile. “He’s not here?” I ask, frustrated at coming up empty again. “He left just a little while ago,” Remy says softly. “Where?” “A club a few blocks over.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “Well, what are we waiting for? Come on, show me.” I grab onto the bars and rattle the gate, already turning back to the road when Remy’s hands wrap around mine. I pull away, but he doesn’t let go. “What, Remy? We need to go,” I plead, pulling from the grip of his hands on mine, ignoring the resigned look in his eyes. “Low, he … maybe just let it go for tonight. Try to call him tomorrow, okay?” I hate the placating tone of his voice, like I’m a hyper puppy he’s trying to quiet. The calmer his voice, the higher my annoyance climbs. I growl, using all my weight to rip my hands from his. “Are you going to help me or not?” I yell. “He didn’t leave alone, Low!” he hollers back, giving the iron gate a hard shove. “He wasn’t alone.” He voice is barely a whisper this time, but I flinch at the sound. I close my eyes and picture him, arm slung around a faceless girl’s shoulder as they stroll down the sidewalks of the Quarter, laughing … smiling … kissing. Does he bite her lip, making shivers run up her spine? Does he … will he… I grab onto the fence for balance as a sob wretches it’s way through my body like a thunderous wave. Before the second sob overtakes me, the gate opens and I’m in Remy’s arms. I grab his forearms, claw at his shirt, squeeze my eyes shut and wretch. How could he? How could he? How could he? Remy and I fumble down the alleyway and climb the porch stairs as one clumsy unit since I continue to clutch on to him like my life depends on it. He grips my waist with one hand and smooths my hair with the other.

“Shhh, it’s going to be all right, Low,” he whispers as he places me on the couch … the same couch Ever vegged out on just hours ago. And with that, a fresh batch of tears sprout. I bring my knees to my chest and lay my head on top, wanting to curl up into a ball, just disappear from it all. Remy brushes my hair off my face, and meets my swollen eyes. “Hey, he doesn’t deserve you, okay? I never thought he did.” I shake my head, my temple knocking clumsily on my kneecap with the motion. “It’s not like that. If all of this wouldn’t have happened to him, things would be different. This isn’t him, I know it.” Why am I still defending him? Why, after everything he’s done to show me he doesn’t care about me or anything else, do I still find reasons to believe in him? It hurts, it kills to admit it, but the answer is simple. Because I love him. No matter what he’s done. Remy flicks his wrist and rolls his fingers like a magician. A joint appears out of thin air, and his eyes widen in surprise. I giggle despite myself and watch as he places fire to paper. After a long drag that he pulls in through his lips and blows out through his nose like an angry dragon, he passes it to me. I don’t hesitate. This time, I feel like Ever, getting high to escape, but I can’t muster the energy to care. I need something to round out the rough edges of the hurt he’s caused. I just need something. “Maybe it’s just me, but a real man wouldn’t throw away a good thing just because he’s going through a hard time.” Remy shrugs and holds up his hands. Before I can argue, he stands and squeezes my shoulder as he walks into the kitchen. “Let me get you something to drink, and I’ll walk you back to Evelyn’s when you’re ready. Sprite okay?” I pull another puff of smoke into my mouth, down my throat, and out to the burning edges of my lungs. I hold it until I’m on the verge of bursting, watching the cherry flicker and sputter between my pinched fingers. I tip my head back and release the smoke from my pursed lips like a falling ribbon. “How about a beer?”



Marlo THE SUN FILTERS through my eyelids like a high beam spotlight five inches from my face. It’s like a baseball bat to my brain, and I can’t shut my eyes tight enough to make it go away. I pull the pillow down over my head and sigh in relief. I take a deep breath in and wonder who the hell sprayed old lady perfume all over my pillow. The smell makes my gut roll, and I lurch off the bed, fumbling my way to the toilet. That’s when I realize I’m not in my dorm room. A quick survey of the antique four-poster bed and Audubon prints of blue herons and Louisiana pelicans on the wall tell me I’m in one of Evelyn’s many guest rooms. Thankfully, this room has an adjoining bathroom, and I make it just in time. Beads of sweat sprout across my forehead, and I swipe at the thick strands of hair plastered to my face. I rest my lolling head on my elbow to keep it from falling directly into the toilet. My body heaves relentlessly, making my already screaming muscles burn. This must be what the seventh circle of hell feels like. I rack my brain for the chain of events leading up to this morning, and after the memory of having a few beers with Remy to nurse my broken heart, I come up empty. Completely blank. I’m still wearing my “let’s taco bout it” T-shirt from last night, but my legs are bare and cold against the tile floor. I run my free hand over the goose bumps on my calves, then up my thighs. I look down at my legs when my fingers touch something dried and cracked on the middle of my thigh. A tear escapes, splashing on to my cheek when I realize both of my inner thighs are caked with a thin sheen of dried blood. I start retching again when I realize more than just my muscles are sore. Evelyn and Oliver return home early afternoon, and they find me curled up underneath the freezing cold shower, skin rubbed raw, teeth chattering, body trembling. They had to take the door off the hinges to get to me. I tried, I really did. I could hear Evelyn calling my name, like a muffled sound at the end of a mile-long tunnel. I just couldn’t get to her. I couldn’t wake up enough to move. Maybe I didn’t want to. Evelyn runs her hands through my wet hair as I lay my head in her lap. Just when I think I have nothing left, another tear leaks out. I cinch Evelyn’s fluffy robe tighter around my waist and wipe my chapped cheek. It’s been a couple of hours since she brought me to her bedroom and sent Oliver away, and neither

of us has spoken a word. I’m sure my time is almost up. So many questions roll around in my brain, but the answers are hard to come by. If I could only remember. Who? What? When? Where? Why? Why? Why? The only answer I know for certain is the one I wish I could forget. I was raped. I lost my virginity to a rapist. I muster all the energy I have to push myself up to sitting and meet Evelyn’s searching eyes. “I need to go the hospital,” I whisper as the tears continue to streak my face. “I need to be checked out.” Evelyn wraps me in her arms and cries with me. “Of course, my darling. I’ll take you right away. Of course.” “We must call the police this instant, Evelyn. I can’t believe you left the hospital without giving a statement,” Oliver whispers, his words sounding like a hiss from the other side of the bedroom door. “I went to great lengths to keep them out of this, and you think I’m calling them now? This is what she wants, Oliver. She begged me. Sh-she b-begged me.” Evelyn voice breaks on a sob, and for a while, I hear nothing but her occasional sniff. “Someone must pay. Someone has to pay.” “Believe me, I’d love nothing more than to find out who did this and see justice done, but Marlo has no memory of it. She can’t recall one thing from last night. We don’t even have a jumping off point.” Evelyn releases a heavy sigh. “She just wants to forget about it and move on. Lord knows, I understand her position. The doctors examined her and gave her the medications she needs to … mitigate any damage, and she wants that to be the end of it. They did collect evidence—what was left of it—but she was very clear nothing was to be done.” “You and I both know that’s not the end of it. And what about her father? He has a right to know what’s happened.” My eyes fly open and burn holes into the wood separating me from them. I’d begged Evelyn not to call him. I’d made her promise and she’d reluctantly agreed. I can never bear for him to know what happened. It would kill both of us, I know it. “She made me promise not to tell Marcus.” “You can’t do that.” “She’s eighteen, Oliver. She’s an adult.” “I don’t care how old she is. She’ll always be his child!” Oliver’s voice breaks on the last word, and moments of tense silence follow. “I know this isn’t the way you think things should be handled,” Evelyn says calmly. “And I can appreciate that, but please understand where I’m coming from. This is the first time in eighteen years that she has asked anything of me, and I’m not going to let her down. I’m going to be there for her, and I’m going to hope for just this once, that I can be enough for her. I need you to respect that.” When the doorknob turns, I shut my eyes.



Marlo THE SMELL OF stale smoke and rancid weed creep into my nose, and I turn my face away. I push to turn my entire body away, but my limbs feel too heavy, as if they’re buried in a bucket of concrete. I push against the resistance, and he shakes me. He grabs me by the chin and turns me to face him. I try to force my heavy lids open, beg for the focus to make out his features, but they’re just a faded blur. His tongue slithers into my mouth, and I try to pull away, but he has me pinned somehow. Or maybe I’m just too weak to move. My limbs are liquid, incapable of following a simple command. They seem to melt into the ground, utterly useless. I feel the tears building and seeping silently out of the corners of my eyes. He licks my cheek and laughs. He leans down, his hot breath making my ear feel wet and itchy. “Don’t try to act like you don’t want this. Spread your legs, and shut the fuck up.” He licks my ear before pulling away, slathering it with spit. He shoves his tongue back down my throat, and I try to scream. Something, maybe nothing, comes out; I’m not sure. It’s all so muffled and muddy. It’s like screaming underwater. My lungs, my body, my very soul burn from the useless effort. And then piercing pain… I wake up with a jolt, desperately clawing for breath. My body is covered in a sheen of sweat and my heart pounds out of my chest. I race to the toilet to empty my stomach, my body’s way of trying to rid me of this ugliness. It’s useless, and I know it. I’ve scrubbed my skin clean, raging red from the friction, but there’s no cleansing a dirty soul. The violation feels all the more raw as the memory seeps its way into my dreams. I can’t run. I can’t hide. I can’t escape this feeling of worthlessness because it’s inside me, growing like a poisonous vine, creeping its way into every single part of me. It feels like chains. Like bindings shackling me to that one dirty act that will forever define me. Why does it have to be who I am now? I don’t want that, but it feels inescapable. He branded me. And while I may not be able to make out a face, I know that voice. I know it. And I would give anything to wipe the memory clean. A stronger woman would feel empowered by

the knowledge, but to me, it only feels like another link in my chains. I walk into Creole Market like it’s any other day, Evelyn’s grocery list in hand, although I had to pry it from her fingers. “I can go myself, Marlo. You stay here and rest. There’s no need to worry you with this,” Evelyn pleads. I shake my head and barely manage a smile. “I haven’t been outside in days. I need the sunshine. It’ll be good for me,” I say, my voice artificially chipper. After a back and forth that’d nearly resulted in a torn grocery list, she’d finally relented. It’s only a few blocks away, and I know I have a short window before she comes searching for me with worry. She and Oliver eye me like I’m a bomb about to blow at any second. Maybe I am. But for now, I’m perfectly pulled together, trembling fingers hidden as they clutch the grocery list, my other hand in my purse, wrapped around the mace Oliver bought me just yesterday. I keep clicking the latch on and off of safety, knowing that I can make myself safe, should I need to. I spent over an hour on my face, lining my lips, applying a generous amount of liquid eyeliner. My makeup is impeccable, reminding me of Evelyn. It feels like a mask … like I’m hiding the real me behind a wall of steel instead of concealer, and I wonder if she feels the same way. Is her perfect appearance a way of coping? If it is, I understand it now. I may not be invincible, but I’m stronger now than the whisper of a person who woke up gasping and sobbing this morning. “I didn’t expect to see you today, my pretty one. What a wonderful surprise! Don’t you have tests?” Etienne beams at me from behind the deli counter, and I feel a pang of sorrow at seeing him. I’ll miss Etienne terribly, but I know this will be the last time we see each other. I don’t have any plans to tell him, though. “I’m spending some time with Evelyn and Oliver. They arranged for my tests to be taken online.” I smile and pray he doesn’t question my response. It took some coaxing on both Evelyn and Oliver’s part, but when they stressed the importance of my staying close to home due to a family trauma, the school finally relented. All of my exams will either be taken online or administered by an in-house proctor, paid for by Oliver. It’s amazing what money can do. Too bad it can’t fix the things that mean the most. It can’t erase what’s already been done. Etienne doesn’t question me, so I hold up the piece of paper to show him. “I’m here to grab a few groceries for Evelyn, if that’s all right.” He waves me away. “Of course, of course. Take your time,” he says as he stirs a black iron pot that smells a lot like gumbo. “And be sure to tell that lazy bag of bones, Remy, I’m nearly done. He’s been hiding out in the storeroom all afternoon. Sometimes, I think he should pay me to work here.” He continues to mumble to himself about long smoke breaks and sampling the food as I draw in a steadying breath. What am I doing? What am I actually doing? Am I crazy? The short answer is yes. Yes, I am. So I walk down the aisle and open the storeroom door before I have a chance to talk myself out of it. A wicked smile creeps across my face as Remy does a double-take when he sees me. You should be afraid, motherfucker. I feel the fear like a tidal wave, threatening to roll me over, make me run, but I plant my feet and keep

my fist curled around the mace in my purse. I’ll take any small sense of comfort I can scrounge right now, because I’m feeling foolish for coming here. Downright reckless. “Hey Low, how’s it going? I didn’t expect to see you at the market today,” Remy says, turning his back and continuing to unpack boxes. His words, the easy lilt in his voice sound as casual as if I’d stopped by to borrow a cup of sugar, but his ramrod straight posture gives him away. It’s like a blinking sign in a store window advertising: “GUILTY.” I’d practiced all the things I would say as I’d blotted my lips and blushed the apples of my cheeks. The words had rolled off my tongue with such fluidity and immense anger, I hadn’t thought for one second I’d show up here and be silent. But now, as I look at him standing there, just standing there like he didn’t forever alter my life, I’m left breathless … wordless. “Hey, did you get in touch with Ever this weekend. I told him you were looking for—” “Stop,” I whisper, the hiss of my voice only just loud enough to get his attention. “Huh?” His hands drop to his side, the boxes forgotten as he looks at me confused. “I said STOP!” I jump, just as surprised as he is at the sheer force of my words. I turn to the door, hoping I didn’t alarm Etienne, but remember my company almost as quickly, and whip back around. Remy raises his hands in front of his chest and gives me a placating smile. “Hey, I don’t know what I did to—” “Shut. Up.” He closes his mouth and stands stock still, except for the almost imperceptible change in his demeanor. I don’t want to hear the sound of his voice. I’m not sure I can stomach it. Hearing the gravelly tone brings me back to my dream—not my dream, my reality. My reality. Remy raped me. Who could have known four syllables, three tiny words, could wreak such havoc on my soul. The very marrow of me feels somehow altered by what he stole. By taking away my choice, he took so much more than I can ever hope to restore. Everything about me feels fake and forced. Pride has been replaced with shame. I want him to feel shame, too. I want it burned into his skin, deep down into his gut. I want him to cringe at the thought of what he did to me. But deep down, I know that will never happen. Men like Remy don’t feel sorrow for their actions. He’s nothing but a monster disguised as a poorly groomed pothead. He looks so harmless, but now I know better. I’ll never make that mistake again. “I know,” I say, watching his eyes widen. “I know what you did.” He lowers his head, and, for a brief moment, I think he may feel something in the vicinity of regret. He might be bordering the neighborhood of an actual apology. He peers up at me from lowered lashes. “What we did.” “Excuse me?” “You know what we did. And, as far as I remember, you enjoyed the fuck out of it, so why don’t you wipe that accusing look off your face.” His voice never wavers, his tone even and steady, so much so that I genuinely wonder if he believes the lie. His words hang heavily in the air, trying to muffle my resolve, cloud what’s abundantly clear. “You slipped something in my drink, Remy. I only remember bits and pieces of the night because I was unconscious. We didn’t do anything. You raped me.” I gasp after saying the words, finally admitting them out loud, as if it was only a possibility before, but now it’s etched in stone as the God’s honest truth. There’s no taking it back. No do-overs. Remy chuckles, low and menacing, my accusations waking up the malicious part of him I only saw

pieces of before now. How could I have been so blind? “You see, I remember it differently. You were high within minutes of showing up at my house. You got that, Marlo? You showed up at my house. Then, after you were already flying like a kite, that wasn’t good enough for you, so you moved on to beer. I drugged you? Come on, like I had to.” Remy sneers at me like I’m a pesky roach under his shoe, and I barely repress the urge to lunge at him, claw his eyes out. “You’re twisting things, you son of a bitch.” “I could say the same for you. And who wouldn’t believe me? Every time you and Ever had a hint of an argument, you threw yourself at me. ‘Taste my cupcakes, Remy … Walk me home, Remy…’” He shakes his head, and a victorious grin curls on his disgusting lips. “Friday night was merely your ultimate revenge on your little boyfriend. You’ve been pitting the two of us against each other from the beginning. Speaking of Ever, what do you think he’d say about our little date?” “Fuck you,” I spit out, teeth clenched so tight, I wait for them to crumble like chalk onto my tongue. “I already have.” He draws out each syllable with wicked satisfaction. I release the mace from my grip, honestly afraid of what I may do. The anger vibrating through me is overwhelming, intoxicating, and utterly disturbing. In this moment, I have a clear understanding of the term “crime of passion,” because nothing would please me more than to hurt Remy in some irreparable way. Get yourself together, Marlo. I suck in a deep breath and release the pent-up fury threatening to consume me. It takes several breaths before I can see past the red rage. I shut my eyes for a moment, and reopen them with a new perspective. “I went to the hospital first thing Saturday morning,” I say flatly, my blank stare boring into his wavering smile. “I was there for hours. They collected all sorts of things. Hair, fluids, blood … blood that I’m sure will show much more than marijuana and beer. Photographs of bruising and trauma far outside of the realm of consensual sex.” “You like it rough,” he says, trying to look smug, but the man who’s obviously grasping at straws is making himself known the more I talk. “Who do you think they’ll believe, Remy? A truckload of tests pointing the finger at you, and the testimony of Evelyn and Oliver James? Or the word of a two-bit pot dealer created from the dirty bowels of the French Quarter? How do you think that investigation would unfold?” “Are you threatening me—” “You’re fucking right I am, and don’t you dare forget it.” I love the fear in his eyes. Fucking love it. It feels like a drug to me, the only thing that I can control in my life at this point. I hear Etienne’s faint whistle in the front of the store, and it serves as a reminder that he’ll come looking for me sooner rather than later. I need to leave before then. He’ll see right through me. “If you’ve got it all figured out, then why aren’t I in cuffs? Where are the police, huh, Low? I think you’re bluffing.” He turns to his boxes, feigning disinterest, but it’s too late for that. I’ve already seen his hand. He laid his cards on the table, and they’re mine for the taking. “I’m not pressing charges today, and maybe not tomorrow, but I plan to wake up every morning and ask myself, ‘Am I strong enough today?’ God help you when that answer is yes.” I turn to the door and open it, taking a moment to look back at him, so small and insignificant looking. If only that were true. “Goodbye Remy. I hope you rot in hell.” Evelyn doesn’t say a word when I return home empty-handed. We order pizza instead.



Marlo “IS THERE NOTHING I can say to change your mind, Marlo? I urge you to think long and hard about what you’re doing,” Mrs. Santos, my academic advisor, says as she holds my signed resignation letter in her hands. “I can rip this up right now, and we can forget the whole thing.” I look at Evelyn sitting across from me, and she nods. I don’t know if she’s nodding because she thinks I’m doing the right thing, or if she agrees with Mrs. Santos and thinks I should come back to Orleans Academy in the spring. No matter how many times I ask, she won’t say anything other than “I support you in whatever you decide. I just want you to be happy.” How do I tell her happiness will elude me no matter where I go? I’m not sure I can put a timer on my healing. It’s a process I don’t think can be measured in minutes, hours, days, or even weeks. Or maybe it can’t be measured at all. We all heal in our own way, in our own time, and the best I can hope for is the scars don’t over shine the progress. “This is the right thing for me, Mrs. Santos, but thank you for caring. I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but now is the time for me to officially graduate.” She raises her hands in defeat and places my letter in her outbox, ready to be stamped by the headmaster and filed for good measure. It would be easy to see this as failure. To look at my resigning as laying down and dying, but I see things differently. I’m doing what I have to do to move on and start over. I want to move past victim and become a survivor. In order for that to happen, I need a change of scenery. All three of us stand and exchange heartfelt thank yous and goodbyes, and Mrs. Santos walks us to her door. Evelyn walks by my side down the administrative hallway, arm looped in mine. She pushes the elevator button and waits. “Oh,” I say, breaking her grip on my arm and shuffling down the hallway. “I forgot to turn in my ID to Mrs. Santos. I’ll only be a minute. Stay here and hold the elevator?” “Of course,” she says with a smile, and watches me as I turn down the corridor. Once I’m out of her sight, I pass Mrs. Santos’s office and continue down the hallway. I release a pentup sigh of relief at seeing the door closed. I trace my fingers over the nameplate on the door, wondering for the hundredth time if I’m making the right decision. The truth is I love Ever enough to accept the consequences. I love him enough to accept that, after today, he will probably no longer love me. I’ve dialed Ever’s number a hundred times, my trembling finger hovering over the call button, but I can’t bring myself to press it. How can I begin to fight for what we had when I’m only a shell of who I

was? Ever is just one more thing Remy ripped away from me. Shame and regret roll in my gut where resolve lied only days ago. Turning my back on him is one regret I refuse to have. Before I walk away, I’ll do what I can to save him from himself, knowing he’ll never want to see me again. If it keeps him safe, then I’ll take it. I’m not sure I can change anything, but I have to try. It feels as if the wheels of destruction have been in motion for far too long, and if I’ve learned anything over the past few months, it’s that momentum is much more powerful than love. Whatever the case, it feels wrong to leave Ever in Remy’s clutches without a word of warning. If anyone knows what a monster he is, it’s me. Jeffrey Simmons, Headmaster. I hear the bell of the elevator in the distance, and I know my window is closing. I pluck the letter out of my cross body, and slip it under the door without another thought. It slides with such ease, nearly floats through to the other side, almost as if the office wants the letter. “Marlo?” Evelyn calls from down the hall. Evelyn’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I rush to meet her, pushing all thoughts of Ever and the letter out of my mind. Dear Headmaster Simmons, I know we’ve only met a handful of times, and I may be overstepping by writing this letter, but please know I only mean to help. I care very deeply for your nephew, and I’m very worried for him, as I’m sure you are, too. I’m so sorry for your family’s recent loss. It must be devastating for all of you, possibly even more so for Ever. I feel as if he’s been floundering without Easton, making decisions that will only hurt him. In some ways, it’s like he’s lost his purpose, like he no longer cares what happens to him. Please, if you want to help him, demand he stay with you, don’t let him out of your sight, drug test him. Yes, I said drug test him. Headmaster Simmons, Ever is spending time with people who only mean to hurt him, and I’m afraid of what will happen if you don’t intervene. I hope you receive this letter in the way I intend it, with great concern and care for your nephew. Please take this warning seriously, because Ever’s welfare depends on it. Sincerely, Marlo Rivers



Marlo “LOW, ARE YOU sure you don’t want to stay in China for a semester, attend the community college in Beaumont before you make any big decisions? I’m not too keen on the idea of my baby girl gallivanting all over creation. I’m worried about you, baby.” Dad walks beside me through Jackson Square, my seemingly tiny hand covered by his big mitt as I drag him through the row of portrait artists and tarot card readers. I swipe the beads of sweat off my upper lip just as the faintest hint of a drizzle moistens my arms. My time in New Orleans can easily be summed up by a state of perpetual moisture—rain, fog, sweat, tears. If Mother Nature would do me a solid and throw in some snow this afternoon, we could bring this baby full circle. Every so often, my dad stops in awe, watching the charcoal take form on the easel, listening to the haphazard jazz bands, stopping to stare at the occasional drunk sleeping it off in the middle of the sidewalk. At this rate, he’ll make us late for mass. “Daddy, I’m not gallivanting. Northern Louisiana University is a great school. They were able to fast track my application, and still had student housing available,” I say, with a smile. I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m a college freshman! Can you believe it?” He lowers his head and mutters to himself about years flying by like mere seconds and daughters staying close to their fathers. I smile and let him have his fit. He deserves it. He and Declan drove into town yesterday, and, at Evelyn and Oliver’s gracious insistence, they’d stayed the night at the James’ residence. What had started out as incredibly awkward morphed into a tentative partnership of sorts. Even Declan is warming up to Evelyn. My dad and brother went to Boozman Hall to box up my stuff while I stayed at Evelyn’s house. I’d called both Delilah and Charlotte to apologize for my absence over the past week and for not showing to pack my things. They were understandably confused, but could tell from the tone in my voice not to push. When my dad had asked if I was sure I didn’t want to come and say goodbye to them this morning, I shook my head and went back upstairs. I’d closed myself in the bathroom, and gave into the crying jag that was a long time coming. I hate that I wasn’t strong enough to say goodbye to them. I wish things were different, but I’m doing the best I can. I don’t have answers for their questions. Where have you been? Why did you leave? Why aren’t you coming back?

No. Just no. And the chance of running into Ever? That’s a blow my heart can’t withstand. Despite it all, I love him. No, I’d loved him—past tense. I need to let that part of myself go. He has it, and I gave it to him freely. But now I’m walking away with my half of a heart, and calling it done. To let in that kind of love, the kind that feels like nothing can tarnish it, you have to embrace the hurt. I’m nowhere near ready for that; I’m not sure I ever will be. I’m not foolish enough to think my letter to his uncle will save him, but I pray that it can serve as a catalyst. A starting point for the healing of his family. No one deserves that more than Ever. “I don’t like feeling like all of this is so rushed. You have your whole life, Low. What’s the hurry?” I stand on the steps of St. Louis Cathedral and give my dad a hug. Not just a cordial, fit for public consumption hug. I give him an arms wrapped all the way around his waist, head buried in his chest, fullon, two-minute hug. I do this partially because I love him, but also to avert his knowing gaze. Evelyn is right about my dad. He sees too much. The truth would kill him. So when Mrs. Santos called me about Northern Louisiana University, I jumped at the opportunity. It’s what’s best. “I love you, Dad.” He blows out a resigned sigh and kisses my temple. “I love you, too, baby.” He pulls away from me to meet my eyes. “And since when do we attend a Catholic church?” “Since there’s something I need to do.” The screened window slides open, and I sit up straight and square my shoulders. Confession 101. Let’s do this. “Forgive him, Father, for someone has sinned,” I whisper, feeling the weight of silence just outside this wooden box. I hope no one else can hear me. “My dear, I’m available to hear your confession today, but—” “It’s not my confession I’m concerned with, Father. I’d like to tell you about someone who has sinned against me.” He’s silent for a moment, and I see his shadowed form shift in his seat. “I’m afraid that’s not how this works.” Irritation creeps into his voice, but I can’t find it in me to care. “You see, Father, a very short time ago, a man drugged and raped me, and by your rules, he can come in here and tell you his sins and be absolved. Now, don’t you think I should be able to sit in this chair and tell you of my hurt, and be granted the same absolution?” “I wish that were true, my dear, but unfortunately, I don’t think it works that way.” “But shouldn’t it, though? Shouldn’t it?” I ask, pushing away the pesky tears clouding my vision. “You certainly make me wish it did,” he says introspectively, all aggravation gone. “While I can’t take away your pain, you’re never alone. The Lord is always by your side to carry you when the burden is too great.” “But today, I want to give it to you. I feel it’s too great for me to carry, and I need you to take the burden. I need you to absolve me.” My traitorous voice cracks, and the tears clouding my eyes now moisten my cheeks. I raise a hand to steady myself, unknowingly covering the confessional screen. The priest reciprocates and mirrors his hand to mine. “I absolve you. I absolve you,” he whispers. “I’ll help you carry the load.” We sit in that confessional, for I don’t know how long, ignoring the impatient coughs of other

parishioners. The rational part of me knows he can’t do what I’m asking, but the lost girl deep inside feels lighter. The broken part of me is one step closer to moving on. And it’s time to do just that. “I’d be happy to hear your confession now, my dear,” he says. And I freeze. Is now the right time to admit I’m not really Catholic? I’m thinking no. And for the first time in weeks, a giggle escapes me before I can suppress it. A real, live giggle. Yes… “No, thank you, Father, I’m good,” I say, the giggle still present and painting my words. “May the force be with you.” “Excuse me?” Oh shit! Abort, abort! “Good day,” I say, cringing at the ridiculous British accent that comes out of my mouth. On that note, I swing open the door and take my leave. Better to quit while I’m ahead. My dad is waiting in the back of the church, and his expression floods with concern when he gets a look at my bloodshot eyes. “Is everything okay, Low?” I loop my arm in his and give him a toothy grin. “I just needed to get rid of something. Everything is gonna be just fine, I know it.” And with a firm grip on my dad’s arm, and a somewhat lighter heart, I say goodbye to so many things. The Quarter. My friends. My newfound family. My innocence. And Ever. I say goodbye to Ever.



Ever Eight years later I FILL THE platters of praline chicken and crawfish fried rice, making sure the guests don’t get dregs from the bottom of the pan. I can’t dust off this air of irritation swirling around me. I didn’t want this job. Jeb and I aren’t caterers; we’re chefs. I don’t enjoy food in bulk. But when the owner of Oakbourne Country Club’s daughter gets married, it’s time to pull out all the stops. And tons of cash. So I may not like food in bulk, but I can get on board for the right price. I keep my grumbles to myself because the money’s good and this is great exposure for us. We’ve been dreaming of breaking out on our own, making our own way. So shrimp and grits by the bucket it is. I give a curt nod to the waiter, and he nods back, obviously irritated by my constant hovering. He’ll get over it. Or he won’t. Like I give a shit. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I turn around to head back to the kitchen. I survey the room one last time before walking through the door. And that’s when rush of nostalgia hits me like a battering ram in the chest. A flash of wild auburn curls. Hip jutted, head cocked, with attitude only she can throw. And that laugh. That fucking laugh. I’ve been woken from a dead sleep with the sound of her throaty voice shooting straight to my dick more times than I care to count. My dreams never did it justice. A millisecond at most, but I see it. I hear it. I see her. I shake the thought out of my head and keep moving. I don’t dare mention it to Jeb. God knows he’s heard enough about my sightings through the years. They never pan out to anything, and I’m sure this is no different. I catch his eye from behind the bar, and he raises an eyebrow in question. I shake my head and wave him off, and he’s back to mixing drinks and flirting with every skirt in the place. From the looks of it, he’s making his peach rouler, a mix of sweet rum, peach, and ginger. There are other “proprietary” ingredients, as he calls them, but that’s the gist of it. Don’t let him hear me simplifying his creations. He’ll go crazy

and start spewing shit about the under appreciation of a top-notch mixologist. After all these years, the fucker still manages to be a pain in my ass. Fortunately for me, he truly is a master behind the bar. A rush of familiarity washes over me as the scent of vanilla and sunshine circles me, invades my nose, touches the back of my throat. It’s been eight years since I’ve smelled anything like it, and now I know my mind is playing tricks on me. In this day and age, you wouldn’t think it possible for someone to vanish into thin air. But she had. All those years ago, she’d disappeared like a puff of air. And she continues to elude me. We’d only had four stolen months together eight years ago; so the question that batters my brain is why do I even care? But I have always cared, and I’m afraid I always will. I shake my head, dusting off the memories from long ago, but never forgotten. When you turn your back on the best thing that’s ever happened to you, that shit tends to stick with you like a bad rash. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, but pushing Marlo away is a level of stupidity all its own. Get it together, you’ve got a fucking job to do. And with that, I return to the kitchen to do what I do best. “Excuse me?” Her words are barely audible over the clanging of pots and the rushing water of the faucet. I can only see her head peeking through the swinging door, but I recognize the bride from earlier. “Yes, can I help you?” I ask, wiping my hands on a nearby dish towel and moving closer to her. She steps inside the kitchen and clasps her hands in front of her. She looks like a bohemian princess, all dreamy smiles and peace signs. She’s beautiful in a unique way, and just being near her lightens my mood slightly. She’s like a wood fairy spreading glitter and good thoughts. “We’re about to call it a night, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you what a wonderful job you did. The food was delicious.” She smiles, rests her hands on her stomach, and closes her eyes. “Honestly, I can’t say enough about it. Thank you so much.” “You’re welcome.” Her lips twist into a smirk, and she giggles. “What?” I ask, having no idea what I could have said that she found funny. “Well, I’m not actually welcome, am I?” She gives me an expectant look, and I laugh. She’s got me there. “I know my mother can be … persistent when she gets it in her head she wants something. She can be relentless, can’t she?” When I simply shrug in return, she gives me a knowing smile. “Anyway, thank you for humoring her. The food, the drinks, all of it—impeccable.” The kitchen door swings open again, and a man, presumably the groom, walks in and slides an arm around his bride’s tiny waist. She looks up at him like he’s every star in the sky on high beam. He looks at her as if she’s the sun. “I thought you’d run away,” he says with a chuckle. “Too late for that now. It’s official, isn’t it?” I say, stepping forward and offering my hand. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Everett.” “Nice to meet you, Everett. Great job tonight. I’m West.” Without meaning to, my hand squeezes his more tightly when he says his name. East. I’m thankful for the tiny snippets of life that allow me to remember my brother. It may be nothing at

all, but it means something to me. “Good to meet you,” I say, liking the grip of his handshake and the way he meets my gaze head on. I have no use for shifty-eyed motherfuckers. We exchange goodbyes, and the happy couple turn to leave the kitchen. On a whim, I call out to Alex. “Was there someone named Marlo here tonight?” I ask. Adrenaline pricks at my skin, and my stomach bottoms out as a smile pulls at the corners of Alex’s lips. “Yes, there was. She’s a very good friend of mine. She keeps me on my toes with her crazy antics, I’ll tell you that much. Do you know her?” After all this time … all these years … the endless searching. “I knew her a very long time ago. Almost not worth mentioning,” I lie, finding it difficult to raise my voice past whispering. I move farther into the kitchen and lean on one of the counters for balance. “I saw a glimpse of her in the crowd, and I thought I’d ask, that’s all.” West gives her arm a gentle tug in the direction of the exit. She frowns. “I’m coming,” she whispers to West, then turns back to me. “Too bad I didn’t speak to you sooner. Unfortunately, she left over an hour ago. She says the happily-ever-after vibe and bridesmaids desperate to get laid make her twitchy.” I bark out a laugh and grin. I can almost hear her uttering those very words. If there was any doubt that Alex and me were talking about the same Marlo, it all flew out the window with that one remark. “That sounds like her.” Alex nods and waves as she finally relents, letting West pull her toward the exit. “Next time you’re in Providence, you should give her a call. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.” I wouldn’t be so sure, Alex. 6 months later Providence, LA THERE ARE SEVERAL things in this life that I can tell you with complete certainty. I can pinpoint the color, consistency, and smell of roux to make the best gumbo you’ve ever tasted. I can recite, with painstaking accuracy, the chain of events leading up to what Jeb and I lovingly refer to as Ever’s downward spiral. I can tell you the exact moment I knew I wanted to become a chef. What I can’t, for the life of me, figure out is how I’ve come to be sitting across the street from Marlo Rivers’s house in the middle of the night. That one baffles the shit out of me. If only I would have seen her at her friend’s wedding, and that would have been the end of it. But through no fault or provocation from me, my life keeps getting nudged into her path, a fact I can no longer deny. Honestly, there are things I want to say to her. Things I’ve waited eight long years to get off my chest. I’m not sure what makes today different than any other day, but I’m drawing the line in the sand. Then I’ll wait and see if she crosses it. As I fold out of my car, silently walk up her sidewalk to the front door, and wedge a folded noted into the frame, I know one thing for certain: today, I’m delivering a message. She can run, but she can’t hide. At least not anymore. Your lips luscious red, My balls achingly blue,

Have you any idea How long I’ve searched for you?

Please continue reading for a preview of Ever Over After, Book Two of The Over Duet, releasing January 9, 2017! Add Ever Over After to your Goodreads TBR! http://bit.ly/2du1su5





Marlo Move-in Day—Northern Louisiana University I HITCH MY two-ton duffel bag over my shoulder and look up, up, up at my new dorm. Twelve stories tall. Holy shit, that’s a lot of estrogen in one building. Makes Boozman Hall at Orleans Academy look like child’s play. The thought causes an unwelcome pang straight to the gut. “Darlin’, if there isn’t an elevator in that high rise, I may have to pay one of those muscled-up fellas over there to get your trunk to the tenth floor,” my dad says, his gaze shifting back and forth from the building to me. I grunt and grab the other end of the trunk, damn well determined no one is talking to any muscled-up anybodies. Hell. No. I hear Dad’s sigh of relief once we get inside and hear the pinging of an elevator. The sentiment quickly dies at the sight of the monstrous line of other students, parents, and trunks waiting impatiently in front of the two—yes, two—elevators. I slap his shoulder and sigh, resigned. “Buck up, old man. Looks like it’s gonna be one of those days … shit.” “Language,” he mutters with not an ounce of conviction. “Damnit.” White cinder block walls. Two bed frames bolted to the floor with blue, plastic mattresses sitting on top, looking shiny and unwelcoming. Formica-covered desks with chips along the edges and weathered wooden chairs shoved against them. One two-by-two window—glass foggy and too high to peer out of without standing on top of aforementioned desks. One lonely looking sink with exposed pipes and a matchbox-sized mirror on top of it. My new home … at least for this semester. I rotate in a slow circle, taking it all in, not that there’s much to see. Dad left a few hours ago amidst an onslaught of, “Are you sure?” and “You can always start next semester.” I followed them with my own barrage of, “This is what I want,” and “I’ll be just fine.” But the truth is, now I’m not so sure. As my gaze flits from the empty walls, the cloudy window and mirror, and the carvings on the side of the desk— I heart penises.

Never forget (with a rudimentary drawing of a brontosaurus alongside it). And my personal favorite: Here I sit, Broken hearted. I masturbated, Then I farted. Robert Frost, eat your heart out. Profound words from the ghosts of students past. What would I leave behind for the next person … not a single thought bubbles to the surface. Because, just like this room, I’m empty. I shut my eyes and fight back the sorrow that clings to every part of me. I blow out a breath and try to exhale the hatred crushing my lungs at the mere thought of Remy Fucking Rodrigue. How could I have been so naive and stupid? Looking back, I see the signs—the not-so-subtle hints of what was to come— like graffiti painted on the billboard of my ridiculous life. And I fight back the tears always ready to fall at the thought of Ever. Ever … no matter how hard I try, my heart won’t let him go. I’ll never forget the way his lips had brushed against mine, or the way he’d made me feel like I was his solace, so I try to remember the blank look on his face, his hazy, unfocused eyes as he snorted powder up his nose. The ultimate finger to me … to Easton … to everything that had mattered in his life. The truth of it is I’m too broken to help him now. I can’t help him any more than I can help myself. I can’t be his solace anymore. “Hello?” a chipper voice calls from the other side of the door. The knock causes the door to creak open a crack, and a girl with braided hair and a tentative smile peeks inside. “Are you Mara’s new roommate?” I nod, plastering on my most welcoming smile. It feels forced, but it’s the best I can manage. “That’s me.” She motions behind her. “I’m your across-the-hall neighbor. I take it Mara hasn’t gotten here yet. She usually keeps her lips, among other things, locked to her boyfriend until the very last minute. He still lives in her hometown.” “Ah, so that’s where she is,” I say with a chuckle. I slide my fists into my jean pockets and shrug. An uncomfortable silence settles between us as she looks around the room. My head is a jumble of cobwebs and dust bunnies, and mustering up the energy for polite conversation is not something I’m capable of right now. “I like what you’ve done with the place.” She laughs, and her gaze settles on the unopened trunk at the edge of my bed. “Yeah, I’m going for the sterile, generic motif. Kind of depressing, huh?” I frown and fall back onto the plastic mattress. The springs creak beneath me, sounding more like they’ll break than bounce back. “I don’t know. I guess it’s all in how you look at it,” she says, and plops down beside me. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be depressing. Maybe it can be more of a blank slate.” My heart squeezes at her words. Yes … a blank slate. I fucking love the sound of that. I open the chute in my brain and empty out the hate, the loss, the sorrow. I’m not foolish enough to think it’s gone forever, but right now, in this moment, I’m not Low: the girl who lost it all. I’m whoever the hell I want to be. I extend a hand, and a more genuine smile tugs at my mouth. “I’m Marlo.” She ignores my hand, throwing an arm around my shoulder and squeezing tightly. “I’m Sara. Glad to meet you.”





Marlo HER BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAM filters through the electronic sliding doors, and my adrenaline takes over, legs pumping as I pull on my gloves. I glance behind me to make sure Sara is steady in tow, and she smirks as the delivery kit bounces over her shoulder with every stride. “Bet you’re wishing you ran with me in the mornings now?” She chuckles, not even sounding the least bit winded. “Fuck off,” I mumble under my heaving breath, loud enough for just her to hear. It only makes her laugh louder. We’re the first to make it to the front entrance of the hospital, but the show looks well on the road, with a woman laying down in the front seat of a car, clutching her overly pregnant belly, her legs splayed out on the concrete of the parking lot. Her husband is occupied with skipping and hopping while pulling out every hair on his head and hollering “HELP!” at the top of his screechy lungs. Seriously, the dude could audition for choir boy back in the Middle Ages. “Oh God, ahhhhhhhhhhhh! I can’t take it,” she shrieks, clutching the car seat and dashboard, backtracking into the car like she’s just come face to face with Freddie Krueger. No worries, lady. You’d scare the shit out of Freddie, right about now. Sara lowers the delivery kit off her shoulder, and we get to work. I take a quick peek under the woman’s nightgown and give Sara a quick nod, a silent message that no way in hell is this woman making it upstairs to Labor & Delivery to have this baby. I’ll consider us lucky if a doctor even makes it to the parking lot in time. “What’s her name?” I ask the frazzled husband, and he looks at me like I have a unicorn horn sprouting out of my forehead. “Huh?” “Name? What’s your wife’s name?” I match his frantic tone with calm and ease, hoping it’ll rub off on him. “Allie.” I nod once and wave him over. “Thanks. Now get over here. You’re about to meet your baby for the first time. Pretty cool, right?” It’s obvious he thinks I’m a lunatic, but since I’m the lunatic who knows what she’s doing, he complies.

Sara unpacks our equipment as I approach the patient during a break in her contractions. We’ve been working as a team for as long as I can remember, even back when we were nursing students, wide-eyed and scared shitless. Labor and delivery is a team sport, and it helps to work well with the other players. I love it when our shifts coincide—we know our parts and play them seamlessly. She likes everything in order. I crave control. It works. I hear the faint sound of metal on metal, Sara arranging the instruments we’ll need sooner rather than later. Kelly … kelly … scissors … clamp. I block her out and drop down on my haunches, getting eye to eye with the mom-to-be. My lips are stretched into a thin line, and my eyes are somber, because I know what happens next. Now I need to make sure she does. “Allie, look at me,” I say as her eyes dart everywhere but to me. I grab her hand and squeeze. “Allie … we’re not making it upstairs. This is happening.” She shakes her head frantically and scooches away from me. “I-I-I want the epidural.” “Allie, stop. Look at me.” When her eyes meet mine, I give her a sympathetic smile. “We don’t have time.” Her eyes go wild and desperate, darting to Sara for some alternate plan. Sara gives a small shake of her head, and thankfully, Allie sobers. She evens out and turns back to me. Good girl. “Now, I need you to listen to what I’m telling you,” I say, and I see the pain creeping into Allie’s eyes. Terror slides over her expression, about to hit its hellish peak. Another contraction. “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh, oh God!” Allie retreats, but I grab her by the knees before she gets very far. I move in close, eye to eye. “Allie, I know you don’t want to hear it, but you’ve got to listen to me. Do as I say, and you won’t blow out your bottom, okay?” It sucks to scare the shit out of her, but sometimes, you’ve got to hit ‘em where it hurts. Goal-directed fear has its place. “Listen to her, Allie Bear,” her husband cries, brought back into the game by the warning of a vagina explosion. Boys and their toys. What a douche. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. I’m sorry!” She shakes her head frantically back and forth, and I grip her hand and nod, telling her she can do this. She will do this. A blood-curdling scream erupts from the depths of her belly and flies through her parted lips. And then she makes the face. All L&D nurses know the face. She’s pushing. “I’m sorry!” she screams. And then she douses me in a warm, gooey, downright disgusting mess of amniotic fluid. Tip. To. Fucking. Toe. “Oh shit,” her husband cries. “Great aim,” Sara mutters. “Nice and steady,” I say calmly to Allie as the baby’s head crowns. “Keep that push nice and steady, Allie. You’re doing great.” Over the next two contractions, Allie pushes like a champ, and I maneuver the baby out and to her chest where Sara takes over cutting, clamping, and stimulating the little one. I think about what an honor it is to work with such strong women. Allie just went through hell and came out the other side in pure heaven.

I think about how lucky I am, to be part of this miracle. I think about how proud it makes me to use what I know to help other women in what is equally terrifying and magical. What I do not think about is the amniotic fluid and particulate matter that’s pooling in the bottom of my shoes. What I do not think about is the undershirt that’s saturated and sticking to my stomach. Or my bra that weighs ten pounds and needs to be wrung the hell out. God, I can’t stop thinking about it. Footsteps ring out in the entrance behind us, and I turn to see Dr. Howard slinging on his lab coat, hair disheveled and eyes bleary. I see a team of people filtering in behind him. Nursery. ER. Patient Care Tech with a stretcher. Allie’s smiling eyes leave mine and move to Dr. Howard, who’s busy rubbing his eyes and putting on his glasses. Once she has his attention, she glares. “Made your job easy, didn’t I?” Sara barks out a laugh, and I laugh, too. Allie has bite, and I like it. Sara gives me an “I got this” nod, and I turn to Allie. “Congratulations, Allie. She’s absolutely beautiful,” I say. She takes one look at me and her face falls, realizing the not so pleasant state of my clothes. I shake my head and wave her off. “Don’t give it a second thought. Not a single one. I’m going to get cleaned up while Sara stays with you and your little one, yeah?” She nods and shoots me a watery smile. Before I can stand, she grabs me by the hand and squeezes. “Thank you. Just … thank you.” And that’s why I do this. I turn away and clap Dr. Howard on the back before walking away. “The placenta’s all yours, Doc.” “Nice delivery, Marlo. Just remember to fake left next time,” he says with a laugh. I grab my purse out of my locker and pull at the OR scrubs I’d borrowed for the ride home. My demolished pair are in a biohazard bag at my feet. Those bad boys will need an extra hot washing, or four, before they touch my body again. Or maybe I should just cut my losses and toss them in the trash. I fetch my phone out of the side pocket and notice a text waiting for me. Mike: Morning quickie before we crash? I sigh, exhaustion settling in my bones. I’m always beat after my night shifts, but I can usually muster it up for a tussle in the sheets with Mike, my no-strings-attached, sexy times guy. We have not one thing in common other than we’re both in the medical field and brave the graveyard shift, but he doesn’t need to say much to suit my purposes. And he doesn’t ask many questions, so I’ve kept him around longer than most. Me: No can do. I ended the shift with a shower. Mike: Eh? Me: An amniotic fluid shower. Mike: Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. Me: No, that’s the point. No fuck. Next time. Cool? Mike: Ready when you are.

And that’s the great thing about Mike. He’s always ready. Or not. He’d tried to insert himself into my life in the beginning, but once I’d laid out the rules, he was cool about it. So for the last year, we’ve had great sex with no questions and no commitment. We don’t mix friends, and we don’t spend the night. All I ask is that we keep it monogamous. Because diseases. The nurse in me demands it. “Breakfast?” Sara asks as she breezes into the break room to collect her things. “I’m wearing postpartum mesh panties and stolen OR scrubs, anxiously awaiting a Brillo pad scrub down when I get home. What do you think?” “Fiiiine,” she whines, slamming her locker shut. “I’ll grab donuts for Adam and the kids before crashing at my house. I’ll bring a few over to you when I get home. Can you take time away from your scrub down to answer the door when I bring them?” “For melt-in-my-mouth, sugary O’s of goodness? I think I can muster it up. And look at you, sleeping at your own house? I’m surprised you haven’t shut off the utilities.” Sara rolls her eyes and shoves my shoulder. Then she shrugs, because she knows it’s true. Sara is a soon-to-be-expiring lease away from cohabitation with her fiancé, Adam, and his kids, Lily and Gage. He’s a tatted, hella sexy super dad, so I get the attraction. Not to mention, his kids are freaking adorable. Twins. Seriously, the whole lot are a Gap ad waiting to happen. Yeah, I totally get the attraction. The marriage part? Not so much. But Sara and I are hardwired differently, so I keep my mouth shut and hope her happily ever after isn’t just a happy for now. Dreamers don’t take kindly to realists pissing in their Cheerios. “I don’t want Adam to have to shush the kids all day while I sleep. That’s not fair to any of them. But I need my snuggles before I head to my house.” Her face gets all gooey and sweet, making me the teeniest bit nauseous, but I smile all the same. Her dream, not mine. It doesn’t escape my attention that she says “my house” and not “home.” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss Sara lately. We’ve been next door neighbors for years, friends since college. I see her at work all the time, but it’s not the same as crossing the yard and hanging out with my friend. I’m being a whiny bitch, but sometimes it feels like she’s moving on without me. “Don’t forget I like sprinkles,” I call out as we head into the parking lot and go our separate ways. It’s not quite seven in the morning, and the city of Providence is still sleepy, making my drive home quick and painless. Some mornings, I find myself parked in my driveway with no recollection of how I got there. It scares the hell out me, so I make it a point to chug some Diet Dr. Pepper before hitting the road. Every night nurse has a poison of choice, and DDP is mine. We take our caffeine seriously. I trudge up my walkway, and tackle each porch step like the mountain it is. Almost. There. I slide the key into the lock before I notice it. A folded piece of paper wedged into the frame of the door, just above the knob. It’s probably a flyer of some sort. I pull it out of the door, noticing the weight of the paper feels less like Zippy’s Car Wash and more like a wedding invitation. So I flip it open. And all the blood drains from my face. My heart pounds in my ears like a thrumming drumbeat. An iron fist clenches my chest, wringing the breath from my lungs mercilessly. Years, years, of looking in the rearview mirror, and I come face to face with my past in a head-on collision—my scarred and blackened heart will certainly be one of the casualties. My fingers tremble uncontrollably as I jam the key into the lock and jingle. “Come on, come on, come on,” I hiss, releasing a pent-up breath when the knob finally gives way.

Once I stumble across the threshold, I throw my full weight into shoving the door closed and engaging the deadbolt. A rush of memories flits through my mind like a high speed highlight reel of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the irreparable. “Where are you, Ev—” I stop, his name lodging in my throat like a bowling ball. God… I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe. My eyes refocus on the note clutched in my hand. Your lips luscious red, My balls achingly blue, Have you any idea How long I’ve searched for you? I bend back the window blinds and scan the road, looking for him, knowing he must be here. The street and driveways look peaceful and undisturbed, but I don’t trust my own eyes. In the span of a minute, sixty fucking seconds, all my trust and confidence takes a nosedive into the back seat, then crawls into the trunk. Wouldn’t I feel him if he were here? I’m not sure anymore. It’s been so long. It’s been no time at all. Haven’t I always known it would come to this? Haven’t I?

J.A. DEROUEN RESIDES IN South Louisiana with her husband, son (aptly nicknamed “The Professor”), and her furry friend, Scout. She has earned bachelor’s degrees in psychology and nursing. When she's not writing or inhaling romance novels by the stack, she works as a women's health nurse. She’s been an avid reader and daydreamer since childhood, and she's never stopped turning the page to get to the next happily ever after. You can find J.A. Derouen online at: Newsletter Sign Up http://bit.ly/1UEzjhu Facebook Author Page www.facebook.com/JADerouen Facebook Group www.facebook.com/groups/JAsJezebels/ Instagram @jaderouen Twitter @JADerouen1 Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8184871.J_A_DeRouen Now Available: HOPE OVER FEAR (Over Series #1) Amazon - http://amzn.to/1J8QYp1 Amazon UK - http://amzn.to/1yzdOWU

WINGS OVER POPPIES (Over Series #2) Amazon - http://amzn.to/1CR3xBE Amazon UK - http://amzn.to/1E79MXQ STORMS OVER SECRETS (Over Series #3) Amazon - http://amzn.to/1Qck1M0 Amazon UK - http://amzn.to/1VSp5fI FIRE OVER FROST Amazon - https://amzn.com/B01B0UYPOU Amazon UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01B0UYPOU

WITH EACH BOOK, my list of gratitude grows by leaps and bounds. I’ve been blessed with wonderful people along this journey, and the people I recognize below is in no way an exhaustive list. As always, a big thank you to my husband and my professor for understanding the endless hours spent sitting in front of the computer. Thank you for your patience and enduring my incessant daydreaming and the ever-present stench of coffee permeating from my clothes. A million thanks to my parents for the sleepovers, fishing trips, and swimming so the professor didn’t die of boredom as I typed, typed, typed. To the wonderful ladies who saw my words before they were ready to be seen. You pushed, you questioned, you challenged, and I can’t thank you enough for that. Casey, Kristy, Tracey, Bianca, and Laura, your help through this process and your words of encouragement mean the world to me. To my amazing editor, Madison Seidler, proofreader, Alexis Durbin, formatter, Julie Titus, and cover designer, Daniela Conde, I truly appreciate all of your time and dedication. To Kristi from Sassy Savvy Fabulous for your help wrapping my head around all of these moving parts. You’ve all been wonderful resources, and I’m so happy I found such wonderful people to work with. Your professionalism and hard work help me breathe easy when I press publish, and I can’t put a price on that feeling. To the fabulous Indie Chicks Rock girls—thank you for the advice, the encouragement, and the endless shenanigans. I truly appreciate your friendship and feel blessed to have such a great support system. Indie Chicks Rock!! To all the amazing bloggers and book clubs who take the time to review and post, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your kind words and efforts have meant the world to me. You all are the heart of this indie community, and I’m so appreciative of every post, review, and comment. To the amazing ladies in my Jezebel group, thank you so much for your friendship, encouragement, and support. I love this group so much. We are sassy, sexy, highly inappropriate, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. This fun little group has become my safe place, and I thank you for that. To all of the wonderful readers out there, I hope Marlo and Ever grab you and won’t let go. I hope you enjoy reading this story half as much as I enjoyed writing it. Every message or comment I receive from a reader is the most amazing gift. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading my stories— there is no greater compliment.