Beautiful Graves(100)
Folding my arms over my chest, I look at the couch. “I used to get so mad at Nora and Colt whenever they had sex on this thing. I felt sexually harassed. Is that weird?”
Joe chuckles. “Depends. Were you on the couch while they were porking?”
“Aw, no.”
“In that case, no harassment. Jealousy, maybe.”
“You’re a vile man, Joseph Graves.”
“And you love it, Everlynne Lawson.”
We both glance at each other, smirking. I’m the first to break the invisible barrier between us. I reach with my pinkie to touch his. It’s just a brush, but it does the trick. Goose bumps roll over my skin. His cheeks pink.
“Thanks for being there for me,” I whisper.
He smiles but doesn’t say anything. His pinkie laces with mine. I suck in a breath. We stand like this, barely touching, the music coming from the Bluetooth bouncing against the empty walls. “This Charming Man.” Such an underrated song. Joe clenches his pinkie through mine and tugs me to him. I let out a gasp, my body colliding with his. His mouth is on mine. His hands are in my hair. We are kissing like two crazed people in the middle of the empty living room, panting and moaning. He wraps his hands around me, backs me to the couch, and gives me a shove until I fall on top of it.
“What are you doing?” I ask, reaching for his belt.
“Making sure Dale gets a couch with an interesting life story.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dale shows up for the couch. He looks about seven years old. Okay, more like seventeen. Still a baby, though. He and Joe do the bro hug and elaborate handshake.
“Where’ve you been, man?” Dale asks.
Joe hands him a cigarette, then ruffles his hair. “Took a little trip to Cali.”
“What’d you lose there?” Dale frowns.
Joe jerks his thumb toward me. “This smart-ass. Dale, this is Ever. Ever, this is Dale.”
We shake hands. I smile. It is surprisingly easy to smile after feeling Joe’s weight against mine. Dale asks, “Is Ever your real name?”
“No. I just really like to be asked about it a thousand times.”
Dale and Joe both laugh. I’ve got my sass back. This is huge. I haven’t sassed in a long time.
Dale sniffs the air. “Is it just me or does the couch smell funky?”
Joe and I both conceal our chuckles with coughs. When Dale notices, he smacks Joe. “Gross, man. No way am I paying for it now.”
“You weren’t going to pay for it anyway.” Joe slaps two twenties into his friend’s hand. “Go buy that cute baby of yours something nice and tell her it’s from Uncle Joey.”
Dale the baby has a baby?
Dale rolls his eyes. “She’s four months old. The only things she loves are bright colors and my girlfriend’s tits. Which, honestly, are both awesome.”
We drive back to Joe’s apartment afterward. I tell him he is great for looking after Dale. His concern for the guy shines through.
“He’s a good kid. A responsible one too. I like it when people show up and own up to their shit.”
“High moral ground wasn’t always a part of your charm.” I grin. “Remember when you found a loophole for my condom problem in Spain?”
“My real solution might’ve made you slap me silly. I wanted in that hypothetical condom real bad.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Really?” He smirks. “You wanted into that condom too?”
We both laugh.
“I feel like we’re in a limbo,” he tells me as we slide past familiar scenery I never really paid attention to before. I lived on autopilot, waiting for life to begin when it was already happening.
“We are kind of in a limbo,” I admit.
“Whose fault is that?”
Mine. It is all on me. And because of that, I keep silent. Unlike Dale, I don’t own up or show up where Joe is concerned. I’ve only started doing it with my family. Baby steps, right?
Joe’s nostrils flare. “I think I may be a rat.”
“Excuse me?” I whip my head to look at him.
“A rat. I think I am one.”
“Sorry, but you’re going to have to elaborate here.”
“In the 1950s, a guy named Curt Richter did a series of experiments on rats. It showed the resilience and power of hope. Basically, he threw rats into bucketsful of water and watched them drown. A group of them, he let die. Some took minutes. Some took days. But others, he offered help and support. Just when he felt that the rats were about to give up and give in, he would pull them up, giving them hope, before throwing them back into the bucket. He discovered that his hypothesis was right. Given a glimmer of hope, the rats decided to fight. They swam, mustering whatever energy was left in them to try to survive. I feel like I’m a rat. You show me a sliver of hope, and I jump at it. But I’m done jumping.”
I watch him silently, unsure of what to say.
“I’m not going to wait for you forever.” He speeds ahead, bypassing three cars in front of us. “At some point, I’m just going to drown.”
“I know.”
We order Chinese and eat it on the couch, our feet up on the coffee table. We play Jenga, and he wins. Twice. We have sex on his kitchen counter, on his couch, and in the shower. We talk about the best horror flicks ever made, and we’re in complete agreement that Get Out, despite being fairly new, is the creepiest we’ve ever seen. Then we watch it together, just to make sure we don’t want to change our minds. We don’t.