Underwater(48)

Evan follows me up the stairs and stops me at my door. He leans into me, and I have to grab handfuls of his shirt to keep my balance.

“So it’s okay that I kissed you?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” I fumble awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot.

“And I can give the cell phone back to you?”

I nod.

“And you’ll answer my texts?”

“Yes.”

He leans down until his lips are so close to my ear that my nerves get zippy. “Thank you,” he whispers.

He kisses the shell of my ear, and I’m suddenly fully aware that I’m in a wet, clingy bathing suit and Evan isn’t. His fingertips press into the bare skin of my back, pulling me closer to him. I grip the edges of his soaked shirt. I hold on tight. He plants butterfly kisses from my chin to my cheek, stopping at my mouth. He looks at me, his eyes asking me if it’s okay. I nod and kiss him first.





chapter thirty-four

By the time my mom gets home, Taylor is long gone, off to some class at the gym to build muscles even bigger than the ones she already has. Since then, Evan and I have gone from not doing homework to doing homework. My mom asks him to stay for dinner. He says yes before she even has all the words out. He seems to like hanging out in our apartment. Maybe it’s because his mom is gone so much. That must suck. I’m by myself most of the time, too, but at least I know I’ll get to have dinner with my mom and Ben at the end of the day.

My mom makes pasta with pesto sauce and I make a salad. Ben and Evan are in charge of the garlic bread, so some of it comes out charred, but not awful. We eat the way we always do—me on the kitchen side of the counter and my mom and Ben across from me. Evan has his own spot now, too, on the stool between Ben and my calm-down checklist.

We talk about things that matter and things that don’t. My mom asks Evan if he likes living in Pacific Palms.

“I don’t hate it,” he says, smiling at me.

After dinner, we all take parts in Ben’s play and recite them out loud. The performance is in a week and a half, and Ben brought home tickets he made in class. He even brought one for Evan. When he hands it over, Evan leans in to me and whispers, “It can be our first date. The theater. So highbrow.”

My heart thunders and my stomach churns, but I hold it in. “Maybe,” I say.

*

After Ben is bathed and tucked into bed, I tell my mom I need to stay up to finish a school assignment. She sighs the sigh of someone who is perpetually tired. She can’t exactly tell me not to do my schoolwork, but I know she wishes our apartment would be settled so she could go to bed in peace. Evan picks up on her mood.

“We could study at my house,” he suggests. “I mean, would you be able to?”

My mom looks at me expectantly. Another door opening. Another step forward. Another give. Another take. She wants me to say yes. I don’t want to let her down.

“Um, sure,” I say.

Evan grins. My mom visibly decompresses.

“But not too late. And be quiet when you come home,” she says.

I grab my school stuff and follow Evan out my front door and in through his. Even though I’m only going five steps from home, I’m jittery. My heart flutters fast and my palms sweat. There’s that twist in my stomach that isn’t quite nausea, but could be. There isn’t a list taped to the wall to help me feel better if I need it. What if I need it? Because this is someone else’s home. This is someone else’s space. It’s not where I spend my days or my moments of panic.

This is Evan’s.

This is a place where I assume he lives a life that’s full and rich and vibrant.

Evan flicks a switch by the front door and the living room lights up. His apartment is the flip-flopped version of mine, which only adds to the off-kilter feel of things. I look around and am surprised there are still moving boxes sitting in the middle of the floor.

“You haven’t finished unpacking? It’s been two months.”

He laughs. “What? We’ve unloaded the basics.”

I check out the boxes emblazoned with bold black letters: COOKBOOKS, CHRISTMAS, ART SUPPLIES. Hobbies and holidays packed into boxes and sealed shut.

“What can I say? We’re not very organized. And my mom is crazy busy, as you know.” He ticks his head toward the hallway. “This way. I gotta get my book.”

He switches on the hall light. I follow him past his mom’s fluttery skirts left to dry on hangers in the doorway of the bathroom and some paintings that haven’t yet been hung. I stop to look at them and realize the paintings are portraits like mine. Connor’s paintings. One of Evan. One of his mom. They’re amazing.

Evan disappears into his room and turns on music while I stand staring. He switches on a song from last year that reminds me of swim practice because our coach would blast it from the speakers on the pool deck while we warmed up. It’s a song I like. It’s a song about good things.

Evan leans out of the doorway to look for me. “You lost?”

“Oh, I was just checking out the paintings. They’re Connor’s.”

He nods.

“He really was good. I remember that.” I turn away from Evan, studying the empty wall. “Do you want me to help you hang them?”

“Right now?”