Page 32 of Striking Range

I’m lying sprawled out on the couch the next morning, staring at the white, popcorned ceiling. I’ve called Everett twice, but he’s declined both of my attempts at reaching him.

The clock on the wall reads noon, and I have a game in three hours. It’s a home game against Jacksonville, and we lost to them last year, so I’m a bit on edge. I’m sure Dante is, too.

But more than getting this game done and over with, I want to know why Everett is ignoring me. Does he genuinely think he should control my life? Lately it sure feels like it.

Or maybe he’s homophobic? But how does that work when he also likes shoving his tongue down my throat? Could it be… What if he didn’t actually like it? Was he just that drunk?

Either way, who is he to try and control me? Just last night he was all over some girl, laughing the night away as if they were long-lost lovers.

I hate my memory of it. The burning ache. But why? I can’t place if it’s rage from his pure audacity, hurt because of what we had just done together, or jealousy.

But jealousy? Do I even have the capability to like Everett past sexual attraction? I mean, sure, I want to find out what every inch of his skin tastes like, but could I go on a date with him?

At the sound of my front door unlocking, I tense up, eyes shooting to the hallway even as I don’t bother to sit up.

There is only one spare key to my apartment.

Everett looks like shit as he walks in. His blond hair is disheveled, still wearing yesterday’s clothes; his eyes are tired and red. He stares right at me with that same sad, pained expression.

“Hey,” he says, swallowing thickly.

I sigh, sitting up and patting the cushion next to me. Slowly, he finds his way to the spot and sits down, careful not to touch me.

I hate that.

“Will you talk to me now?” I press him. “You’ve ignored me all morning.” Everett says nothing, so I add, “What did I do? I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

Angling myself to face him, I practically plead at this point, which is far beneath me. But I miss his voice, his laugh, his smile. He hasn’t been this upset with me in, well, years.

“You didn’t… you’re not… fuck. It’s not you.” Everett appears to be struggling, which just confuses me more.

I blink, then blink again. “What?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just a mess; I’m sorry. I was drunk and being stupid and protective. Can we just drop it?”

Well, his explanation doesn’t quite line up with his actions, but if it makes this sad puppy routine go away, I’ll do damn near anything.

“Yeah, sure,” I concede, and Everett finally returns my stare, but I see no relief. Only more confusion, more conflict. “What is it, Evie? Just tell me.”

Everett looks to be in pain. As if he feels a great turmoil as he debates speaking on whatever is so clearly tearing him up.

After a long, terrible moment, he finally snaps. With a slight tremble of his lips, he asks, “Skylar, are you gay?”

This is not what I figured he’d say—not in the slightest. Sure, I’m not hiding it, but I’ve never said it out loud either. This would be the first.

I don’t lie to Everett. And he’s watching me, hands laid flat on his thighs as they shake—so anxious that I can’t tell who’s more nervous, him or me.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone calm and even.

Everett’s eyes widen, and he stumbles over his words for a moment. “S-since when?”

“Um, always, I guess.”

His back straightens, turning to mirror my position on the couch. “But you never told me.”

I shrug, tapping my fingers on the back of the couch where my arm rests. “It never felt important. I didn’t like anyone, so it didn’t matter.”

I watch his brown eyes narrow, his fingers curling into fists.