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“Will you?” Evie volleyed back with a soft grin, hoping her pleasant countenance would dim any perceived harshness in her reply. She wasn’t being snarky or judgmental. She just wanted Caleb to understand they were both entitled to their decisions and neither one was wrong.
Caleb eased back into his chair. He opened his mouth but said nothing.
“I’m sorry. You’re a great guy, but I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”
Disappointment lingered in his eyes. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“We could still be friends, though,” said Evie.
Caleb nodded. “I’d like that.”
THIRTEEN
EVIE
Then, Saturday, August 9, fifteen years ago
The snap of fire-ravaged driftwood spit amber sparks into the dusky sky above Inganess Beach, its temporary inhabitants in various degrees of undress and intoxication. The arrival of exam results was a reason to blow off steam, and while Evie still had two more years of revising, stressing, and testing before heading to university, she relished the opportunity to spend the last gasp of summer with friends.
“We’ve so earned this.” Sitting on a sand-speckled blanket bathed in the distant glow of the crackling bonfire, she tossed back the dregs of the cider she’d been nursing, its warm liquid tart on her tongue.
“Too bad it’s your last week of freedom,” said Stuart, munching crisps as Sunita made out with her boyfriend.
Evie lowered the empty can and stared out into the bay where the rusted hulk of The Juniata, an abandoned WWII blockship, sat amid the choppy waves. “Summer can’t be over already!” She grimaced into a groan as several classmates splashed and squealed in the chilly water. “I’ve done nothing but work and worry…”
Her gaze meandered to the bubble-gum pinks dappling the sleepy sky, the palette similar to a certain someone’s favorite shirt.
…and chat with Nick.
True to his word twelve months earlier, Nick was regularly in touch. He’d share audition woes and family tales, and whenever Evie’s exam stress robbed her of food or sleep, he’d commiserate and send study fuel—decadent biscuits—all the way from ritzy Fortnum & Mason in London. Evie, in turn, was the reassuring voice at the end of Nick’s phone, offering calm support until his panic attacks subsided, giving way to their usual banter about musicals and school, the joys of genealogy and roller skating (Evie), and the merits of Grease 2 and bowling (Nick).
Sometimes flirty but always respectful, Nick’s growing bond with Evie was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. No longer starry-eyed, she viewed him as a trusted confidante, one who made her feel seen and heard, and yet, her most guarded secret remained hidden. Evie didn’t want the shadow of Crohn’s to follow her into this blossoming friendship—at least not yet. The time would surely come when she had to open up, but for now she was reveling in the delight of being known for her wacky taste in musicals instead of her disease.
A tug of her gray cardigan and a “…don’t you think?” made her retreat from the cotton candy sky.
“Think what?” she asked.
“Summer hasn’t been all work,” said Stuart. “The snogs, blow jobs—we’ve barely come up for air.” Discarding the crisps, he tilted closer. “Come here.”
Evie complied and met his lips, salty and slightly parted.
“Snoggin’s the BESST!” Slurring into a giggle, Sunita untangled herself from Puggie, a chubby, fellow part-timer at the pharmacy with a wispy moustache and dark curls. “It cures all.” She lurched forward, scoring a lager standing up in the sand.
Evie broke her kiss with Stuart as Sunita wrenched back the can’s ring pull.
“But snogging doesn’t fix shitty exam results.” Puggie’s eyes dimmed.
“Oh, baby.” Sunita pouted.
“There’s only one thing for it, beuy,” said Stuart, scratching his bristly hair. “More booze.”
“YES!” Arms outstretched, Sunita thrust her beer into Evie’s hand and draped herself around Puggie, pulling him downward for another sloppy kiss.
Laughing, Stuart plucked his car keys from his jacket pocket. “Evie, more cider?”
“Uh…” She diverted her eyes away from Sunita’s ravenous mauling of Puggie and spied Sam and his friends down the beach tossing driftwood on the fire. “I…think I’m good.” She anchored Sunita’s beer in the sand and smiled. “Thanks, though.”
Stuart pushed himself up. “No worries,” he grunted. “Won’t be long.” Plodding across the sand, he swerved a cluster of plastered teens shouting nonsense and waving sizzling sparklers, their defiant gestures carving fuck into the impending darkness.
