Page 22 of Tips and Trysts

The silence hangs heavy in the room.

“Then why,” Governor Logan says, enunciating every syllable, “are you running for Congress?”

All of a sudden, I see the governor in Everett. The coldness. The indignation. The bluntness. It all came from this man—and to my surprise, Everett has never looked more uncertain.

He glances at me before he faces his father once more. “Ten minutes. Please.”

Governor Logan tips his head. “I’m feeling generous.Please, take fifteen.” The words are formal, if not polite—but there’s a tinge of something barely detectible—corrosive. Still, he leaves.

Now that it’s just us, Everett falls into the chair by my bed. His exhale is labored and choppy like he hasn’t fully emptied his lungs in weeks. His eyes are weary, and the tinges of red around his irises make the green pop.

He’s seriously the only person on the planet who looks hotter when he’s haggard.

The silence feels cloying even in the already sterile hospital room, and I know Everett won’t be the first to speak. He’s too busy staring at my left arm, which is tucked into a sling, recently stitched, and numb from anesthetics. When he finally looks away, he moves on to the heart monitor and the IV tube embedded in my skin.

“You’re welcome,” I finally say, being as cheeky as I can. The codeine makes it sound sarcastic though.

Everett is back to gawking at my arm, so it takes him a beat to respond with a muttered, “Shit.” He looks up. “I mean, thank you, obviously. I’m grateful. I’m indescribably grateful. I just…” His gaze slips again. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and grips his hair with his left hand—because his right one is wrapped in gauze. He looks up. “Do you have any idea how much seeing you hurt fucks me up?”

Eyebrows high, I blink, not expecting the question in the slightest. “I have no idea, Everett. What are you talking about?”

“If anything happened to you, I wouldn’t recover. I’d beruined.”

His voice strains on the word ‘ruined’ like the syllables came right from his gut. His good hand is gripping the bed’s railingnow, and alongside the penetrating focus in his green eyes, the clues align.

Does Everett…care about me?

“What is this?” I question softly, brow furrowed. “What’s happening here?”

He straightens his spine. “You’re into me,” he states, and the way he bobs his chin is downright factual.

I have to replay his words in my head three times until I’m positive I heard him correctly and I’m not levitating on painkillers. “I’m into you? This is news to me.”

Everett draws his head back. “What are you talking about? You want me. You said it earlier in the garden.”

“No, you asked me if I wanted you, and then we were interrupted.”

His face is blank—not unreadable, just uncharacteristically blank. The only signs of life are his eyes, which have lowered to the side like he’s parsing the evening’s events.

“We were interrupted,” I repeat. “You know, by the bullet. The one that went in my arm.”

“But last night, you kissed me.”

“I know. I was there.”

“You took a bullet for me,” he states, speaking faster now. “You literally took a bullet for me. Why…”

Why did I do it?

I’ve spent the last three hours processing it, and I still don’t have a clear answer.

It’s a peculiar thing, staring death in the face. Rationality, inhibitions, and logic disappear at the first sign of danger. Sometimes, things…happen.Take Valeria and Lander, for example. Last year, when the Emergency Management System accidentally sent an alert to everyone in the District warning of a (nonexistent) incoming ballistic missile, they spent their lastfifteen minutes fucking—and they had barely spoken to each other at that point.

In the face of death,someone—not naming names—may be compelled to sacrifice her life for a guy who once told her he couldn’t be seen with her because he was going to be the President of the United States of America one day.

…Fine. I’m that someone. It was me.

“I don’t know why I did it,” I admit, letting my shoulders drop and regretting it immediately when pain spreads through my left arm.

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