Page 31 of From Now On

“A pillow wall?” I repeat, amused.

“Yeah. A wall of pillows.”

She says it like it should be obvious, and I experience this sudden flash of déjà vu, reminded of my recurring thought the night we met—that I’d never met anyone like Eve.

Almost four years later, I still haven’t.

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“With what?”

“With the pillow wall.”

She laughs, and the drab motel room feels brighter. “I think I can handle it, thanks.”

“Okay.” I walk over to my duffel, and Eve disappears into the bathroom.

I usually sleep in boxers, but that’s not an option tonight. I pull on a pair of sweats and a clean T-shirt, then turn the thermostat down a few degrees. Hopefully Eve won’t mind. The comforter on the bed looks thick, so I’ll be sweating otherwise.

I find my charger and plug in my phone, then lie down on the mattress. Eve was right—it’s surprisingly comfortable. I lie as close to the edge as possible to make sure Eve has plenty of space.

The last sound I register is the running tap as Eve gets ready for bed.

Persistent buzzing cuts through the haze of sleep. I fumble for where I think I left my phone, finally locating it thanks to the charge cord.

My stomach drops as soon as I see the name lit up on the screen.

Fuck.

I roll out of bed, shove my feet into my sneakers, grab a room key off the table, and then hustle outside. I close the door behind me as quietly as possible, hoping not to wake Eve, then swipe to accept the call.

“Hi, Sean.” I take a seat at the top of the cement steps.

“Hunter!” my brother crows.

Fuck,fuck, fuck.

He’s high. On what, I couldn’t even begin to guess. It started with opioids, but I know he’s sampled coke and heroin.

I press my palm flat against my forehead, forcing myself to take deep, even breaths, when all I really want to do is hurl my phone down to the cracked asphalt below and watch it shatter into a thousand unreachable pieces.

“How’s it hanging, little bro?” Sean continues. “You sick of the shitty weather yet?”

At least he remembers I go to college in Washington. Last time my brother called, he was so out of it he thought I was still in high school, living at Mom and Dad’s. Asked me to come pick him up at the corner convenience store where we used to stop for candy after hockey practice.

“Where are you, Sean?” I ask evenly.

Passivity is the best way to deal with him, I’ve learned. Too cheerful, and he tries to get me to party with him. Too angry, and he gets belligerent.

Most times, I pretend I’m a 911 operator. Poised, composed…detached. I pretend it’s a stranger on the other end of the line, not my childhood hero. The funnier, more outgoing, more charming Morgan brother. The guy who helped me tie my first pair of hockey skates—hand-me-downs from him.

It fucking killed me that Sean wasn’t there to see me win a championship two weeks ago. But this call—knowing rehab didn’t stick,again—is doing even more damage.

“Sean?”

I’m so caught up in my own disappointment, it takes me too long to realize he never answered my question. That his end is dead air.

I stand and start pacing, continuing to repeat his name.

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