Page 37 of Over the Edge

“Well, excuse me if I’m making assumptions based on the fact that you treat your visits home like damn business trips and you won’t even claim this place publicly as where you’re from,”he says, and I throw him a look. “Yeah, I’ve seen the fucking interviews. Everyone loves to paint the picture of the boys from Tennessee who came from middle class backgrounds to become stars. The fucking American dream.”

“What if I don’t want to be here?”

I come back frequently enough. I check in and keep tabs through the endless group messages. But staying?

I don’t have a permanent place here. Alina’s guest room is just that, temporary. It doesn’t matter if this is where I was born, even when I had a home here it wasn’t like it felt like one. This garage is a manifestation of that too. It was a place I’d visit because there was nowhere else to go. I made myself useful enough to be invited back. Fletcher had a spot here because he was born to take over. I always felt one screw up away from being asked to leave.

“Doesn’t matter. God knows why she’s using that time and spending it with you. So, even if you hate being here, find a fucking ounce of decency and don’t waste her time,” he chastises, the words pelting me in the chest. He crosses his brawny arms the same way his dad used to when he’d check my work back in the day and found a loose bolt.

“I didn’t mean to offend her.” That’s the last thing I wanted. But there’s this constant tug-of-war. Wanting her to be around while knowing it’s a terrible idea. Wanting to keep her even if I know that I’ll screw it up.

“Words work wonders, you know. I might have aConversations for Dummiesguide sitting around somewhere that I can loan you,” he says, returning to his usual unserious self and rifling through a stack of documents on the desk.

“Since when can you read?”

“Since Emily said she liked books.” He beams. The man would do anything for his high school sweetheart.

“And does the town golden boy have any ideas about how to get a girl to forgive him?”

“You coming to me for relationship advice? If I knew it was my lucky day I would have put more money down on my bet that Sara and Winnie would put passive aggressive Shakespeare quotes on their shop windows this week.” His notion isn’t that far-fetched since it wouldn’t be the first time they used literature to air their grievances.

“I’m not asking you for relationship advice.”

“Platonic, romantic. Doesn’t matter.” He shrugs, and I don’t bother to correct him. Evelyn and I know each other but I wouldn’t go as far to say we’re friends. As of now, we have mutual interest tying us together. An arm’s length distance is the safest, but if I want even that, I do have to repair this misunderstanding.

“So, do you have any ideas?” I prompt.

A smile breaks across his face. “Lucky for you, tomorrow is Tuesday.”

I text Evelyn first thing in the morning to see if she’s free tonight, all I get in response is a calendar invite.

Mysterious outing: Tuesday, 7 p.m. - 11 p.m. @ ???

Maybe it’s not the best sign, with its passive aggressive undertone, but at least she’s giving me a chance to redeem myself. I pull up to her place a bit before seven and because she’sstill not disconnected from my Bluetooth, I get a brief soundbite of what she’s listening to.

“—out track nine is objectively the strongest, but is mid-range compared toSeeing DoubleandPassing Through. I'd rather relisten to—” The man overly articulates every word, broaching newscaster territory.

I only get the sentence to go off of, but I recognize the names of Lyla West’s first and second albums.

Evelyn’s albums. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that.

Though I’ve casually listened to the albums before, I’ve been relistening to them recently with heightened intent. I tell myself it’s for research, that it will help me learn what she’s capable of and familiarize myself with her style of writing. There’s another layer to it, listening to the songs and knowing that the words are hers makes me feel like I understand her more. There are emotions in the music that I’ve never seen her outwardly show. Anguish, longing, and an emptiness that never slips onto her face.

The front door flies open, revealing Evelyn hastily shoving a granola bar into her mouth so she can free her hands to grab her keys. Once the door is locked she waves and sprints over to the convertible.

“Hey,” she says, the words muffled through another bite as she slips onto the leather seat next to me.

“Were you listening to a review earlier?” I ask.

“Maybe. It’s not like you care,” Evelyn brushes me off. For a moment, it looks like she’s going to kick her feet up on the dash then thinks better of it.

“It’s not healthy to listen to shit like that if you’re already in a rut,” I say.

“I like to know what expectations I need to meet with the album.” She shrugs.

I know I’m dipping into dangerous waters with this topic, but I keep going. “I thought we talked about this.”

“I don’t remember podcasts coming up over the last few conversations.”

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