Page 44 of Under My Skin
She opens her mouth like she’s about to object, but then snaps it shut with a nod. “Right.” A beat of silence passes between us as she helps secure the opposite corner, but when she stands up straight, she adds, “I think I’ll be able to handle seeing my parents better tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah?” We move to the bottom of the bed and work on the other two corners. “Why’s that?”
Lucy shrugs. “I don’t know. I think learning about them doing something so out of character made me almost expect them to be different people. But they were still them. Even if they’re holding onto secrets, I guess it doesn’t have to take away from who they are to me.”
I reach for the top sheet. “I think that’s a good way to approach it. I mean, regardless of what happened between them, your dad will always be the guy who sings happy birthday in soprano.”
A smile lifts her lips, and she shakes her head as she reaches for the other side of the sheet. “He is so weird.” As soon as the sheet settles between us, she adds, “How’s your mom by the way?”
I usually shut down any conversation about either of my parents, but coming from Lucy, the question doesn’t hit the same. There’s something about the way she looks at me that has me wanting to tell her the truth. “I think she’s struggling,” I finally say. The corners of Lucy’s lips dip into a slight frown, but she doesn’t say anything. She just waits for me to continue. My heart rate picks up in my chest, but I force myself to say what’s been on my mind for far too long. “The worst part is not knowing how to help her, and when I don’t know how to help, being around her just makes me feel guilty. So, I’ll stay away for a while, but that makes the guilt worse, too.”
Lucy eyes me carefully and feeling this exposed I want to bolt out the door. “I don’t think it’s your job to figure out how to help her. I think just being there for her would be enough.”
I nod, swallowing down whatever feelings she’s on the verge of tapping into. Reaching for a pillow, I put on the fresh pillowcase and toss it toward the top of the bed, all with her still studying me.
“How have you been holding up since . . .” her voice trails, but our eyes lock, and I know what she’s referring to.
“Fine,” I answer too quickly. “I mean, it’s been a while.” I grab the second pillowcase and run my fingers over the edge of the fabric. “The time passing somehow makes it both better and worse.”
She takes a seat on the bed. “How so?”
I look down at the pillowcase, still running my fingers over the fabric. With a shrug, I finally move to put the case on the pillow. “I don’t know. In some ways, the wound feels less fresh. The shock of him not being here starts to wear off, but he’s ingrained in everything. Everything is a reminder of what’s lost or what could have been.” My eyes jump to her, and she’s still giving me her full attention. I toss the second pillow toward the top of the bed and let out a humorless laugh. “Grief is exhausting.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice small. “And here I am, venting about my parents.” She looks down and picks at the sleeve of her sweater. “What I’m going through seems trivial in comparison.”
“Not really.” I take a seat next to her, resting my elbows on my knees. When I look over at her, her eyes are glassy. I have no way of knowing if it’s the vodka in her system or whatever she’s feeling right now, but I make sure to hold her stare when I say, “You’restill grieving something. It might not be the same, but the future you envisioned with your parents looks different than how you thought it would.”
The corner of her mouth pulls into a sad smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
I want to reach for her hand, to comfort her in some way, but I don’t. Not because I’m too broken to offer her anything. I actually think comforting her would comfort me too, but doing anything with Lucy is starting to feel a lot like playing with fire. Everything with her is magnified. Every touch, every look, every conversation holds more weight with her than anyone else, and as much as I want to lean into it, I can’t.
Chapter Twenty-Five
LUCY
I want to hug him.And maybe recommend grief therapy, but mostly I just want to hug him. I can practically see the weight he bears on his shoulders, making everything just a little harder to lift than it should be. It’s hard to remember what he was like before his dad passed, but I know he was lighter. They were close. Simon would often hang out in Everett’s garage, and Everett’s dad would teach them everything they needed to know about how to take a bike apart and put it back together—even before either of them could legally ride.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Everett’s voice snaps me from my thoughts, and I look up to find his warm, brown eyes studying me. I wonder how long he’s been watching my brain at work.
My cheeks warm. He’s asking if I’m okay? I want to ask ifhe’sokay. Especially after what I did tonight. I almost grimace at the thought. I don’t know what I was thinking. Iwasn’tthinking. I was feeling a little too empowered by booze and fueled by the adrenaline of sitting on the back of a motorcycle without my anxiety making me hold my breath the entire way home. “I’m okay,” I say, my voice coming out a little rough from the conflictingthoughts.
His eyes fall to my mouth, and I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking. We’re not even sitting face to face, but just having his stare linger on my lips is enough to make me wonder if I’m the only delusional one here, or if he’s feeling something, too. Is it possible I’ve crossed his mind—even a little bit—in the same way he’s taken over mine?
Then I remember the complete mess I’ve been since getting here, so that’s probably not the case. I doubt Everett has trouble with girls. There’s no way he’d want anything to do with his best friend’s anxious and overly-emotional sister.
His stare lingers a beat longer before he nods and gets to his feet. “Good.” Looking around the room, he adds, “Need anything? Water?”
“Definitely water,” I say with a laugh. “But I can get it myself.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, his thumb already pointing over his shoulder as he takes a step back. Then changing his mind, he rubs the back of his neck and takes another few steps backward toward the door. “Right. Well, good night.”
“Good night.” The smile still lingers on my lips. It’s amazing how he can be adorable one minute and a total sex pot the next.
He gives me a tight-lipped smile before heading out of the room, and my smile fades as soon as he’s out of sight. Was he nervous? It was cute, sure. But why would he be nervous? He probably thinks I might try to jump him again if given the chance. My head falls into my hands, and I let out a quiet groan.
I wish I could ask him about it without dying from embarrassment. Even though he stopped my hands, he didn’t stop themimmediately.Was it because he was in shock? Or was part of him enjoying it?
Replaying the ride home in my mind doesn’t do much to help settle my thoughts. All I end up thinking about are all the alternate endings to that story. If he hadn’t moved my hands away, what would have happened? Would I have felt the bulk of him through his jeans? Would he have kissed me? Pushed me up against thewall? Had his way with me in this very bed? I wonder what having his way must look like for Everett.
