Julian
My girl is perfect. I don’t know what I did to deserve her. Sometimes, I hold my breath waiting for it all to vaporize. The first time she broke down during sex, I panicked. I thought I’d hurt her or somehow traumatized her, but she assured me that wasn’t the case but couldn’t explain it beyond that. The best I can figure is that she’s flooded with the intensity and it’s her way of unconsciously letting it all out. Whatever the reason, it guts me every time. I hold her as tightly as I can and just breathe, waiting for her to come back to me.
Trauma isn’t new to her—to either of us. And sometimes we can’t avoid the triggers. Sometimes it’s hard to recognize a trigger for what it is until you’re in it. Maybe it’s a response to overwhelm. All I know is that it makes me want to fiercely protect her from every shitty thing this life could possibly throw at her. Except me. I gave up trying to save her from me. I instead decided to try to be everything she could possibly need. I just hope I can be good enough to deserve her. This beautiful, sweet creature lets me see all of her when it’s just us, skin to skin. In the light of day, she plays tough. Sheistough. Compartmentalizeslike a first responder. I guess that’s what losing your military dad at twelve years old will do to you.
She’d stopped shaking in my arms and her tears had dried. Her body, relaxed now, drapes silently across me. I feel goosebumps rise on her skin, and I reach for the comforter that slid off us during sex and drape it over us without moving her. She snuggles into the crook of my arm as I tuck it around her. Skimming my finger down her cheek, I ask, “Sleepy?”
“Mmm,” is the only response I get. Her breathing slows, turns rhythmic and tells me she’s drifted off.
I lay there a while longer, staring at the dim ceiling. By the muted tone, it’s still the middle of the night, but I don’t want to reach for my phone to check and risk disturbing her.
My brain strays to the days and weeks ahead and how our quiet summer life is about to change. Change is good—great in this case. But upsetting the sweet balance we’ve found creates a low-level anxiety in my gut. I know she feels it too. She’ll be starting college and I’ll be learning to become an influencer, apparently. Or I already am—accidentally. Luke Ashley is going to show me how to capitalize on it.
Influencing and social media are the furthest things from a career choice I could have imagined for myself. But as Ashley pointed out, I can’t unring the bell of the viral videos, so I might as well take advantage of it. And he is more than thrilled to show me how. He’d already convinced Allie. If there’s one person I trust most in this world, it’s her. If Ashley had won Allie over, I could give it a chance and see where it leads. Besides, having a lucrative business and income means I can offer Ever more than some nobody kid from South Point. And I did want to offer her nice things—things I’d never even dared dreamof. Not only did I want to offer them to her, I also wanted them for myself. It takes a lot to admit that—even now.
After all the therapy, this train of thought still trips my heart rate. The guilt settles on my chest like an anvil. Snippets from therapy sessions I’d gone to right after Taya died—Allie’s suggestion—flood my mind. And it did work—the therapy. Mostly. But old default settings run deep. I tap my chest in rhythmic succession until the weight begins to lift.
Dr. Claire Carver’s face swims into my mind’s eye.You don’t need to learn how to deal with your trauma. Your trauma is like a second skin. You need to learn how to accept love and happiness. How to accept that you deserve good things to happen to you and for you.I nod my head like she’s here talking to me through the screen, like all our online sessions. Logically I know I deserve love and happiness and good things, but sometimes when things feel too good, too perfect, I want to crawl out of my skin. The urge to look over my shoulder makes me want to shrink, hide. Like someone is watching me, and, if I act too happy, too comfortable, they’ll come and take it all away. I have to remind myself that that feeling is the lie—not the happiness, not the contentment.
The pressure behind my eyes adds to my guilt and shame—and annoyance. I squeeze them shut and continue tapping my chest.I deserve love. I am worthy of love. I am allowed to feel love.A sob catches in my throat, piercing the silence, causing my body to jerk. I freeze, waiting to see if the sound and movement disturbs Ever, but she is still curled into the crook of my other arm, her breathing steady and cadent. I gently roll her away from me and spoon into her backside. Inhaling deeply, I bury my face in the space behindher ear.
In sleep, she reaches for my hand and pulls it to her chest, wrapping her arm around mine.
My Ever.Her sunshine scent reminds me of sunrise, which I can see creeping around the edges of the window shades. I’ve always been an early riser and marveled at the sunrise—even as a little kid in the trailer park. I’d awake to the sound of a distant rooster and leap up hoping to catch the sun peeking over the foothills that framed the little league field next door. I could see it from my bedroom window if I stood on the mattress pushed up against the wall—my bed. A new beginning, a fresh start.
Nothing bad had happened yet. The day brand new, the house still and quiet. I’d dress silently, sneak out the front door, walk through the dusty trailer park, squeeze under the curled-up chain-link fence and onto the outfield grass next door. I’d race the sun to the wooden bleachers and sit on the highest one, listen to the roosters on the neighboring farm calling out their morning greeting and wait for the first rays to kiss my face. Rain or shine, cold or heat, I showed up. Even the days the sky was fat with clouds, I’d wait patiently for one to move so the sun could peek through and send a ray my way.
Living in the foothills of Northern California means we miss most of the dim, foggy days. Even when a layer of gray can be seen blanketing the central valley below us, Mother Nature drew a line just before the elevation began to climb and the ground began to roll in soft hills below the Sierra Mountains. I love the area, if not the house I grew up in. The beauty of my surroundings outside the walls of the trailer kept me happy—at least happy as I knew it.
Back then I’d worked out the timing almost perfectly. I’d wait until the sun was at a certain place in the sky before I made my way backthrough the outfield, back under the fence and down the dusty road back to my house. When I did time it right, Hal Durham, the Little League field groundskeeper who lived in the trailer park on the parcel that backed up to the field, would just be coming out onto his porch to drink his morning coffee. He’d invite me up onto the porch and pour me a cup too, mostly cream and sugar, and let me join him. I’d sit quietly so he didn’t make me leave and sip the warm, brown liquid that tasted better than anything I’d ever known. I couldn’t help how loud my stomach growled though, and he’d make ahmpfsound before setting his cup down, going inside and coming back out with a PB&J sandwich and hand it to me. They were always the best tasting PB&Js I’d ever eaten. And combined with the coffee, it was my favorite meal. It may have had more to do with the calm, cozy setting than the actual food, but I was too young to know that. I just knew it was the best part of most days growing up.
My alarm vibrating my phone on the nightstand drags me out of the memory. I reach behind me, feeling for my phone, and tap the screen to stop the buzzing. As gently and silently as possible I slide my arm out from the soft grip of hers and roll away and off the bed in one fluid motion. Ever doesn’t stir. I’ve perfected silence but squash the memories of how and why. Instead, I move into a downward dog pose, stretching my legs and lower back. Then I stand, straighten my spine and reach for the ceiling. I do this a few times along with deep, slow breaths before I complete my usual set of morning push-ups. I’m anxious about today. I don’t want to leave her.Change can be a good thing, I chant as I go through the motions of brushing my teeth, washing my face and making coffee.
Dr. Carver would be proud.I smirk at myself. I know she’d have a field day with how much my calm comfort zone depends on the beauty sleeping upstairs. And I can’t quite bring myself to care if it’s somewhat codependent or unhealthy. If I deserve good things, why can’t those good things start with her? Having her near me does calm me—like a giant exhale. I’m pretty sure it’s the same for her. And what was the thing Dr. Carver said once when I first jumped headfirst into fitness?It’s human nature to be somewhat addictive. But you can choose to be addicted to things that help you or harm you. So I think you’re on the right track with fitness. There are worse things to be addicted to. In fact, I’d venture to say this is a good thing—a great thing even. I’m proud of you, Julian.
I don’t want to believe I’m addicted to Ever. That makes what we have sound ugly and tainted. And it’s anything but that. She is a thing of exquisite beauty—and not just in looks, although she could and does stop traffic. She’s just so good, and she makes me feel like I’m good when I’m with her. As if my thoughts summon her, the creaking floor upstairs tells me she’s awake. My heart thuds a little quicker, a little louder.God, I love her.So what if the main way we show it is physical. Fuck, we’re so good at it. I smirk again and turn toward the stairs.We deserve to be happy. We deserve to feel good.
Why snippets of my therapy sessions keep popping up lately I’m not sure. The closer Everly and I get, the more I’m reminded of the only other person I think I loved. Maybe that’s why. The parallels. I’ve only ever had two love relationships in my life. I can’t say I ever loved my parents, at least not since I was old enough to name an emotion. Maybe I loved Hal, or even my grandpa McKay, but not in a way I acknowledged with actions or words. Just Taya and now Ever. Iguess that’s why Claire and all her sound bites are flooding my brain. They’re good sound bites that are worth the recall, but I’d be lying if I didn’t sometimes wish for a shutoff valve.
Therapy is a lot of work—if you do it right. Enter Claire Carver again:You use this tool rather well—and rapidly, I might add.
“I’d prefer to get all the digging around in old wounds and rebreaking done as quickly as possible so I can be on the other side already and move on.”
“That’s fair. But please know healing isn’t linear. You don’t just get over it once for it never to resurface again. Sometimes the things that trigger you may come out of nowhere, with no rhyme or reason. It will be up to you to dig a little deeper, figure out where it’s coming from and get on the other side of it. And I’m always here to help.”
“Thanks, Doc. Let’s stick to the current meltdown and I’ll let you know if I ever need you in the future.”
“You’re doing great, Julian. Really. I wish all my patients used therapy as thoroughly as you do.”
Chapter 3
Everly
I’m alone. The way the light streams through the wall of glass tells me it’s morning but still early. Julian’s side isn’t warm, but I leave my hand slightly under his pillow for a few seconds before I stir. I smile at how he always wakes before I do. Then I frown because today he flies down south to meet Ashley for the new business venture. Right after, I remind myself this is a good thing. The best thing! Julian deserves this recognition. I’m just not sure I’m ready for the whole world to fall in love with his body the way I have. I mean, unbeknown to us, millions already have. But now it’ll be official, and he’ll collect the paychecks to go with it. As he should. Knowing the story of how he grew up dirt poor makes me want this for him. Dreams weren’t an option or even on the radar for him growing up. It was purely survival. That he can dream now and realize dreams he may not have even had for himself brings me joy. Makes me so proud of him. So why do I feel this sense of dread? Is it just the past trauma talking? Or do I sense trouble coming?
After getting up to use the bathroom and brushing my teeth, I still can’t shake the feeling. I make my way back to the edge of the bed andgive myself points for not crawling back under the covers. I’m staring down at my bare feet, toes nuzzling the fuzzy white rug beneath them, when his shadow fills the doorway. He’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest when I meet his eyes.
“Hi, pretty girl.”
