She leans in to me, head pressed against my chest as my arms come around her. Two human beings, holding each other through one of the most vulnerable passages a person can face: these first fragile hours after a loss, when the world has shifted on its axis and nothing will ever be the same again.
I kiss the top of her head and she lifts her face to mine. I lose myself in the sweet scent of wine on her breath, and her perfume, and the compassion in her eyes that I’d first noticed all those years ago on the beach, that night with Mum. I take in her features up close for the first time. We’re both emotionally shaky and tipsy and wired, inhabiting this strange, afterdeath quiet together. I brush the dark curls away from her face, my thumb tracing her cheekbones,all senseleaving my brain.
She’s startled when I move closer, and pulls back slightly, eyes flicking upward, surveying me. Questioning my intent?
I would think it was clear. My fingers slip through her hair. I draw her closer to me again, my lips finding hers as I push her back against the wall in the hallway, one hand traveling to her waist, squeezing it. Pulling her against me as I kiss her. Not nearly close enough.
A guttural sound emerges from me, part desire, part loss, part bargaining with the universe not to shatter this moment because, even now, the way she’s responding to my touch, this feels transient.
“Drew,” she whispers. “What are we doing?”
She has no idea about all the things I’ve wanted to do with her since I walked into that art studio and saw her perched at her desk in her immaculate school uniform with her meticulous life plan, challenging the status quo of the school. And mylife.
The shadow of death blurs the rules, doesn’t it? Her breakup. My loss. This ephemeral glimpse of a parallel universe in which it was always her and me.
“Evie …”
She places her hands on my chest and pushes me back. Gently. But decisively.
I know she can’t. And I know why she can’t. And it kills me.
I feel like I’ve lost the two women in my life within hours.
61
Evie
I’m almost ready for Drew’s mum’s funeral when there’s a knock at the door of the terrace apartment in north Sydney, where I’ve been staying alone since Oliver rented a studio in Coogee “to give you space.” Space is not what I’ve asked for. I want a complete severing of the relationship—a message that seems to be bouncing back, undeliverable, no matter how many different ways I say it.
Finding my own place is my top priority—it will send him the message that we are irrevocably done. How I’ll do that in Sydney on a meager PhD scholarship and the part-time tutoring work I’ve been doing is not yet clear. Thank God I kept that café job he said I didn’t need. But I can’t stay here. Can’t afford the rent, but can’t bear to, either. Too many memories that left me ducking from words that stung and bruised as I swept away shattered promises. Papered over cracks. Apologized, excused.Hoped.
I open the door.
It’s him, bearing an oversize bunch of flowers and an apologetic expression. “Let me in, Evie,” he begs. “I’ve been so wrong. I’m sorry.”
His eyes roam over the muted floral dress I’ve selected forthe funeral and I wonder how much his father has told him, if anything. I bet he still has no idea he even has a brother, let alone who it is and how hard this day is for him. I shudder at the idea of him finding out. The mere mention of Drew’s name has always been a hair trigger for Oliver, a sudden disruption to his fragile stability.
“I’m just heading out,” I tell him as he thrusts the flowers at me and pushes into the wallpapered hall, even though I don’t want them—or him. I set them on the antique hall table I’d picked up on a weekend away in Moss Vale once, even though there was no room for it in the car and Oliver complained the whole way back to Sydney that I never thought things through. I have absolutely no intention of plunging the flowers into water. They can die there, with this relationship.
“This is important,” he argues, pushing past me into our sitting room. “We can’t just ignore each other.”
“Why not?” I fling back. “Oliver, this hasn’t been working. I’m sick of having to check myself constantly.”
“Check yourself?”
“It’severything. Always questioning whether I’ve done something wrong. You sending copious messages every time I go out.”Where are you? Who are you with? When are you coming home?
“Because I worry about you,” he argues.
“You criticize me for not being lively enough at your work dinners. Or for being too animated. No matter what I do, I can’t ever seem to hit the right note.”
His hand on my shoulder feels like dead weight, pushing me down with his ever-changing expectations.
“It’s not just me who you criticize. It’s my parents. Friends.Bree. The few friends you allowed me to make at university. You pick at people until there’s nothing left!”
If he’d heard the chorus of advice my friends have given me over the years, he’d do more than verbally assault them.Why do you stay, Evie? You’re so smart! Just leave!
“I’m sorry, Evie. It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve been seeing a counselor.” The blue-green eyes I’d fallen into that first night at the pool stare at me now, just as intensely.
