But I miss him. His smirk. The firefly flicker of his eyes. His voice and laugh and teasing. The way he listens. I don’t know whether there’s a place in my heart for him as just a friend, but I don’t know if I can cut him out of it entirely, either.
“You’re okay,” I tell myself. Just like I have after every other disappointment and heartache. I will not think about how I felt so much more for Charlie after just two months than I ever did with Trevor. I will put my head down and focus on the work that I love. I’ll buy myself the floor lamp I’ve been eyeing. Maybe repaint my bedroom. Sink back into the life I’ve made for myself, comfortable and safe.
I spend the rest of the day curled on my couch with my laptop, looking through shots of Nan from the summer. It’s not until my stomach voices its discontent that I peel myself away from the screen, eyes dry, neck aching. There’s not much in myfridge. I should have gone to the store, but I lost track of time. I’ve avoided opening my freezer all week, but I’m desperate.
“You’re okay,” I say, taking out one of the Tupperware containers Charlie dropped off at the cottage the day before we left. I’d stayed inside, listening to him plead with Nan to see me. I’d told her what happened, my head in her lap, her hand running through my hair. She hadn’t said much, but before she sent Charlie away, I heard her use the wordsdisappointed in you. It made me feel worse. They’d been friends, too.
I prepare the pierogi the way Charlie did, boiling them first and then frying them in a pan until they’re golden brown. I don’t have sour cream, so I put a little grated cheese on top. They don’t taste as good as they did that night with Charlie. Nothing tastes very good right now.
I look around my living room. The neat stacks of art magazines are just where I left them; so are my throw pillows, fluffed and propped to magazine-worthy standards. The couch and dining chairs that I hate. I bought new scented candles for the coming autumn, but no one has been here to enjoy their spiced-apple glow. I’ve been too down to connect with friends, and I haven’t seen my family since I’ve been home. Heather and Dad have been busy with a case. Lavinia is stressing over an audition, and Luca rises an hour before his night shift at the bar. I haven’t wanted to bother them. I called Mom, but I’d caught her as she was heading out the door for yoga, and I was in the darkroom when she tried me later. I call her again now, but it goes directly to voicemail.
And while I like my own company, it isn’t what I want. I need Everlys around me.
I write a text to the family group chat. I waver for a moment, and then I press send.
I’ve been going through something, and I could really use you guys. Are any of you free to come over tonight?
The effort of asking anyone to put down what they’re doing and help me is exhausting. I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep on the couch until there’s a loud knock.
“Open up, Ali.” Heather.
“We have tequila.” Lavinia.
“And cake.” Luca.
I open the door, rubbing my eyes, and my siblings engulf me in a storm of perfume and sequins and kisses.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” I say when we pull apart. My siblings give me the same scrunchy-faced look. Heather’s wearing a pink lounge set. Lavinia’s in a glimmering dress and tippy heels, and Luca’s in the tight white tee and suspenders he wears for work. The three of them are all dark-haired, but the twins have Nan’s blue eyes.
“That might be the most Turtle thing you’ve ever said,” Luca says, setting a cake on the counter. It’s in a plastic grocery store container, chocolate, the words “Happy Birthday” in pink frosting on top.
“Of course we came,” Lavinia says. “You asked us to.”
“And you never ask, Ali,” Heather adds.
My eyes begin to water, and I’m quickly in the middle of another Everly tornado.
“What’s going on?” Lavinia asks, ushering me to the couch and petting me like I’m a kitten.
“The real story,” Luca says, dropping down beside me and putting his feet on my coffee table, knocking over the magazines.
Heather clatters around the kitchen and brings us each aglass of tequila, swearing as one splashes onto my cream wool rug. “Sorry, Ali. At least it’s clear.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her. For once, I don’t mind the mess.
We clink our glasses together, and then Heather looks me in the eyes. “Tell us everything.”
“Quick,” Lavinia says.
“Before Dad gets here,” Luca adds.
Our dad arrives thirty minutes later in a suit and bow tie. Everything about Kip Everly is big—his mustache, his personality, his reputation as a litigator.
“Welcome home, Alice,” he says, kissing my temple. “It’s good to have you back in the city.”
Heather plies everyone with more tequila, and Lavinia and Luca recap what happened with Charlie for our father in under two minutes, and in a manner that will not cause him to worry about me. The way they tell it, it was a summer fling gone wrong. The way they tell it, it’s kind of funny.
Dad laughs in the right places at the twins’ rehashing, but I can tell they aren’t fooling him. He puts an arm around my shoulders, and I lean against him.
