Page 138 of When the Smoke Clears

I quickly blot the tears from the corners of my eyes.

“I just want you to know that I don’t judge you for pretending you had a life that you didn’t. In fact, I love the world you made up. It’s endearing. And I wish that it were true because . . .” Will pinches the bridge of his nose as his Adam’s apple bobs.

My tears can no longer be gently blotted. They pour out in long streams.

“Not having a father really fucking sucks.” He clears his throat and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

I push out of the chair and run to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Then I turn on the faucet to make noise while I grab a towel to hold over my mouth, and I sob harder than I’ve ever sobbed. I’m embarrassed. Will’s father was dying on my watch, and I imagined it was my father, a father I never met. I wanted it to be him because he died alone, and no one should die alone. My career. My friendships. My existence. It’s all been built on a lie. I don’t even remember when the lie stopped feeling like a lie. It became my reality. My identity.

“Everleigh,” Will says from the other side of the door. “Let me in, baby.”

Baby.

I buckle over and cry harder. In my made-up world, my father called me his baby girl. Will’s been everything I never had. And now he’s here, trying to make things right and calling me baby. The term of endearment no longer feels endearing. It’s a cruel reminder that I’m not well. It’s his way of easing me off the ledge. But I’m not his baby. I’m the bane of his existence. A fucking charity case.

After I run out of tears, I wait. There will be more. If only I could collapse all at once. But I can’t. So I’ll break apart, a piece at a time.

I hear the front door click. Will left. Is he giving me space or giving up on me?

I roll to my side, tucking the towel under my head as I stare at the green and white tile. And eventually, I fall asleep.

Chapter Forty-Five

Will

A little before eleven at night, the bathroom door creaks open. A sliver of light pierces the darkness as I lift my head from the back of the beanbag chair. I thought opening and closing the front door would draw her out sooner. It didn’t. Everleigh has spent six hours in the bathroom.

She takes several steps toward the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, and then she freezes, gaze on me. “I thought you left,” she whispers.

I hold up my phone. “You’ve published over seventy-five papers. A little fact I came across during one of the airport layovers.”

Everleigh narrows her eyes. She’s stunning. Even in the dim light, with her hair matted on one side of her head.

“I’ve been researching ways to help you. And I keep coming across articles from Dr. Reichart. She’s clearly a brilliant psychiatrist.”

“She’s a fraud,” Everleigh mumbles, continuing toward the kitchen, where she fills a glass with water and drinks it.

“Fake it till you make it,” I say, standing and stretching my back from side to side. Those beanbag chairs are not even a little comfortable.

“I don’t think medical doctors should fake anything.” She sets the glass next to the white farmhouse sink. “The same is probably true for firefighters.”

I slide my hands into my pockets and walk toward her. “Well, I’m not a firefighter right now. And I don’t think you’re a psychiatrist. So let’s pretend that everything is okay.”

She frowns. “I think pretending is what got me here. You’d make a terrible psychiatrist.”

I grin. “You’re probably right.” Using both hands, I curl her hair behind her ears before cupping her face. “Let’s go back to Missoula. We can finish your barndominium together. You can keep me warm at night in your Airstream. I can kick your ass at Roblox. If there’s enough snow, we can build a snowman. Tai chi every morning and nappuccinos in the afternoons until all of my savings run out. We’ll let everyone think we’re falling in love, but we know that happened a long time ago.”

Tears glisten in her eyes as her bottom lip quivers. “You love me?” she whispers in a wobbly voice.

I wipe her tears with my thumbs. “I love you.” My lips brush along her forehead. “And I’m not sorry about it.”

“I’m so unwell.” Her face contorts into a full-on ugly cry.

“I’ve got you.” I kiss her head. “Whatever it takes, I’ve got you.”

The next morning, I wake up to an empty bed.

“Everleigh?” I call, stepping into the living room while buttoning my jeans. Everything is still and quiet except for the bamboo wind chime outside of the open window overlooking the tiny backyard filled with birdbaths, feeders, and metal yard flamingos.