Page 16 of When the Smoke Clears

Everleigh offers a creepy smile, chin up. “Sure. I could . . . well, I could tell them you’re eager but considerate.” She gives me a sharp nod. “And you’re an above-average kisser. And you make sure the woman orgasms first. Do you know how rare that is?”

Kill me now.

I open my mouth to speak, but what can I possibly say? Is she being the awkward girl I met in California? Or is she a well-respected doctor just fucking with my mind because she can?

Her smile vanishes with a long sigh. “Will, I’m very sorry, and ironically, I need a minute to figure out the best way to make amends. And maybe you need to talk to someone. Have you thought about that?”

I laugh past a cough. “Talk to someone? Like you, Dr. Reichart?”

“Of course not me.” She shakes her head a half dozen times. “That would be unethical. And just because we’re roommates, doesn’t mean you get free therapy.” She pauses, eyes wide like her words just registered.

I squint.

“I’m mean . . .” She clears her throat. “You could get a discount. Maybe. But I can’t be your doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

Her head bobs side to side. “Well, that’s debatable.”

“It’s not. But if it were, I’d hire a therapist. Psychiatrists are just overeducated, overpaid drug dealers.”

She slides her hands into her front pockets while stepping closer to me, bringing her soft floral scent with her. “William.” She wets her red lips. “You have every right to be upset.”

“No shit.” I don’t back away.

Her gaze seeps along my face, and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Do you feel that? The sexual tension from eleven years ago is still there.”

“It’s tension minus the sexual part. I’d rather jerk off to a smoked rack of ribs than think about having sex with you again.”

Her eyebrows peak. “Oh, you have objectophilia or fetishistic disorder. Would you say the rack of ribs gives you feelings of love and desire or just arousal? Maybe even painful arousal like you don’t want to feel the attraction?”

I hate her.

“I see you have a PlayStation,” she says. “Assassin’s Creed Shadows isn’t my favorite. I mean, the combat is fine, but other parts like the hideout mode are underwhelming. We should get Dragon Age: The Veilguard. Oh! And if you like sports, let’s get Gran Turismo 7. I’m really good at it.”

“We?”

She shrugs. “Of course. I think it would be a good way to work through our issues. And if we’re not going to have sex, since it’s against house rules, then that only leaves gaming. And Maren told me you don’t need a roommate; you just feel lonely sometimes. So I’m here for you, roomie.”

“You have a week. Then you’re out.” I brush past her to drive straight to Maren’s house with my sharpest knife.

“Hey, Will.” Maren’s stepdaughter Lola greets me, licking a Popsicle, blond hair falling out of her braided pigtails.

“Hey, sweet pea. Is Maren or your dad here?” I step inside and toe off my boots.

“Nope. Samantha from next door is supposed to be watching me, but she’s out back making a TikTok.” Lola steps aside to let me into the house. “Besides, I’m twelve. I can watch myself. Maren should be back soon. She’s picking up groceries on her way home. We’re having cheesesteaks. Are you staying? Where’s Everleigh?”

I pass Maren’s cherished blue velvet sofa on the way to the kitchen. Then, I steal a beer from the fridge. “How do you know Everleigh?”

“Duh, Jamie used to work with her. Everleigh suggested I try VR when I wouldn’t ride in a car after my mom died. And now she’s your roommate. And you were her first love.”

I cough, choking on my swig of beer as this twelve-year-old delivers her words without a hint of sarcasm. “Um . . .” I clear my throat. “Who told you that?”

“Told me what?” She leans over the sink as her Popsicle drips.

“Who told you I was Everleigh’s first love?”

“Nobody,” she mumbles after shoving the rest of the red Popsicle into her mouth before it falls off the stick into the sink. “I heard her talking to Maren when I was sort of listening at the bottom of the stairs.”