Page 21 of When the Smoke Clears

Everleigh strips the sheets from the bed.

“When’s the last time you had sex?” I ask.

“What?” She squints.

“You heard me.”

Her head jerks backward. “Why are you asking me about my sex life? I just opened my heart to you with a sincere apology. I had an epiphany. We shared a healing moment. There was an admission of wrongdoing. Responsibility. Remorse. What does that have to do with my sex life?”

“How many sexual partners have you had?”

She folds the fitted sheet with precision, just like Jamie used to do when she lived here.

How is Everleigh a walking disaster, yet she’s shockingly perfect when it comes to folding fitted sheets? This girl—this woman—has my mind all over the damn place.

She glances over her shoulder, hazel eyes framed in smeared mascara, giving me a slow assessment before rolling her eyes. “You’re unbelievable. Why are you asking me that? And how many sexual partners have you had?”

“Ever? Or just this past month? It was a slow month for me since I was at my parents’ house.”

“And by slow you mean you haven’t had sex in the past month because you’ve been at your parents’ house.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There are women in Somers, Montana. Just not a lot. Slow means slow, not idle.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you really so desperate to have sex that you slipped away from your dying father’s bedside to get laid by a stranger?”

I roll my eyes. “I never said he was dying. There was no slipping away like I had a curfew. And only one woman was a stranger. The others were acquaintances. And for the record, I had a beer every night, but not because I was desperate or an alcoholic, just because I enjoy having a beer. Guess what else I enjoy.”

The blood drains from her face.

“Everleigh, can I make an observation?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

She doesn’t answer.

“I think you hate being a doctor. I think you hate living your life for your father. That disgusted look on your face is actually envy. You wish you could have sex with strangers or mere acquaintances just because having an orgasm with a naked body grinding against you feels so fucking good. I bet the last time you had alcohol was the night we met in Stanford. And I bet the last time you had . . .” I bite my tongue before going too far.

She looks away and quickly wipes her eyes. I wonder if she cries with her patients.

“If you want to feel normal, then go make some fucking mistakes. Get a speeding ticket. Stop worrying about what other people think of you. Drop your panties for a stranger in the bathroom of a bar. Stop trying to live up to anyone else’s expectations. That’s normal. Or . . . it should be.”

She presses a hand to her neck as if there’s an invisible string of pearls to clutch. Her absent gaze lingers on the center of my chest for a few seconds before slowly lifting to my face. “I burned down my house and killed Marie Curie,” she murmurs.

“Yeah, don’t do that again. Let’s not normalize burning shit to the ground.”

She fights the grin that tries to steal across her lips, but I see it, the beautiful smile she gave me when we met eleven years ago. “Well”—she looks at her watch—“I need to book a hotel room before it gets any later. I’m . . .” Her brow furrows. “I’m glad you told Maren how you felt, and I’m glad you told me. Thank you. I’m truly sorry for not only missing the real reason behind your anger but also for not trying to imagine how it’s impacted you all these years.”

I stare at her hand as she offers it to me.

“Friends?” she asks.

“Friends?” I raise an eyebrow.

She shrugs. “Why not? Everything is out in the open. The healing can begin. And maybe things between us ended badly, but during the week leading up to the wedding, we were friends. The really good kind.”

I blink at her delicate hand, and I don’t know why I slide mine against it, but when I do, its warmth sparks those old memories. God, I used to love touching her.

Chapter Eight

Eleven years earlier . . .