Page 74 of When the Smoke Clears

“Hey, Dad. Whatcha need? Everything okay?” I blow out a breath, smoothing a hand over my ruffled hair, trying to sound calm because I never want him to feel like he’s bothering me. But not too long ago, he would have felt bad for cockblocking me.

“William?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“I missed breakfast.”

I drop my head, free hand on my hip. “You had breakfast at the hospital before you were transferred to the care facility. Did you have dinner? It’s seven at night.”

“Oh. Night?” His voice is so shaky and unsure. “It’s seven at night?”

“Yes.”

“I just woke up.”

“You probably took a nap after dinner. But it’s not morning. You’ll get breakfast in the morning. Is Mom there?”

“She left me.”

I sit in the chair, my body collapsing with a heavy thunk. No wonder my mom is exhausted. “I’m sure she went home after you fell asleep. She’ll be back in the morning.”

“I don’t”—his voice cracks—“blame her. I’m worthless.”

“Dad.” I close my eyes.

If Everleigh is right and this is all an illusion, then why can’t I blink and poof it’s gone?

“I’m moving to Somers on Monday. I’ll see you then, and every day after that. Okay?”

Click.

I glance to my right, and Everleigh has left.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Everleigh

Eleven years earlier . . .

I never went to homecoming or prom. No school dances for girls who started college at twelve. My mom thought I was too young to know what I was missing. Ridiculous.

When I wasn’t studying biochemistry or marveling at the complexities of the brain and spinal cord in neuroanatomy, I binged all the love stories. Every book. Every movie. The future Dr. Reichart knew love stories provided neurochemical rewards associated with pleasure from oxytocin and dopamine. But Everleigh loved the escapism and exhilarating dream state overflowing with heartachingly beautiful love and the satisfaction of a happily ever after.

“Give it a break,” Victoria teased. “I’m the bride.”

I stepped away from the mirror in the hotel suite her parents reserved for the weekend. Of course she was the bride. But Victoria attended two proms and four homecoming dances. She’d been a bridesmaid in friends’ weddings. This was my everything, all wrapped up in an A-line halter floor-length chiffon dress—blush pink. Pearl bow ankle strap heels. Hair in an elegant braided bun.

I showed my advanced maturity and stuck my tongue out at her before lifting my skirt and stepping aside.

Victoria slid in front of the mirror and smirked at my reflection. “Did you get rid of your v-card yet?” she whispered.

I blushed. It was kind of her to keep it between us as the other bridesmaids and Victoria’s mom fussed by the window over someone’s lost earring.

“Not yet,” I mumbled, fidgeting with my bracelet, anything to keep from looking at her.

“Not yet? What are you doing?”