Page 99 of When the Smoke Clears

“That’s not true. I didn’t wear my boots in your bed.”

I peek open an eye as she sets my boots aside and unties hers. “You weren’t in my bed. Were you?” Nothing would surprise me at this point.

“Don’t worry about it.” She crawls into bed next to me.

“That’s not an answer.” I drop my arms to my side, claiming more space.

“Do you remember our first night together?” she asks.

“No,” I lie.

Everleigh rolls onto her side and teases her fingers along my forearm. “We gamed half the night. Then we slept on the sofa together. You pulled me on top of you.” She sighs, sliding her hand along mine, interlacing our fingers.

I don’t pull away, nor do I curl my fingers around hers. It’s nonconsensual hand-holding.

“If you tell your friends about the sawdust, it will seem like I did it on purpose, and they’ll be forced to take sides again, and they’ll take your side. So what can I do to prevent that from happening?”

“It’s not your fault. Anyway, why do you care what they think?”

“Because I like them.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

She doesn’t respond right away. Releasing my hand, she rolls onto her back. “Fine. I’ll tell them the truth. It’s the right thing to do. You need them, and they need you. I’m not in your little circle. Whatever. I’ll find my own friends . . . or not. Perhaps friends are overrated. There are significant benefits to being alone. It improves emotional regulation, enhances creativity, encourages self-reflection, cultivates independence—”

“Christ . . .” I laugh. “You’re playing the world’s tiniest violin, and the irony isn’t just that you’re a shrink; it’s that you actually play the violin.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together and pretend to play.

Everleigh giggles so hard she has to hug her belly.

“I used to think your hidden talents were sexy as hell. That feels like a lifetime ago,” I say. “Just like my dad was hiking ten-plus miles a day. No one believed he was seventy.” I stare at the ceiling, blinking my watery eyes. “I wanted to be like him. And now, I’m afraid I’ll be eighty and losing my mind and my body to some awful disease, and everyone who loved me will not remember the great things I did. They’ll remember I had an adult tantrum over the missing lid to my portable urinal, and how I thought someone filled it with gasoline and my roommate was drinking it.”

“Ew . . .” She laughs. “Well, it’s unlikely that anyone will remember urinal lids. Humans get selective memory when someone dies. It’s an unspoken rule that we don’t speak negatively about the dead. We focus on the good memories. You’ll see.”

“I’ll be dead. I won’t see anything.”

She elbows me. “I mean when your dad passes on. But let’s get back to things you found sexy about me.”

“Good idea. As I recall, you were humble. I didn’t know you were a genius. You were just a cool chick who played video games and giggled at all of my jokes.”

“So I’m no longer that cool chick? Or I’m not just that chick. I’m more, a doctor who doesn’t hide my intelligence. And I’m confident—”

“Whoa. Stop right there. Just minutes ago, you were hanging from my neck, begging for forgiveness.”

“Compassion isn’t a sign of weakness or lack of confidence.”

I grin, secretly loving how well she talks her way out of any situation. “What are you doing?” I ask as she shuts off my phone.

“I’m removing any roadblocks.” She slides it onto the nightstand.

“Roadblocks?”

Folding her hands on her stomach, she sighs. “Yes. If you want to kiss me without interruptions.”

I roll my head toward her, but she stares at the ceiling. “I’m not kissing you.”

“I didn’t say you have to. It’s just an option.”

“What if my dad needs me?”