From: Ever Lawson
To: Joseph Graves
Glad to hear you’ve been enjoying yourself.
From: Joseph Graves
To: Ever Lawson
Your sketch is great. Keep sending me stuff.
From: Ever Lawson
To: Joseph Graves
Yeah. You, too.
TWENTY-FIVE
Weeks pass.
Joe and I slip into a routine. We email back and forth. I sketch. He writes. I critique. He offers helpful suggestions. We keep it strictly professional. Almost like coworkers. We don’t mention Dom. We don’t mention us.
We’re playing it safe. Avoiding anything explosive. By the end of September, he’s written no fewer than sixty thousand words in his book, Winds of Freedom, and I have a finished sketch of Mom’s gravestone and a few other drafts for my portfolio.
In the evening, I email Joe that I’m going to ask Dad if we can update Mom’s gravestone.
Obviously, I don’t want to disturb her. I figured out a way to install the new one on top of the old one. The dimensions should work. What do you think?
He doesn’t reply back.
Instead, he calls.
It throws me off kilter to see his name on my phone screen. This is a breach of our unspoken agreement, and I don’t know what to make of it. We’ve been so careful these past few weeks. We’ve veered away from anything that could reignite our feelings toward each other, even though on my part, those feelings have always been there. Excitement floods me. I don’t realize how desperate I’ve been to hear his voice until I swipe the screen and notice that I’m shaking.
“You think it’s a bad idea.” I try to keep my voice even.
“No,” he says, sounding out of breath and just as excited as I am. My heart melts into a pool in the pit of my stomach. “It’s a rad-ass idea, and we both know that. I’m about to finish my book, and I have you to thank for that. It’s time I do something for you. Remember when I saved you?”
“Of course I remember.” I perch on my windowsill, overlooking the street. Loki jumps in my lap on cue, always happy to use me as a piece of furniture. I remember that night so well; it’s still painted in my memory in vivid strokes. “You said I owed you one, and you always collect your debt.” I let out an embarrassed chuckle. I have no business remembering things he told me seven years ago. “Well, consider mine paid, now that you’re about to finish your book thanks to my determination. Or neediness, depending on how you look at it.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Your debt was not paid in full.” His voice is low and menacing all of a sudden.
“What do you mean?” I clutch my phone so hard that it’s about to break.
“I saved your ass. You’re not getting out of it by brainstorming with me. I help your muse just as much as you help mine.”
“What else do you want?”
You, I want him to hit back at me. I want you.
“You still need to get on the BART,” he says, in reality. Because he doesn’t want me anymore. He said himself that it’s over.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re excused. All the same, this is the final thing on your to-do list before I consider you debt-free.”
There’s a brief silence, which I use to collect my jumbled thoughts.
“I think I need to find a job and an apartment first,” I say cautiously.
“Nah, that would be out of order.” I can practically envision him waving a dismissive hand at me. “Go to the same station where it happened. Get on that train. Face your demons.”
“Joe,” I say quietly, “you know I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You went to her grave. How is that different?”
“I watched her die there,” I hiss out, feeling my neck crawling with heat. Why is he doing this? It is so unnecessarily cruel. “It was pretty graphic too.”
“You cannot swear off subways. You cannot never go underground again.”
“Says who?” I drawl. “I’ve been doing that for seven years. Most cities don’t even have an underground train system. Why does it matter?”
“It matters because you’re letting fear win. Don’t you see a pattern here? Fear was the reason why you stayed with Dom. Fear was the reason you bailed on me both times. Fear is why you don’t get on a subway.”
“Fear can win. It’s not a competition.”
“Ever,” he says stoically. “You asked me what I wanted for my birthday.”
“Yeah.” I press my forehead against the cool glass of my window, closing my eyes. “I was kind of hoping you’d want . . . socks?”