For Ever, page 16
“You look especially radiant tonight,” Mr. Hannigan says when I hand him his Diet Coke.
I look down.
“Thanks.”
“So your mom told me you have a gentleman coming to dinner.”
Clearing my throat, I fight the urge to have a complete freak out. Deep breaths, I remind myself.
“Yes.”
“And what is this young man’s name?”
“Ever.”
“Everett?” he says, cupping a hand to his ear.
“Ever,” I repeat.
His eyebrows pull together.
“Never heard that one before. You like him, though?” he asks, studying me.
“I do.”
“Well, then that’s all I need to know. But you tell him he’d better take good care of my girl, or I’ll give him what for.”
My mom comes in, saving me from having to bang my head on the counter.
“Aw, Jack, you didn’t have to bring us flowers. But it’s awfully sweet of you. You’re a true gentleman.”
“At your service, ma’am.”
The doorbell rings, and my legs go weak. I look at the clock on the stove. It’s seven-thirty exactly. My mom starts toward the front door, and I nearly trip in my rush to cut her off.
“I’ll get it!”
I focus on my breathing all the way to the door, but my heart is trying to leap out of my chest. With one last breath, I try to clear my mind, which is impossible when I open the door and see Ever standing on the doorstep. He looks beyond perfect.
“Hi,” I say.
He smiles crookedly, and I feel completely miserable, because all I want to do is reach out and touch his face—just to see if he’s real. Instead, I dig my fingernails into my palm and step back. He walks through the door, and before I can pull back, he reaches down and touches my clenched fist. The heat of his touch makes me jump.
“Ever! Welcome!” my mom calls, flying out of the kitchen.
“Thank you for having me.”
“Wren, honey, you want to take his jacket?” she prods.
Even in just a gray sweater and jeans, Ever is awe-inspiring. I reach out and take his jacket, again trying to ignore how unbelievably godlike he is. This is impossible, so I work on resurrecting my mental brick wall. This doesn’t work well, either.
“Come on in and meet Jack,” my mom says, turning toward the kitchen.
As Ever gestures for me to go ahead of him, I wonder if I’m going to recover from my brain meltdown any time soon. This is almost worse than when he was aggressively avoiding me, since I felt less vulnerable when I was constantly irritated by his weird behavior.
“Ever, this is Jack Hannigan, our neighbor and savior,” my mom says.
“Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ever says politely.
Mr. Hannigan stands and sizes up Ever.
“Likewise. How do you know my girl Wren?”
“We share a class in school.”
His explanation is so simple: we’re classmates. His emerald eyes flicker to mine, and I look down.
“So Ever, you’re a junior like Wren?” my mom asks skeptically.
I look at her, hoping this isn’t the beginning of one of her classic interrogations.
“No, I’ll graduate this year.”
I flinch. For some reason this fact had never even occurred to me.
“Oh, you’re a senior. Wren didn’t tell me that. Do you know where you’re going next year for college?” she asks.
“I haven’t made a decision yet.”
And just like that, I know with absolute certainty that Ever’s time here, as illogical as it always seemed, is coming to an end. I exhale and breathe slowly as dread overwhelms me. One day—soon—he’s going to just disappear like he never existed.
“Honey, you want to help me bring everything to the table?” my mom asks.
I walk numbly to the counter and reach for the salad bowls, wondering why we keep things on the higher shelves when neither of us tops five-foot-four. Turning to get the stepstool from the pantry, I flinch when an arm reaches past me and sets the bowls on the counter.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
My mom takes the meatloaf out of the oven.
“I can help Wren, Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Ever, it’s Caroline, please. And that’s very nice of you.” She pauses. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
He shakes his head, and my mom exhales, wiping her brow.
“Great! Then you can eat the moussaka.”
I stare at him for a moment, thinking that I’ve never seen him eat food. Not once. Turning to the refrigerator, I take another can of diet soda from the refrigerator for Mr. Hannigan and hand it to my mom as she passes me.
“I used to be a vegetarian back in college before I met Wren’s father. He wore me down after a few years with all his barbecue,” my mom laughs.
Ugh. I shoot her a look. Please no more comments about my father, I beg silently. Taking the salad dressing from the refrigerator, I turn and see that Ever has placed the salad bowls on the table. He’s already at the stove serving the soup, moussaka—and the mashed potatoes that my mom apparently decided to add to the menu. I pause, unsure of what to get Ever for a beverage.
“Water is fine,” he says quietly.
I look over at my mom and Mr. Hannigan. Did they notice him answering a question that I never asked? Pouring two glasses of water, I turn and see him waiting for me at the kitchen table. I smile tightly when he pulls out my chair and then scowl when my mom winks at me.
“Ever, tell us a little about yourself. Are you from here originally?” she asks.
“No, I’ve moved around quite a bit. My father’s work requires that he travel frequently.”
“That must be hard on you. Do you have any other family here? Brothers or sisters?” she asks hopefully.
“A brother and a sister, yes.”
I wonder if he’s telling the truth—or lying about everything. How could he be telling the truth? Has he gotten used to pretending? Knowing my mom’s questions about family will continue relentlessly, I decide to redirect the conversation.
“You should see what a great artist Ever is. I was sure Mr. Gideon was going to fail me when I saw his projects in class.”
“Oh, well I would love to see some of your work, Ever. Wren here won’t show me any of her stuff,” my mom says, reaching over to pinch me.
I shrug.
“Wren is more talented than she gives herself credit for,” Ever says.
I stare at him. I had never thought he noticed anything I did in class. He turns to my mom.
“Dinner is excellent,” he says. “Thank you again for having me.”
“Well, you’re very welcome, Ever.”
He smiles again, and I wonder why, if he’s so capable of being normal now, he’s been so detached at school. Mr. Hannigan raises his glass.
“I’ll second that. This is the best meatloaf I’ve had since Ellie’s.”
My mom is beaming from the praise. Absently, I look down at my plate. I’ve been stirring my food around more than eating it. I take a bite of the moussaka.
“It’s really great, Mom.”
My mom asks Ever about universities he’s applying to, and while they talk I manage to eat a small amount. As soon as everyone else is finished, I get up and begin clearing the table.
“I can get the dishes. Why don’t you guys go into the living room?”
I’m anxious to interrogate Ever, since he had reluctantly agreed to tell me the truth. First, I need a few minutes alone, but he rises and helps me clear the table. At the sink, I run the hot water and add soap. Of course, with the way my mom cooks, half the dishes in the kitchen are dirty. With a sigh, I reach into the sink for the sponge. Something sharp slices across my palm. Wincing, I pull my hand out of the water. For several seconds all I can do is stare down at the dripping blood. Using my other hand, I stir the suds around and find the chef’s knife at the bottom of the casserole dish. Looking at the cut again, I feel my stomach heave. The cut is deep and long. I grip the counter as a wave of dizziness hits me, and when I look up again, Ever is standing beside me.
“At least I know you’re not a vampire,” I mutter wryly.
The cut is throbbing, and there is blood dripping everywhere. I watch, mesmerized, as Ever reaches out very carefully and covers my hand with his. His touch burns my skin, but when he releases my hand, the pain is gone.
“Wren, I’m going to—What happened?!”
Spinning around, I see my mom rushing across the kitchen. I close my fingers over my palm before she can reach me.
“I grabbed a knife by accident. It’s not bad. Let me just get a Band-Aid from upstairs.”
When I look down at the sink, there’s more blood than I expected. My stomach clenches again. With one last look in Ever’s direction, I rush out of the kitchen. Smiling at Mr. Hannigan as I pass him, I take the stairs two at a time and lock myself in the bathroom. With the water turned on, I brace myself for the sting. But as the blood begins to wash away, there’s still no pain. I study my hand and find nothing.
No cut. Not even a scratch. And this wasn’t one of those cuts that felt worse than it looked.
“Wren, are you all right?” my mom calls through the door.
“Fine.” But my voice doesn’t sound right.
I open the cupboard beneath the sink and feel around until I find the box of bandages. Grabbing the biggest one I can find, I rip it open with my teeth and peel off the backing, pasting it hastily over my palm. I swing open the door and smile at my mom.
“See, it’s not bad.”
I hold my hand out, palm up, for proof.
“That was a lot of blood …” She shudders. “Here, let me see. Are you sure you don’t need stitches?”
I clench my fist.
“Mom, it’s fine. Really. It wasn’t that deep. But thanks for worrying.”
She smiles.
“It’s in the job description.”
When we get downstairs, Ever is sitting on the couch talking with Mr. Hannigan. I continue into the kitchen and then stop. The counter top is bare, shining even. And I was only gone for five minutes at the most.
“Ever helped,” my mom says, coming in after me.
“With a magic wand?” I mumble.
“He’s very efficient, isn’t he?” she says cheerfully. “I think it was very nice of him.”
I nod, still stunned.
“And what were you saying about him not liking you? I’m not getting that at all. I mean how many young men would come to dinner with a girl’s mother if they didn’t—”
“Mom!” I hiss.
She lifts her hands.
“Okay, okay. I’m just telling you what I see.”
I go to the refrigerator and pull out the cake.
“Remember, just a little slice for Jack,” she says before walking toward the living room.
Setting out the now-shining chef’s knife, I take out small plates and forks and leave them on the counter. Just as I walk into the living room, Ever looks up at me with an even expression. There is absolutely no way to explain what just happened. He just made a three-inch slice across my palm disappear.
“Mom? Mr. Hannigan? Do you mind if we take a walk? You can go ahead and start dessert without us. I left everything out.”
“A walk?” she asks. “But it’s dark. And freezing.”
“Just for a little bit,” I promise.
When Ever rises from the couch, my mom shrugs. At the closet, I take out my mom’s puffy black parka since my jacket is still in Ashley’s car. With the front door closed behind us, I glance at Ever.
I don’t know where to start. Instead, I walk silently with Ever keeping pace next to me. Reaching the end of our street, I continue until we reach the main road. We wait at the stoplight before crossing to the greenbelt along the creek a few blocks from our house. With a shudder, I realize we’re not far from the intersection where I almost got flattened. Up ahead, there’s a bench lighted by a streetlamp. As soon as we reach it, I sit down and look up at Ever. He surprises me by speaking first.
“It’s better if you don’t know anything,” he says, remaining a few feet from me.
I contemplate this.
“I think we’re past that point already, don’t you? I mean I already know more than I should, right?”
He nods, but I can see he’s not pleased about this fact.
“And I’m not going to tell anyone,” I add quietly. “You can tell that, right?”
I drop my eyes to the damp concrete. I can hear the pleading in my voice. A stab of pain flares in my chest knowing that he’s heard every other thought I’ve had tonight.
“Ask me, then,” he says flatly.
I’m chilled by the sudden lack of emotion in his voice. I take a deep breath. There’s no turning back. Not this time.
“Are you human?”
“No.”
I exhale.
“Are you from this planet?”
The corner of his mouth lifts briefly in a crooked smile. I fail to see the humor.
“Are you?” I repeat.
“From this planet, though not of your world.”
The last part throws me for a loop.
“Then what are you?”
“A guardian.”
I watch him carefully, but his eyes offer no hint of irony this time. And now that he’s giving me answers, I’m struggling a little to find a logical thread to my questions.
“A guardian … ? Of what?”
“A gateway between dimensions.”
“Dimensions?”
“Different planes of existence.”
I blink, vague definitions from geometry swirling in my head. This is the point where I’m supposed to start believing that he’s an escaped mental hospital patient, but I can’t. … Because that doesn’t explain anything else that’s happened since the first day I walked into Art class. Unless I’m crazy, too.
“Am I losing my mind?”
“No,” he says without a trace of humor.
“All right. If this isn’t some kind of hallucination, then explain. Why do you look human?”
Look human. My entire body feels like it’s levitating off the bench.
“It would be rather difficult to blend in if I didn’t,” he says, the smallest measure of humor returning to his tone.
“Yeah, about that. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you don’t blend in now.”
“No?” he smiles.
His response makes me laugh a little.
“Definitely not.”
My smile fades as I come to terms once more with the inevitability that Ever and I don’t belong in the same realm, literally or figuratively. But he’s here, and I still need answers.
“How long have you been here?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and the cautious look in his eyes makes me nervous.
“Time exists very differently for me than it does for you.”
My eyes glaze over as I grasp a buried memory.
“Time is nothing,” I whisper.
I look up at him, and this time it’s his expression that’s frozen into place. My skin tingles. Those were his words that echoed in my head.
“How old are you?” I blurt out, afraid of the answer as soon as I ask the question.
He smiles again, which unnerves me more.
“According to your concept of time? Mine? Chronologically? Physically? Across time and space?”
The fact that I need to clarify this is unsettling.
“Um, physically?”
He studies me.
“I suppose eighteen, give or take a year or two.”
I exhale, not sure I’m ready to think about the other ways he might consider his age.
“And what are you doing here?”
His jaw clenches, and I stiffen. It’s difficult to tell which comments will cause him to withdraw, since there seems to be little rhyme or reason to his reactions.
“I have been waiting.”
The look in his eyes is so intense that I have to stop every few seconds and check that I’m still breathing.
“For what?”
The depth of pain and regret that I saw in his eyes the day before flashes across his face.
“You.”
I shake my head.
“What do you mean? Waiting. For me? Why?”
My voice sounds weak, uneven.
“Because I have become what I hunt.” His face twists into a sneer. “A monster.”
Hunt? He looks away from me, and I take another shaky breath.
“What do you hunt?”
My voice is barely a whisper now. Ever doesn’t look at me, but I know he heard my question.
“You might call them demons. They are entities without shape or form. They exist between planes, waiting for an opportunity. A rift.”
“What kind of,” I swallow again, “rift?”
His expression is conflicted when his eyes finally meet mine. This makes me exceptionally nervous in light of his earlier apathy. I bite my lip and hold my breath.
“You. Your mind, your soul or spirit—whatever you choose to call it—and your body. They use people like you to cross over, to become tangible again.”
“Wait. Time out. Me? Why?”
My breath stalls in my chest as I remember his question from the night in the Japanese Garden. Do I really want to know the truth?
“Because you are an anomaly. The way your mind works, because of what you can see and hear—it makes you an ideal vessel.”
Anomaly? Vessel?
“And then what happens to me?”
I know even before he begins to speak that the news is bad.
“You cease to exist,” he says quietly. His tone is unequivocal.
My mind goes blank, and it feels like I’m floating in blackness.
“Wren?”
“Any chance you’ve got the wrong person?”
He shakes his head, but I could already tell that from his taut expression.
“How long do I have?” I ask, smiling weakly. “I haven’t heard back on my college applications yet.”
I laugh, but it turns into more of a sob. I can feel my tears brimming over as Ever kneels down in front of me. His expression is uneasy and increasingly helpless, which just makes me cry harder. The pressure of his hand grasping mine surprises me, but not as much as when his arms wrap around my shoulders. The next second, I’m on my feet standing so close to him that I’ve completely forgotten why I’m crying. He steadies me before stepping back, and I have to fight off an absurd sense of disappointment.
