Exhausted in every possible way, I closed my eyes and eventually collapsed back into sleep.
I woke again later that afternoon. This time, save for the four-leaf clover sitting on the pillow beside mine, I was alone.
My lips hitched as I picked it up, feeling the smooth texture of its leaves between my fingers. Getting up, I walked to my bookshelf and set it next to a framed photo of Everett that I’d taken two months ago at the bar. He’d been playing and smiling into the mic. He’d looked happy, at peace, and I was ecstatic I’d captured that moment forever.
I’d missed my appointment, and as I ate an extra-large helping of Froot Loops, I called them back to reschedule yet again. Thankfully, they had an opening before the week was out.
It was then I noticed the floor had been cleaned. The scent of pine cleaner staining the air.
I kept eating, checking my phone as I did, as a feeling came over me. One that worsened when Adela came home from work, hungover and grumbling about her date.
Her words penetrated, but as I opened a text from Aiden asking how I was doing, she snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Stevie fucking Wonder.”
“Sorry,” I said. “So it’s small, but you came, right?”
She took a seat on the other side of the table, shoved her hand inside the cereal box and threw a handful of dry Froot Loops into her mouth. “True.” She groaned. “It still sucks, though. He’s exactly my type. Fun and smart with a little bit of asshole sprinkled over the top.”
I smirked, then blew out a breath while I responded a quick fine to Aiden.
Prince: Fine? The universal word for not fine is fine.
Me: I’m okay. Just tired.
I watched the bubbles come and go as Adela kept chewing cereal, and he hesitated with a response. Finally, they stopped. I left my phone and took my bowl to the sink.
“Hey, you called me pretty late last night. What was that about?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her, to explain everything that’d happened, but as I rinsed the bowl and placed it and the spoon in the dishwasher, I swallowed the words. “I was just looking for a new light bulb. All good.”
She hummed. “I hope you didn’t get on any chairs.”
“I was fine.” I gave her a look and then made my way to the shower.
Shampoo swirled down the drain, soapy bubbles mingling with fresh sheets of water. The sound of Everett’s regret, his torment, wouldn’t leave me alone, and haunted me as I dressed and ran a brush through my hair.
Giving in, I returned to the kitchen to get my phone and tried to call him.
He didn’t have voicemail. When it rang out, I tried to distract myself with a book on the couch while Adela watched Dirty Dancing for the hundredth time.
When she’d gone to bed, the lie I’d told lingered over my skin like a frosted breeze. Everett still hadn’t called, so I tried again.
Then I tried Hendrix, who didn’t answer but sent me a text.
Hendrix: At studio, can’t talk right now. Is Everett with you?
I didn’t even respond. The book tumbled from my hand to the floor as I got up from the couch and grabbed my keys and purse. If he wasn’t at the studio, then where was he?
I hated it. I hated that the first place that came to mind after what’d happened last night was the bar.
Anger scorched like a blazing trail of fire, tightening my hands around the steering wheel as I parked in the half-filled lot of Zoe’s.
I thought, judging by how he’d acted that morning, that he’d realized he couldn’t do this anymore. But as I pounded up the steps to his apartment, unlocking the door and swinging it open, I discovered just how wrong it was to assume anything when it came to Everett Taylor.
His bed had been stripped, the mattress turned on its side. Some of his meager belongings sat in two boxes in the corner. The window was wide open, the gauzy curtains swaying in the summer-night breeze, erasing his scent from the room.
“Oh, good.” Zoe’s voice stopped the hurt from pouring down my face. “Can you take his shit? He said he didn’t want it, but he’s got journals filled with lyrics in one of those boxes.” She snapped her gum, and her cheap perfume stuffed itself up my nostrils. “Seems kind of