Forgetting August(79)

“Hey, are you all right?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, averting my gaze. “It’s just that night—it was scary. I don’t like reliving it.”

God, I’m an idiot.

“No—shit, of course not. Come here,” I said, pulling her closer. She came into my arms and I felt her shaking against me. “I’m so sorry, Everly. I’ll never mention it again.”

I felt her nod as she pulled herself back together.

“It’s okay—you didn’t know. I better get ready for work. I’m definitely going to be late if I don’t hurry.”

“Sure, of course,” I answered, watching her flee for the guest bedroom.

Would she ever stop running?

* * *



Over the next few days, Everly and I settled into a happy rhythm. I woke up with her early in the morning, sometimes waking her myself with a dip beneath the covers or a gentle kiss to pull her from her slumber.

Alarm clocks were greatly overrated.

Most days she’d make it to work on time, although I had made her late a time or two. She’d threatened life and limb if I kept it up so I just woke her up earlier. She wasn’t too pleased.

At first.

I found Everly was easy to persuade once my mouth was buried deep between her legs. Of course, much the same could be said of me when the situation was reversed and she was in the driver’s seat. If Everly wanted anything, it could be hers in those moments when I was buried deep inside her.

But the only thing she asked for was more.

And more was exactly what I gave. Every damn time.

Everly showing up at my house that night, angry and hurt, had changed my entire life. I’d never thought I’d get a single smile from her, much less be able to reach for her without her recoiling in fear. What I thought might have been lingering feelings left over from a former life only intensified with each passing day.

The more I learned about her, the deeper our connection grew…and the further I fell.

It wasn’t just the girl in the picture I was falling for; it was Everly, the coffee-addicted, quick-witted woman who always managed to keep me on my toes. She was funny, bright, and she could make dynamite pasta out of basically nothing.

It was a wonder I could keep my hands off her for a second.

It was also the excuse I gave myself for driving toward the café instead of home after running errands early one afternoon, with hope I could take her out to a late lunch.

Parking was a bitch, as was the case in most of San Francisco, so I ended up several blocks away and had to huff it to the café on foot. Luckily, the fog had mostly cleared and the sun was attempting to peek through the clouds, bringing the promise of warmer weather with it. The light jacket I wore hopefully would no longer be needed later in the day. San Franciscans, I learned, loved the sun. They wouldn’t live anywhere else. This foggy, cloud-covered city was the only place in their eyes, but when the sun managed to make its way through the gray sky, it was like a damn miracle. People flocked to the parks, bike rentals sold out, and everyone ran out to enjoy the great outdoors.

As the heat from a small ray of sunshine warmed my chilled face, I didn’t blame my fellow city dwellers one bit.

Not one damn bit.

Just as I reached the little café, my phone began to buzz in my pocket. Curiosity got the best of me and I reached in to grab it, wondering who could be calling me.

I very rarely received calls. I had been in the hospital for over two years and had not had a single visitor, so I considered myself not exactly popular.

The name “Trent” flashed across the screen, the same name my attorney had mentioned a while ago. Although seeing the name piqued my interest, I seriously wondered if this call wasn’t going to be like all the others. This wasn’t the first random phone call or blast from my past, as I liked to call them. I’d been naive in the beginning and had answered a few, only to discover that my attorney was quite the talker, and word had gotten out that I had miraculously “risen from the dead.” Many of my former acquaintances had called, saying they wanted to check on my progress now that I was out of the hospital. When asked why they hadn’t bothered checking on me sooner, I received several colorful answers, including one from a Mr. Parker who said he knew me from “the club”, but who said he hadn’t wanted to bother me in my delicate state.

I’d been in a coma.

For two years.

I wised up quickly to the money-grubbing assholes and stopped answering my phone. My former life had been filled with fake people and their fancy shit. I’d had enough. I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and reached for the café’s door handle.

Everly had once said she loved working at the coffee shop not only for the endless supply of coffee but also because it was never the same from one day to the next. Because she and her coworkers always divided up the duties, she would end up working the counter one day and barista the next. It kept her on her toes.