Everly After by Rebecca Paula Page B

her face. My fingers ache to tuck it behind her ear, but a friend wouldn’t do that, so I hold back.
    “We should listen to records all night,” she whispers.
    I’m having a shit time trying to sleep lately anyway. I hate the sleeping pills I’ve been given almost as much as the anxiety pills I never take. “Okay.”
    Everly walks over to the couch and grabs the quilt she held hostage for a couple of weeks. The one my aunt made for me to take to boarding school. She wraps herself up and lies down, her hands pressed together like in prayer, her face resting on the backs.
    “I think I like being your friend, Beckett.”
    I almost miss it—the quick dreamy upturn of her lips, the way she narrows her eyes when she realizes we aren’t going to be friends.
    I’m glad I don’t.

Everly
     
    I keep my job, even though I don’t deserve it. I’m not thankful, either. I have to deal with tourists who’ve heard that their favorite socialite is in Paris waiting tables. I have to deal with the guys who take my picture while I bus away trash and empty plates or try to slide me their number as if they’re hot shit. I have to deal with Nadine, who hates me but continues to schedule me because I draw a crowd.
    I feel like a caged tiger at the zoo.
    There’s a certain guy I have to deal with now, too, who’s waiting for me on his stairs when I leave work.
    I wipe the smile off my face a second too late. He returns it with one of his own, looking so casual with his arms draped over his knees. It’s been three weeks of us trying to be friends. I think we’re good at it, too. Mostly.
    “Are you stalking me, Beckett?”
    “You have enough stalkers, I think.”
    It’s true. Since Hudson and his asshole photo leak, everyone who was at my apartment for the party knows where I live. I’ve caught a few people hanging around looking for me. I’m waiting for my parents to show up any day to drag me back to Manhattan, but I’m not sure they care much that I’m gone. They’ve already lost the child they loved the most. I’m the backup who’s a fuckup, so my being missing is better for them. I hurt the family’s name with last spring’s debacle enough as it is. The headline “Monteith Heiress Hospitalized for Suicide Attempt” didn’t sit well with the rest of the board members. The gossip blogs ate it up, though, just like those nasty pictures of me that Hudson sold.
    I bark out a bored laugh, trying my best to ignore his damn British charm. I’m about to make another sassy comment when my phone rings. Hudson again. My stomach drops, but I take the call. He can’t ruin me now.
    “What the fuck? I’ve been trying to call you, Ev.”
    “Hello to you, too.” I blow out a hot breath. Beckett doesn’t move, but I know he can hear, so I hold up my finger and rush farther down the alley. “You had your chance, Hudson. I don’t need to deal with your shit. I’m not your plaything.”
    “I bet you miss it. I bet you haven’t had your fix these past few weeks. Want to go out tonight?”
    I tense up because he’s right. My skin is crawling at the idea of it, of getting so high I can’t feel my face. But I don’t need anything now. I’m going to be good. I’m fine. It’s not like I’m addicted. I’m fine with being sober. Life sucks just the same either way.
    “Stop calling or I’ll ditch this number, too.” I glance over my shoulder at Beckett and see that he’s on his phone, his brows furrowed. I hope it’s nothing to do with me. I don’t need to worry about him being upset. I don’t want to change anything between us.
    “I’m sorry,” Hudson says with a heavy sigh.
    “You’re not sorry. I’m still waiting on an apology when you almost killed me the first time. Five. Years. Ago.”
    “I need you.”
    “You don’t. And I don’t need you, either.”
    “I need you. I do,” he whispers. “I need you. I need you.”
    It’s like a punch to the stomach to hear the shaky way he says it to me. I almost