The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (29 page)

“Yeah,” is all I say in reply to her statement, and turn back to my work.

Her confusion is practically radiating off of her, and she comes to kneel at my side and reaches over to help when a plant refuses to come out of its plastic pot.

“I’ve got it,” I snap, wishing she would back off and go someplace else, because she smells amazing and her hair is loose down her back and crimpy from a braid, and she’s wearing gym shorts and a hot pink running tank top that shows off what chest she has to offer, and it’s hard to ignore her.

She pulls back instantly, looking startled, and I continue working once again, knowing her eyes are on me and not caring. Or at least, pretending not to. There’s a lot of silence, and she finally asks the question that I knew would be forthcoming.

“Is something wrong? Are… are you okay, Zeke?”

“I’m fine,” I bite out, not looking up.

“But you-” she begins, and I know I have to put a stop to it, or I’ll end up spilling my guts or doing something else equally as stupid and that’s the last thing that I want.

“Listen,” I say in my hardest voice, finally looking up into her eyes. “I had a fight with my dad. I don’t fucking want to talk. Leave me alone. Got it?”

I can clearly see the play of emotions on her face, the flushing of her cheeks as she deals with anger and shame, the momentary sheen of tears that makes her eyes glassy, and the moment she decides it’s just typical Zeke-being-an-ass behavior and blinks them away, shrugging her shoulders.

“Fine,” she says in a voice that’s almost as short-tempered as my own. “Whatever.”

We pass the rest of the day in silence, but it’s a heavy one, and it doesn’t stop Evie from pushing and probing every now and then, and me wanting to run far and fast every time she does. Far from her questions, and far from the answers and feelings too.

Three days later I’m still feeling beyond pissed at my dad, and still having trouble dealing with it. No matter what I do, it won’t go away for very long, and it’s all suffocating me. I’ve barely been able to suppress the urge to paint, and every time I pass the old bridge on the way to and from Evie’s house, it’s a struggle to keep myself from running to the nearest store and buying a can of spray paint.

Evie keeps pushing at me to tell her what is wrong, and I’m reaching my limit with her as well. I don’t want her butting into it all and I don’t want to talk about it, because it makes it all so much more real. It means I have to face it all, feel it all, and I just can’t do it. As I walk up Thursday morning and she flings open the door before I’m all the way up the driveway, I know it isn’t a good sign.

I merely grunt at her “Good morning” and ignore it all as her face falls, including the stab of guilt in my chest.
You don’t feel a thing,
I tell myself firmly, and lead the way around the house to the backyard.

The day goes just as the others have; Evie tries to force conversation as we work and mainly ends up just chattering to herself while I grunt occasionally so she’s not on my case too badly. I just keep my focus on doing the most precise mulching job in the world and not thinking about a damn thing.

“…don’t you think?”

There’s a silence so long that I finally become aware of it and look over to see Evie is staring at me expectantly. I heave an inward sigh and wish she would take a freaking hint already.

“Wasn’t listening,” I say, and when she opens her mouth to repeat the question, I say quickly, “And honestly, Evie, I’m pretty sure I don’t care. Just… not today, okay?”

I expect her to get mad or possibly even burst into tears, but she doesn’t. In fact, it’s almost worse; her face twists in sympathy.

“Zeke,” she finally says hesitantly. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“If I wanted to talk about it,” I say viciously, pushing the words out through gritted teeth, “I would. But I don’t. So I’m not.”

“But I really think it would-”

“
No,
Evie!” I shout the words without meaning to, anger overwhelming me again. When I finally look over at her, Evie is staring at me with a wounded expression, one that quickly turns to anger as she jumps to her feet.

“Fine,” she snaps, cheeks flushing. “Whatever you say.”

She stalks angrily away toward the gazebo and tries to heave one of the bags of mulch over her shoulder. It’s nearly as big as she is and I roll my eyes and get to my own feet as she struggles with it.

“Come on, Evie, let me get that,” I say as I approach her.

“I’ve got it,” she snarls, without looking at me. “I wouldn’t want to
bother
you, after all.”

I feel a bit of guilt but also feel she’s being slightly overdramatic. “Don’t be like that,” I tell her, and reach for the bag, but she drops it to the ground as she whirls around to look me in the eye, hands on hips.

“Don’t
you
be like that!” she half-shouts. “Quit being all moody and pissy and just talk to me!”

It takes extreme effort to reign my temper in, as it nearly consumes me. “I’m not trying to be moody. I just
don’t want to talk
.” It ends up coming out in a venomous hiss as my temper takes control despite my best efforts. I see the angry fire light up in Evie’s eyes instantly.

“Quit being such a pussy,” she spits.

I can only stare at her for a moment, jaw almost agape. Then I take a warning step closer to her. “What did you just call me?”

She’s practically shaking with anger. “A pussy. You’re all talk, pushing and prodding me constantly to face my fears and telling me Tony doesn’t matter anymore, that it’s just something in my head. Well, Cindy’s hold over you isn’t real either; it’s all in
your
head and you’re just too scared to stand up and face it. You, Ezekiel Quain, are a coward.”

Her right arm comes up and all I can focus on is her hand as it comes up to chest level and points at me in that one gesture that I hate so much. Degrading, domineering, and one I’ve had to swallow one too many times the past week.

I instantly see my dad in front of me, pointing his finger right into my face. Before I have time to think, my own hand whips up and knocks hers away as my vision goes red.

“Don’t fucking point at me!”

A second later I come back into myself, vision clear, and I see Evie before me, slightly crouched with both arms reflexively above her head, shielding herself. I feel sick. Bile rises up inside me, actually, and I have to swallow a few times before it goes away, but it doesn’t erase the knot in my stomach or the burn of shame that’s come over my body.

Slowly, Evie seems to come to the present as well and her hands slowly lower away from her head and she straightens, very carefully. When she finally meets my eyes, hers are enormous. Huge in her face, wounded and betrayed. I feel I could die on the spot.

“Evie.” The word comes out hoarse and horrified, and I try to clear my throat and fail. There’s a hot, prickly feeling in the backs of my eyes, and I realize with horror that I’m near tears. My throat feels huge and swollen, and I can’t get myself to clear it completely.

“Evie, I-” I take a step toward her, wanting to hug her, to comfort or reassure her or do
something
, because I put that look in her eyes and I feel like the world’s biggest ass.

Evie takes a quick step away from me as I move closer, and then two more when I reach out for her. It makes me feel even sicker, and now disgust fills me. Disgust that I could be so stupid, so fucking careless and thoughtless to trample all over every last inch of all Evie’s progress and more importantly, her trust in me.

“Evie.” My voice actually sounds wet, but I don’t even pay attention, I only want to say or do whatever it is that will get her to stop backing away from me as she is right now. “Evie, I am so,
so
sorry.”

I hope it will make her stop, but it doesn’t. She only shakes her head, once, twice, and then whirls around and runs up the hill and into the house. I should chase after her, but I don’t because I know it’s no use. A minute later I hear a car start and see her Lexus pulling out of the driveway.

Ezekiel

69

I can’t just leave. I know that I can’t. In fact, the thought of doing so causes bile to rise up in my throat once again, and I struggle to contain it and push it away. I’ve never been so close to vomiting simply due to repulsion at something I’ve done and not because I’m actually sick or drunk. I pace back and forth outside, back and forth, back and forth, wringing my hands and shaking them and wanting to throttle myself, filled with useless, ill-contained adrenaline and disgust.

I alternately sit, stand, pace, and hop up and down by turns, waiting and waiting for her to come back. At one point I actually consider going up to the house and waiting in there, but if she walks in, thinking I’ve left, and then I scare her, it will make the situation ten times worse. Besides, Clarissa might be around. I shudder at that thought and then resume my pacing, checking my cell phone for the time at least every two seconds.

Finally, a whole hour after she left, I hear a car pulling in and look up in time to catch a flash of white pulling into the garage. I tear up the hill toward the garage, catching Evie as she comes back out of the garage door from the house and to her car again, where the trunk is still popped open. I stand there awkwardly for a moment, expecting her to look at me in fear, or surprise that I’m still here. What I don’t expect is for her to walk right past me as though she can’t see me, and lean over the trunk of her car.

She messes with the plastic bags there, packing up whatever seems to have rolled out of them during her drive, and I stare for a moment, and then move a step closer. “Evie,” I say, and my voice is still a little strangled. “Evie, I am so,
so
sorry.”

She finally looks up at me, her face almost expressionless, but not scared, wounded, angry, or even sad. “I know that, Zeke,” she says in a serious voice that tells me absolutely nothing about how she’s feeling. “Now, are you going to help me with these bags or not?”

Before I can speak, she turns around and marches into the house, three plastic bags from Michaels, the arts and crafts store, weighing down her hands. Bewildered by her attitude, I look in the trunk and find several more and grab them without a thought to what’s inside, slamming the trunk closed and hurrying after her, trying to figure out the right thing to say.

“Evie,” I call out, checking several hallways before I find her disappearing down the basement stairs and hustle on after her. “Evie, we need to talk about this. Seriously, I’m-”

We reach the bottom of the stairs and she turns around, her lips in a firm line, though she doesn’t look particularly angry. “Zeke,” she interrupts. “Just shut up for a minute, will you?”

I’m so surprised that I do shut up, and stand there like an idiot as she bustles around the room. First, she takes a sheet from the back of the couch and flings it up into the air, settling it back down on the ground with one side along the wall. We’re in a side room to the left of the stairs, opposite the furnished, finished basement lounge where Evie has been sleeping. The walls here are simple white plasterboard, and there’s an elliptical and some weight equipment along one wall, and along with several big white cardboard boxes, the kind used to file old taxes or financial information.

It’s clearly a junk room, and I watch, nonplussed, as Evie adjusts the sheet to her specifications and then disappears into the finished side of the basement, returning seconds later dragging in the basket-weaved chest that was previously in front of the couch. As I stare on in total wonder, she tips it over and dumps out all the blankets, pulling them out, then righting it and leaving the top open as she drags it and settles it over one corner of the sheet.

Then she retrieves the bags that I forgot were dangling uselessly from my fists, and dumps their contents carefully inside the chest. It’s followed by the bags that she brought down, and my curiosity can’t be contained any longer as I take a step toward the chest, and then I want to recoil.

Paint.

“Evie,” I begin, but she holds up a hand and disappears from the room once again.

She’s back almost instantly, carrying a huge canvas, taller than both of us and nearly wider than her arm span. It’s absolutely massive. She carries it into the room and sets it on top of the sheet, leaning it against the wall carefully and then turns to me, smiling a little.

I look at her, bemused now. “What’s that supposed to be for?”

“Usually, you paint on them,” Evie tells me, and she leans down and picks up a can of the paint and presses it into my hand.

I stare down at it. It’s spray paint, but not cheap one-dollar cans from Wal-Mart or even Krylon brand. Liquitex. I recognize the brand from the paints we used at school, before I dropped all my art lessons. Apparently, they made their paint in a spray can form, and as I glance over the chest, I see it’s nearly full. Evie must have bought almost fifty colors, probably all the store had. The idea of how much it must have cost makes me faint for a moment. Probably more than I made last month at the club, even working more than usual in the summertime. I look back up at the canvas, my hand shaking a little at the thought of painting, but instinct and habit telling me to resist.