I move my palm back and forth over my chest, trying to rub away some of the hurt, but it doesn’t work. It never does. “And yet here you are, playing music.”
“Eventually I got smart and realized I wanted to be nothing like my brother.” He races the tip of his tongue over his teeth. “But enough about that. I want to know about you. I want to know why you came tonight. Most importantly, I want to know what we’re going to do about—”
“Our mutual attraction?”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” He moves his face close to mine. “So what are we gonna do about it, Evelyn?”
“We’re such different people.” At the amused jerk of his eyebrow, I continue. “And then there’s your job with Professor Cameron.” To my own ears it sounds like I’m trying to convince myself so I can’t imagine what I must sound like to him. I want to convince myself not to have anything to do with him—to convince my body to ignore him when he’s around.
“I should probably get back before my roommate starts freaking out and calling campus police,” I reply softly.
Before I move, he traces his knuckles over my cheekbone and locks his eyes to mine. “You didn’t come here just for your books. And if I was worried about Cameron, I wouldn’t have given you the address,” he reminds me. “But ... goodnight, Evelyn.”
With nothing else to say, I stand and walk slowly to the door. I give him one final look, and my heart clenches at the unreadable expression masking his strong features. I want to stay. I want to turn back around, climb onto that bed and make him give me more bad guitar playing and breath-catching, heartbreaking singing that tears my soul apart. And after that, I want to tear off the rest of his clothes and leave them in a pile on the floor with my own.
God, wouldn’t that be beautiful?
I press my lips together. Then, as much as I end up hating myself for it, I grab what I didn’t come here for off his dresser, keeping my gaze off the picture of his family, and leave.
Chapter Fourteen
If I expect Rhys to give any further mention to anything that was said when we were alone in his bedroom, I quickly discover how very wrong I am. For the next week and a half, he’s the epitome of professionalism—no touching, no innuendo, and definitely no kissing. I make an effort to comply with his silly hat rule, but every time our eyes meet, whether it’s during Cameron’s sight singing class or while he’s giving me feedback at one of our lessons, I wonder what he’s thinking. If his mind is on me, or if he’d simply shrugged me off completely the second I left his apartment with my books and music.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I think of him—when I’m lying in bed at night; when I’m alone with my music; when I listen to “Yesterday” on repeat for no reason other than wanting to imagine Rhys’ voice wrapped around the lyrics; as I realize that in two weeks Lily will have been gone for exactly two years.
That’s the worst one. I think about Lily and my parents and then I think about him and the picture of him with his brother’s kid. I process just how many lives were scooped up and crushed into nothing but dust two years ago. Then I open my eyes, breathe in and out, and I still want more with him.
And every time I watch him, letting that want burn a little deeper within me, I get a little more frustrated.
“You can’t expect the guy to chase you around,” Kendra scolds me as I lay in bed talking to her on Sunday morning. There’s less than a week left before she comes to visit. After I woke up an hour ago and finished a paper on Voltaire’s Candide for English—which I’ve already read many times thanks to my obsession with the operetta—I’d called her to make sure she’s still coming.
She barely took a breath between assuring me that she is and asking me how things are going with Rhys.
“Evie ... you don’t blame him for Lily’s death, do you?”
“I don’t,” I say through my teeth. Hell, I blame myself more for my sister’s death than Rhys. I start to tell Kendra exactly that but then I glance over at Corinne. She came in late last night and is still passed out in bed in the clothes she went out in. Her brown and red ringlets cover her face, moving slightly as she snores. Her ear buds are connected to her phone, and I can hear Kacey Musgraves blasting—which makes me wonder how she can even sleep—but I don’t want to risk her hearing anything.
Flipping over on my side, I press my head up against my wall. “I just... I feel like I’m screwing up again by wanting to be around him,” I whisper.
“Ummm, elaborate, please?”
“I feel like a traitor for wanting him. Not necessarily to her but to my parents. You saw what happened when my mom met him two years ago. I can’t even imagine taking him home and introducing him. She would flip her shit.”
In the past Kendra’s been the voice of reason, which is probably why it took us so many years to become friends. When she quietly says, “You’ve got to live for yourself, Evie,” she surprises me. She mumbles something else, but my phone beeps loudly, interrupting her.
I look down and see that it’s my dad.
Déjà-freaking-vu.
I’ve been trying to do better with answering his calls, so I tell Kendra I’ll call her later to which she gladly agrees since I woke her up so early.
The moment I swap calls, Dad gets right to the point. “Did you get the money your mom put in your account on Friday.” My parents have had the same archaic bank for years—no online banking and no problem a representative is able to fix over the phone—so I have to rely on ATMs to keep up with my balance.
“Hello to you too, and I’m not sure.” I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, sliding my feet into a pair of flip-flops. “I haven’t used my card in a few days, but I’ll walk over to the student union ATM in a little bit just to check.”
He laughs in surprise. “Who is this and what have you done with my Evelyn? Surely this creature can’t be my child. What happened to the girl who maxed her card the second it was loaded?”
I remember a time last year when he asked me similar questions in anger, but now his voice is completely relaxed. This is the first time he’s talked to me like this in a long time, but I guess it’s because I’m not being hostile with him today about cheating on Mom.
“I’ve been busy with school work,” I say.
“Look, Evelyn, the reason I called you is this: Do you plan on coming home for fall break? Your mom and I are trying to make sure we plan accordingly.”
“Haven’t decided yet, why?”
“It’s right around the anniversary of Lily’s death.” At his own words, he sucks in a breath. “God, it feels strange calling it that.” To my ears, it sounded even stranger because anniversaries seem like something that should be celebrated and not a cause for pain—but I let him continue, “I think it’s better for your mom, better for myself, if we get away. Take our minds off everything.”
I start to tell him that no matter how much they do to try to completely distract themselves, it’s never enough. I’ve tried and failed, rinsed and repeated. Instead, I promise to let him know my plans before Oktoberfest begins next weekend.
As he ends the call, Dad tells me quietly, “I’m proud of you this year, Evelyn. Now, I haven’t seen your grades yet, but it’s nice not to have gotten a call from the cops or your RA at three in the morning because you’ve been arrested or gotten in some other trouble.”
It feels like a bit of a jab, but I suppress my usual sharp retort. “Sadly, I’m the boring kid who’s so lame my resident advisor doesn’t even know my name,” I admit, to which Dad tells me to keep up the good work.
Tossing my phone on my bed, I stand up and start to gather my shower supplies to head for the bathroom. Since the door is open and the shower’s not running, I’m positive I’m alone. I hang my towel and clean underwear on the towel rack and start to get undressed.