“Where are you going?” Whitney demands sharply.
I tuck my chair under the table. “I’m going to check on her. I’ll be right back.”
“If you leave, then I’m leaving,” Whitney says, her hand balling into a fist on the table. “I’m serious, Ian. I won’t let you ditch me for another woman in the middle of a date.”
This time I can’t control my eye roll. “I’m not ditching you. I’m going to help a friend. And you know it. But do what you need to do, Whitney. I’ll catch up with you later. Or…not.”
I turn, leaving her making outraged huffing noises behind me as I cross the garden. A part of me is shouting that I can’t end a three-year relationship like this, that I have to go back and talk to Whitney, make her understand where I’m coming from and assure her that I’m taking her hopes for our future under serious consideration.
But I’m so tired of fighting and making up, so tired of reassuring her about things she shouldn’t need reassuring about.
Like this insanity with Evie. Yes, I love Evie, but not in that way. My chest gets warm and tight when I’m with her because she’s my first and most loyal fan, the little girl who stole my heart the day I met her.
I’d swung by her house to pick up Derrick for practice our sophomore year to find Evie curled up in a ball on the sagging couch on their front porch with tears streaking her cheeks. I’d asked her what was wrong, she’d told me her dad had taken her crayons away because she forgot to clean her room, and I’d pulled out a pack of colored pencils I’d bought for art class and handed them over.
I’ll never forget the way her face lit up or the reverence in her voice as she said, “Oh thank you so much. I’ll be so careful with them, I promise.”
“You don’t have to be careful with them,” I’d assured her. “Just enjoy them. Have fun.”
She’d nodded seriously, her green eyes wide and her mouth trembling as it pressed into a tight line. “Okay. I’ll try.”
By that point I had six little brothers and sisters and another on the way. I had loads of experience with little kids, and I’d never heard one say he or she would “try” to have fun.
Having fun, as far as I knew, was something kids did naturally.
Looking back from an adult’s perspective, it’s obvious that Derrick and Evie’s dad was a neglectful, and occasionally mean-spirited, jerk. But at sixteen I didn’t know much about their family or how to tell if an adult was truly bad news or just doing the usual, fun-killing things adults do in the name of keeping their kids safe. I did know, however, that Evie’s sad, serious, and oh-so-determined face touched something inside of me that hadn’t been touched before.
From that moment on, she was under my protection. If anyone wanted to hurt that little girl, including Derrick when he complained about letting her tag along to all our games, they had to come through me, first.
And that’s still true. I hope she knows that, even though we’ve grown apart since she went to undergrad in Virginia.
I arrive at their table just as Harlow is looping Evie’s arm over her shoulder and hissing, “It’s fine, just keep your head high and don’t cry.”
“I’m not going to cry,” Evie squeaks in a voice that sounds like she’s about five seconds from a breakdown. She glances up, blinking faster as her gaze connects with mine. “Oh, no. Did you see me fall out of my chair? Did all the other players see it?” Her lips turn down hard at the edges. “Now they’re never going to respect my authority,” she slurs, sniffing as Harlow snaps her fingers in front of her face.
“Yes, they will,” she says. “Stay focused. Cameron’s paying the bill and Jess is downstairs calling a car. We can be out of here in two minutes if we stay on task.” Harlow casts a pointed look my way as she whispers, “Help me, jerk. Her ex is right behind us, watching this entire meltdown.”
I dart a quick glance over her shoulder to see a man with dark hair and a cheesy pirate beard watching Evie with a pitying expression. The equally cheesy blonde in garish red lipstick beside him is smirking, clearly of the opinion that she’s a finer specimen than Dickhead’s former girlfriend.
But she isn’t fit to lick Evie’s tennis shoes, and a part of me wishes I hadn’t been raised to be a nice guy so I could tell her so.
“I shouldn’t drink whiskey,” Evie says, weaving unsteadily as Harlow reaches back to grab her purse and Evie’s art bag. “It tastes like fire and then your brain goes…squishy.” She lifts a hand, poking a finger into her temple. “See? Right there. Squishy.” Her eyes go comically wide. “Do you think I broke my brain, Ian? Is it going to be squishy forever?”