Everly
“How isit possible that Giselle still hasn’t been out here? I don’t get it,” Law says.
I just shrug. I have no idea why she hasn’t come to New York, but it doesn't matter to me. I see her on FaceTime calls at least every other day, sometimes more. Last week, she called me from the shower, asking if I could tell her if her waxing lady gave her a true Brazilian because she couldn’t see a certain angle on her ass crack. She’s an over-sharer, with no boundaries, but I’d rather have that than to miss her.
“I don’t know. She’s been really busy and can’t just cancel clients. Or so she says.”
Henry makes an annoyed grunting noise, and we all stop what we’re doing to look at him.
“You’re not fooling anyone, bro. Stop acting like you hate her.” My eyes meet Law’s. We both know Henry will never say otherwise, but there’s no way he would spend so much time and effort grumbling after her if there wasn’t something else there. She’s never done anything to him other than push some buttons, but we all know that it’s a matter of minutes before he either storms out or chucks an object at Law’s face.
“I just have to grab my phone, one sec. I’ll meet you downstairs,” I yell from my bedroom in the back. My brothers arrived in town last night to observe and to give their two cents on the models that are coming through today for our social media sessions. They took credit for something I know for a fact now they had nothing to do with. After the second Sunday in a row of a mystery bag arriving on my doorstep, chuck-filled with crunchy bacon, crispy Belgian waffles laced with bourbon butter with vanilla bean maple syrup, and sliced strawberries, I realized it was from Jack. I don’t know how, but every Sunday morning, I wake up to his—and nowmy—favorite breakfast sitting outside of my door. It’s been going on now for about six weeks, and while I’m not sure whatexactlyit means. It meanssomething.
“Ev, there’s a bag at your front door. It smells like bacon,” Law yells from the other side of the loft. “Did you order breakfast? I thought there was breakfast catered at the shoot.”
“Just leave it on the counter, please.”
I walk into the kitchen from the hallway and drop my phone into my bag. I pull my winter hat on and throw a scarf around my neck. March in New York is colder than December, most days. It’s not Strutt’s Peak cold, but if the wind zips through the avenues just right, you’ll think frostbite could creep into anything that isn’t covered.
“Where’s your coat?” I keep my momentum and move to the door. “What?” Law’s arms are crossed, and he’s stopped at the kitchen counter in front of the takeout bag.
He stares at me, waiting for me to flinch, and asks, “How long has he been delivering you breakfast?”
Of course, he’d realize it was from Jack. It’s not worth lying about it, so I tell him, “Six weeks. Every Sunday at eight-thirty in the morning, I can expect it to show up on my front step.”
Law just looks at me, expecting me to say something else, but there’s nothing else to say. I haven’t processed it. I just eat it and then go on with my day. It’s one of the only things I’m eating regularly. Between my busy schedule and the bit of depression that’s snuck in, I’m mostly living off of coffee and protein bars. Sometimes Thai or sushi from the places around the corner, but I can only do takeout for so long.
“You haven’t seen him? Texted him?” he asks.
I brace myself for this, because thinking about him is one thing, but talking about him is another. I don’t want to feel the sadness that’s just sitting on the sidelines, waiting to take over my steeled reserve. I shake my head. “What? Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know. I’m afraid that if I talk to him in any way, then I’m going to have to figure out what we are to each other. And I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. It’s not in my court. He could call or text me if he wanted to, but he hasn’t.”
“The guy is somehow arranging for you to have breakfast every week. Wouldn’t you think it’s nice to say thank you, or at leastsomething?” I just look at him, because I’ve purposely tried not to acknowledge that there’s no reason for me not to at least text him. I just decided to live in my bubble right now, knowing he’s thinking of me, but I’m not ready for anything more than that. Plus, it’s not in my court. I’m not going to chase him. I can’t. Call it stubborn dignity.
I shift my weight on my feet and lean against the counter. He asks, “Are you dating someone else?”
“No,” I bark out at him and scoff at the idea that I’d just move on like that. Even though I should be doing that. Moving on. I open the bag and dig out a piece of bacon to distract my emotions from surfacing.
I look up fast, as worry creeps into my gut.“Wait, is he? Is he seeing someone else? Law, tell me what you know. Are you still hanging out with him?” Law just looks at me out of the corner of his eye and smiles.
“That’s what I thought.” He smirks.
My stomach flips, like I’ve just gone over the highest point on a rollercoaster, and I throw the bacon piece back into the bag. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It just means I needed to know if you were over him or not. Clearly not. Now, I just don’t understand why you’re both being dumb and aren’t together.”
“That’s not a question for me, Law. He knows how I feel. It's on him to do something about it.” I steady myself from the discussion and walk out the door, with Law trailing behind me. We walk into the cold air of the morning, meeting Michael and Henry on the sidewalk out front. The cold knocks me back into a more stable frame of mind. I don't want to start down the path of “what ifs'' and hopeful thoughts. I haven’t even fully pulled myself back together since my last interaction with Jack. I can’t trust that I won’t unravel completely if I start talking to him again, and then I figure out it’s just Jack feeling lonely.
There’s a part of me that knows that’s not the case, but after you’ve been hurt, self-preservation hardens any thoughts of hope. I’m not prepared for anything more than realities. We walk to the storefront and studio that are now headquarters for my brand. Several people are crowding the small lobby as my assistant works to move people around and keep the day organized. The photographer is set up, and we take seats along the edge of the space to watch him work.
It takes about twenty minutes. Between my brothers causing a bit of a commotion to get breakfast from catering and to find a place to sit. It’s Michael that notices first. He goes wide-eyed and chokes on his coffee. He looks at me and starts laughing.
“You alright, man?” Law chimes in. He takes a bite of his bagel and sips his coffee, surveying the models lined up and sprawled out.
Henry looks at me and smirks. Got him. Now I just wait for Law to catch up.
“Um, Ev?” Law says between bites.
“Yes?” I exaggerate, batting my eyelashes at him.