Page 91 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“I went to the mailbox.”
“The mailbox is twelve feet from your door.”
“Twelve feet is a significant distance,” I respond around another spoonful of double fudge cookie dough.
Julia’s face softens. The lawyer giving way to the friend—the friend who knows my side of the story that’s been running rampant across every local news station this week, because I called her at 7:45 a.m. on Sunday from the back of an ambulance and told her everything in a voice that was ninety percent smoke inhalation and ten percent heartbreak.
“He’s an idiot,” she says. “A complete, weapon-grade idiot. Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? I could—” She squints, glancing at something on her desk. “Oof. Actually, I’ve got court today, so?—”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. That slimeball hurt you, and when I get a minute—just, like, any two-hour block where I’m not booked for a deposition or?—”
“Julia. Stop—” My voice breaks. The crack that keeps coming back, threatening to break me apart whenever I think of his icy-blue eyes catching mine across the parking lot. Right after, of course, he said those words: She’s nothing.
Yeah, I can’t unhear that. It found my soul.
And I can’t keep talking about it. “I’m fine. I’m eating. I’m vertical.”
“And I love that for you, babe. I do. But”—Julia’s voice drops, pulling her punch in a very uncharacteristic way—“you also need to shower. And maybe eat something with a different food group in it.”
Yikes. I must really be in bad shape if she’s doing that.
“And then…you should probably just bite the bullet and answer your dad’s texts.”
“Oh yeah? And then what? Should I start a fund to stop world hunger? Solve the problem of self-sustaining energy?” It comes out a little crazed, my spoon waving in the air, nearly dripping on my hair. “Maybe let’s just pick one, Julia. Shower, eat, or deal with my dad.”
“How many times has he texted?”
I sigh. “Eight.” The texts sit unopened, hanging out in my notifications like a black spot.
Dad
Evie, we need to talk. Come by the house. Please.
“And you haven’t responded.”
“No. He keeps asking me to come over, but…I just can’t…”
“Maybe because you’re afraid of what he’ll say about Beckett.”
And there it is—the nail hit on the head. The nagging, etching fear in the corner of my mind. The reason for the pajamas and ice cream. Beckett. My dad’s star player.
I can hear his voice—the coach voice—sitting me down like I’m one of the team. Beckett can’t afford any distractions right now. Whatever’s going on between you two, it needs to end.
Take one for the team, Everly. Beckett’s needs are more important. Always.
Julia tilts her head, her voice softening as though she knows exactly what’s going on inside my head. “Go,” she says. “Whatever the conversation is, you need to have it. Because hiding in your house eating ice cream is not doing for you what you think it is.”
“When did you become a therapist?”
“I’ve always been your therapist.” She winks. “Go. Shower first. And for the love of all that’s good, change your shirt.”
The drive takes twenty-two minutes, and I almost turn around three times.
The first time is at the on-ramp. A phone call accomplishes the same communicative objectives without requiring eye contact.
The second time is at the exit. Maybe I just put it off until the news cycle dies and the sound of his laughter stops echoing over every new station.
