Page 4 of The Flesh That Binds Us

“I can’t remember a time where I didn't.” I curled my fingers into his hair, tugging lightly on his mullet. “I had a crush on you for years,” I confessed. “But I guess as we got older, those feelings only grew stronger. Because you weren't just this cute boy to me anymore, you were…” I swallowed as his eyes pierced through mine. The red numbers on the digital clock lit the room enough to see the way they bounced from mine to the posters on the wall behind me.

“I was?” he murmured, his leg twitching against mine.

“You were this guy who made my chest hurt in the best way,” I breathed. “Just being around you felt like enough, until it wasn't. I think it was the night of your prom, when you and Peter got all dressed up—just to end up going for thirty minutes,” I laughed. “When I realised I…I wanted to be your girlfriend,” I admitted, my eyes heavy.

“I remember that night,” Jackson murmured, steadily leaning in closer, his forehead resting against mine.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Because I remember thinking—” he swallowed thickly “—that I wish I had asked you to come instead, and that…I wish I was your boyfriend.” My eyes fluttered closed as I tangled my fingers into the hair at his nape, doing nothing to stop the smile spreading across my lips. “So can I?” he whispered, sliding his hand underneath my singlet and caressing the bare skin on my back, leaving a trail of goosebumps up my spine. “Can I be your boyfriend?" A breathless laugh passed through my lips as I tried to hold back my tears.

“Yes, please,” I whispered, and Jackson grinned, tightening his hold on me as he brushed his lips against mine, just as the clock beeped behind me.

“It’s midnight. Happy birthday, Evie,” he whispered, peppering kisses along my cheeks, while I smiled and tried my hardest to keep my eyes open. I hadn't slept properly in nine months, yet I felt like I could sleep forever in his arms. “I want to take you out on a date tomorrow night.” His voice was kept to a whisper as he planted a kiss on my forehead.

And if I hadn't woken up in his arms the following morning, I would've sworn it was all a magical dream. But not even my imagination could have invented such a perfect moment in time, or crafted a better confession from his lips. He’d woken me up with a gentle kiss and disappeared before Peter woke up, claiming he had to go set up for our dinner at the arcade where we played air hockey every Saturday—but not before yelling how much he loved me as he sped off, honking his horn and waking all the dogs up in the neighbourhood.

If I had known it would have been the last time, I would’ve taken a moment to bask in the euphoria he gave me. I would've taken time to remember the way he felt. The way his arms tightened around me when he said goodbye, our heartbeats matched in their own rhythm. The way he smiled, with his eyes crinkled and the dimples deepening his cheeks. The way he leaned in, kissing me softly, running his hands down my spine, encapsulating me with so much love I wanted to cry.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stood on the porch and watched him go, waving with my heart so unbelievably full, it felt like it would burst out of my chest—not knowing I’d never get to experience that moment again.

CHAPTER TWO

EVIE

The dusty ceiling fan whirling above me blew through my dark hair, the tears on my face turning to ice the longer I left them unwiped, and drying into tight, stinging tracks. Dad’s Cold Chisel LP pulsed through the room, loud enough to swallow the sound of my sobs as I clutched the photo album in my lap. Its pages were damp and warped, softened by time and grief, as I once again tortured myself with visual memories of the time before he was taken from our lives.

But this was all I had left of him—just these discoloured polaroids of frozen fragments of a life that no longer existed. I flicked through the frail pages, stopping on one of Mum and Dad on their wedding day. The picture, though faded and worn, still seemed to glow with warmth. A smiling baby Peter squirmed in their arms, Mum’s small bump barely visible beneath her white dress. I lost her to breast cancer when I was three, but Dad helped keep her memory alive by telling us stories about her life, and rotating framed photos of her around the house. The polaroid beneath it was of my first day of school. My two front teeth were missing as Dad held me in front of the gates. I’d wished we’d taken more photos together when he was still alive, but how could we have known we’d have such little time together?

“Evelyn! How many times do I have to call your name?!”

Peter’s voice cut through my thoughts, and I scoffed under my breath, snapping the album shut and shoving it beneath my bed. I wiped at my face with the hem of my shirt, erasing any evidence of the last four hours.

“I heard you the first time!” I called back over the music as the record needle skipped into the next song. I groaned as I stood, scrubbing a hand over my face, pressing my fingers into my eyes just as his footsteps thundered down the hallway. The door flew open, and Peter stood there, hands on his hips, with a tea towel slung over his shoulder.

“Can I help you?” I asked flatly, as if I hadn’t been falling apart only moments ago.

“Dinner’s ready, Evie. I’ve been calling you for five minutes,” he said, his face pinched in annoyance.

“Sorry, I was distracted.” I left it at that and attempted to brush past him. I didn't get far though, as Peter gently grabbed my elbow and pulled me back.

“Hey, hey…” His voice softened, his grip shifting to my shoulders as he bent to meet my eyes. “You’ve been crying?” he asked, wiping his thumb underneath my eye.

“No.” My voice wavered, my trembling lip betraying me.

I’d woken up this morning with a heaviness already settled in my marrow. As I laid on Jackson’s chest, I’d stared at my door for over an hour, waiting for a sound that never came. I didn’t hear Dad’s failed attempts of tiptoeing outside my door, I didn't pretend to still be sleeping as he snuck in and sang the birthday song to wake me up. Instead, the house was deafeningly silent. No Dad. No birthday cake. Nothing.

Peter exhaled slowly before pulling me into his arms. I collapsed against him, sobs tearing out of me as he rested his chin on my head. “It’ll get easier,” he murmured into my hair, his own voice thick with emotion.

I pulled back slightly. “When?” I cried. “When does it stop hurting like this?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “But one day it won’t hurt this much. One day we’ll remember the good parts without all of this.” His hands tightened slightly on my shoulders. “Until then, we just keep going. Dad wouldn’t want us falling apart every day, would he?”

“No,” I agreed.

A small smile tugged at his lips. “But he would want us to eat his famous cheesy mash-topped meatloaf. So go sit down, because I spent all day making it, and Nicola’s not even coming.” A weak laugh escaped me, and he grinned in return. He slung an arm around my shoulders and guided me toward the dining room, and the Christmas tree twinkled in the corner as he pulled out my chair.