After Forever by Jasinda Wilder

  "Need help?" I was tired, more drunk than I wanted to be, but not enough to let me be unaware of the tension coiled between us even now.

  She turned slowly in place. "Nah. I got it. I think."

  I turned away as she fumbled with her jeans. I rummaged in the kitchen, hunting for aspirin. When I found it and a glass of water, Eden was stumbling out of the bathroom, tripping over her jeans, which were trailing behind her, stuck on one ankle. She was wearing a red thong. I looked away, blinking to clear my head of the image. I had known this was a bad idea. I could handle it, though. It was fine. I kept my eyes on the wall, the floor, the thin fabric of her Cold War Kids concert T-shirt. Handed her the aspirin and the water, not once looking down.

  "Thanks," she mumbled, but I had to catch her as she swayed in place while drinking, spilling the water down her front. "Shit. Now I'm wet."

  "You could borrow a shirt." I didn't say whose, because we both knew whose.

  "'Kay." She lurched to the couch, flopped onto it. "God, I'm hammered."

  "No kidding."

  "You mad, bro?" she asked, then giggled as if that was a joke.

  I shook my head and wove carefully into my bedroom, stood with my hand on the knob of Ever's T-shirt drawer. It hadn't been opened in months. I didn't want to open it. I did anyway, and found a shirt Ever had often worn with comfy pants, a loose, soft orange V-neck. I brought it out to Eden, and immediately regretted it. She was facing me, her shirt half off, struggling comically to get it off while swaying drunkenly.

  I swallowed hard, kept my eyes on her dyed blonde hair, helped her get her shirt off. "Here." I set the clean shirt on her lap without looking.

  "Thanks." She was in bra and panties, in my living room.

  Red push-up bra, red thong. Nothing else. Why? Why had I noticed what kind of bra she was wearing? I turned away and moved toward my room, needing to either sleep or drink more.

  "Wait...I'm--I'm stuck. I can't reach." I sighed, turned back around, staring at Ever's painting on the wall. Eden was standing up, spinning in place as she tried to unhook her bra.

  God, no. No. There was no way in hell I was helping her with that. "I...um. Just leave it on?"

  She groaned in frustration. "I can't. I need it off. I can't sleep in a bra. Just unhook it. That's it."

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I wanted to sleep. I didn't want this situation. I stopped breathing and closed my eyes, and reached for the red hook-and-eyelets. Only, I couldn't do it without looking. As soon as the last hook was freed, Eden had the bra off and was tossing it on the floor, and she was between me and my room, and there was nowhere I could go to get away from her. I turned around, but Eden was giggling, laughing, and I risked a glance to see that she'd fallen down. White skin, red thong, curves, blonde hair, her laughter, drunk and silly. I turned away, fished a beer from the fridge, and wrestled the twist-top until my palm was bleeding, only to realize it was a pop-off, and Eden was still on her hands and knees, crawling toward the clean shirt, which had ended up across the room somehow, and now she had it, and as much as I tried to look away, knew I should, I couldn't. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the shirt on her lap, her spine straight. All of her, on display. Her eyes on me. Watching me, her gaze swimming but lucid. It was one of those moments that you can't ignore, can't ever forget; you know in the moment that it's occurring that it means something significant.

  She stared at me, and my eyes were on hers, on her eyes, green and somehow haunted, staring at me with a wealth of emotion that I couldn't decipher and didn't dare try to. I couldn't help but see her. Her bare breasts, full and swelling with each slow breath.

  I was frozen and I couldn't breathe, couldn't look away, knew I'd never unsee this.

  And then I managed to blink and break the spell and flee to my room, beer open and untouched.

  Eden

  I came to consciousness but didn't open my eyes while I took inventory. Drunk. Still had my panties on, which meant I hadn't had sex. Probably. Wasn't wearing pants, or a bra. I was on a couch. I opened my eyes and glanced around, and it took me a minute to realize I was in Cade's apartment, on his couch. I looked down at myself. I was wearing Ever's favorite comfy-clothes T-shirt.

  Everything came back in a flash. Dinner. Spilling about Ryan. Getting drunk. Watching How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, and getting even more hammered. Mint chocolate chip Breyers--my favorite kind.

  Stripping in front of Cade.

  Sitting on the floor in nothing but my tiny red got dumped and need to feel sexy thong, staring at Cade, his eyes warring between my eyes and my tits, his emotions clearly a raging mess of contradictions. I'd seen anger at me, confusion, and, yes, desire.

  But surely that was just because I looked like Ever. I was her twin, and he was seeing her in me, and probably hating me for the reminder.

  I sat up, which was a mistake. My head swam, my stomach lurched. Oh, god. Wine hangover. So fucking horrible. There was a hot spike being driven through my skull. I groaned and wished, not for the first time, that I could go back and undo the previous night's events.

  "Headache?" I heard Cade's voice. I nodded, which hurt. I felt his hand brush my shoulder, and opened my eyes to see his palm in front of me, containing two aspirin, and a glass of water in the other hand. He wasn't looking at me. Probably couldn't bear to.

  "Thanks," I said, after taking the pills and drinking all of the water. I glanced up at him, squinting in the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. "So. Do you have a hole I can borrow?"

  He finally looked down at me in confusion. "Hole?"

  I shrugged and tried to smile, didn't quite succeed at it, either. "To crawl into and disappear."

  He turned away, went to the kitchen, and started making coffee. God bless him for that. "Why would you need to crawl into a hole?"

  I found my jeans on the floor, leaned forward, and snagged them, tugged them on. "Last night was--god, I'm so embarrassed--"

  "Shit happens. Nothing to talk about. Nothing happened." He bit out the words brusquely, harshly. Obviously he didn't believe that any more than I did.

  I saw my bra on the floor as well, and set about putting it on without taking off my shirt. Ever's shirt. He turned to look at me while I was in the middle of this process and promptly spun back around, rattling dishes in the sink. When I was dressed completely, I gathered my courage and went into the kitchen. The Keurig sputtered, and he pushed the mug of coffee toward me, gestured at the cream and sugar he'd already gotten out, then set about making his own coffee.

  After a careful sip, I touched Cade's shoulder. He glanced at me, stepped back out of reach. It wasn't even a disguised move--he simply moved away so I couldn't touch him, so I wasn't so close. "Look, Cade, I'm not into pretending nothing happened. It did. I got drunk and made an idiot of myself. I don't really have any excuse, and I'm sorry."

  He shrugged, setting the Keurig to brew a second time, filling his mug the rest of the way. "It's fine. It happens."

  I didn't think I'd get much more from him. "It was stupid of me. I shouldn't have--it shouldn't have happened." I ducked my head, sipping my coffee. "That's just...me, though. It's how I am when I get drunk. I get overheated and...when I decide I'm gonna go to sleep, I end up taking my clothes off and--"

  Cade swore, setting his coffee down. "Burned my mouth," he explained. His eyes, however, spoke of...remembering. "We're both adults, right? It happened. No big deal. Let's just move on."

  "Right."

  "Okay." I finished my coffee and he took me back to my car, which had a parking ticket, and I went home.

  I noticed, in the days that followed, that he was even more reserved around me, keeping his eyes on mine, or, more likely, anywhere but me. Oddly, our Sunday and Tuesday dinners continued, but he was careful to never drink more than one glass of wine, and so was I. We established a status quo, and never talked about that night again.

  I wondered if he remembered any of the things I'd said while I was drunk. r />
  I knew I did.

  letters unsent; cutting loose

  Caden

  Ever,

  School starts in a week. I'm registered for four classes. Talked with a counselor about the best way to make up for the lost time. That was his phrase: "make up for lost time." I heard that phrase and I hated it, hated him for saying it. Lost time.

  You can't make up for what's lost. Especially not time. This time that you're gone, we'll never get it back. It's lost. Time with you, lost. Love and life with you, lost.

  I don't want to move on, act like things are fine, like life continues. It doesn't. But it has to, right? So I'm registered for classes, and I'm going to focus on making up credit hours and finishing this degree. Not long to go, really. Six semesters, I think? Not much.

  My hand is back to normal finally. Or as normal as it can get, I think. It'll never be the way it was.

  Oh, hell. Nothing will ever be the way it was. I won't, you won't. You may never BE again, period. I lose hope sometimes. I can't help it. I try--I fight against it. Every day, hour by hour, I fight to keep hoping, to keep believing you'll wake up. But sometimes I lose hope. I start to wonder if you will. If you'll just lie there in that bed, growing old without really living, and I'll visit you, and love you, and it'll be some kind of life lived in limbo. That's what this feels like, life lived in limbo. But I hope, even if I have to fight for it. You are my love, my best friend, my forever. And you WILL wake up. You have to, because I can't keep up this limbo act forever. Something will have to change, somehow, someday.

  I love you so much, Ever. I miss you. Dear Jesus, I miss you. Come back to me.

  For forever, and after forever,

  Caden

  My hand trembled as I folded the letter I'd written to her just yesterday, tucked it into the envelope marked, simply, "EVER," and put the envelope into the shoebox. It was a new box, from a pair of heels she'd bought a few months before the accident but never got around to wearing. Black heels, low, strappy, with little pieces of fake crystal on the straps. She'd have looked so sexy in them, the way heels made her legs look like they went on forever.

  God, she was like this frail thing in the huge bed now. Like she was vanishing day by day.

  I'd forgotten the sound of her voice. I called her voicemail just to hear it, but the mailbox was full and I couldn't even hear the recording. I cried then. Briefly, quietly, in the bathroom of my condo.

  It was my condo now. Not our. But her things were still there, just...out of sight. I'd put her sweater away, her shoes. Put it all in the closet. Cleaned up once in a while, and when I cleaned, a few more of her things would get put away, out of sight. I left her paintings up, left her clothes in their drawers, hung up on their hangers in her half of the closet. Left her makeup container on the counter, her shampoo and conditioner in the shower, her lotion on our dresser.

  Sometimes I opened the cap of the lotion and sniffed. Inhaled the scent of Ever.

  Now, in her room at the nursing home, I closed the top of the box and set it on the little stand next to her bed. The box was filling with letters. An envelope per letter, unaddressed but for her name, bundled together with all the letters I wrote her each week, and again with those belonging to each month. So far there were three months' worth of bundled letters. I didn't write her every day. Sometimes twice a week, sometimes four or five times. Sometimes I'd write her two letters in one day. Those were the days when I missed her so badly I wanted to just crawl onto the bed beside her and sleep beside her forever, just quit trying to pretend it was okay, that I was okay, that ANYTHING was okay.

  I never did, though. If I lay down beside her, I knew I'd never leave. I didn't have the courage to keep living. All I had was force of habit. Wake up, out of habit. Eat breakfast. Get dressed. Go to class. Eat lunch. Go to class. Sketch. Sketch. Eat dinner. Go to bed. Repeat.

  I needed something else in my life. Something not class, not the condo, and not the nursing home. "The Home," as Eden and I both referred to it. I even envisioned the capital "H." The Home. Have you been to the Home yet today? she'd ask me via text. I'd call her from my car: I'm on my way to the Home.

  Never to visit Ever.

  After class one Monday, I decided to get a job. Something exhausting. Something that I'd not be able to think while doing. I spent two weeks filling out applications and going to interviews before I found something that filled my criteria: unloading in a UPS warehouse. It was perfect. It fit my limited hours, being from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. Monday through Friday, and it paid enough to be worth the time I spent there. And it was hard work, nonstop motion for three hours straight. I'd clock in at five exactly, hit the first truck in line, step into the diamond-plate interior and grab boxes, throw them down the moveable chute, one after another. Empty the truck, push the chute to the next truck, empty it. Repeat at top speed until there were no more trucks left.

  While I was unloading, I was able to turn off my brain, lock out my heart, and simply move. My arm and my leg always ached at the end of the shift, but I'd gotten clearance from my doctor before taking the job. No one talked to me while I was unloading, except for the occasional checkup from Rick, the supervisor, or a quick hello from the driver. I worked in silence, in solitude.

  I took to visiting Ever after my shift, which was a good thing, since it meant I'd be able to visit her on my own, as Eden had class until nine every day this semester. I was actively avoiding her at this point. I didn't want to be rude about it, but it was simply necessary. After the episode in my living room, it was just too weird, too strained to see her very often. We still had dinner together on Sundays after a joint visit to the Home, but that was it, and I never let those dinners stray out of the restaurant itself, never let conversation go anywhere serious.

  There was something dangerous about Eden, about the way we were together when we let our guards down.

  This became the new norm. Life settled into a pattern, which was its own comfort in a way. Fall semester progressed, and I completed some new pieces for my portfolio. After the accident, after I got the use of my right hand back, my style as an artist shifted. Before, I'd done largely still-lifes, nature scenes, hands, eyes. I'd even started experimenting with hyperrealism, the kind of pieces you see online, like, this is a drawing, not a photograph kind of thing. Now, simply due to the shift in my muscles and the need to basically relearn how to use my hand, I found my style and subject matter changing.

  I drew a grinning white skull, snakes curling through the eye sockets, the background black but writhing with shadowy shapes not quite visible. A rosebush, floating in a stormy sky. A tornado, held in a palm. Dark imagery, distorted viewpoints and twisted perspective.

  Thanksgiving was a non-affair. I bought a small precooked rotisserie chicken from Costco, ate it alone. Eden came by, and we watched the Lions game, ate some of the pumpkin pie she'd brought with her. Avoided discussing the pathetic nature of our holiday.

  Eden's dad called her phone while she was over, and she ignored it. I glanced at her, watched her check the screen of her phone, sigh, and hit the "ignore" button, stuff it back in her purse. It rang twice more, and she deleted the voicemails without listening to them.

  I should have said something. I knew I should. He was her father. But I remembered the fight Ever and I had gotten in about this very subject, and Ever was far more even-tempered than Eden.

  "Say it already," Eden said, dipping a tortilla chip into the salsa. "I can feel you stewing over there."

  "I'm not stewing."

  "Yes, you are. And I know why. I'm not gonna answer. I don't want to see him."

  I held up my hands. "I didn't say anything."

  "But you were thinking it."

  I blew out a frustrated breath. "Yeah. He's your dad. He's all you have." Before she could say anything, I continued. "Look, I know there's history there. The worst argument Ever and I got into was about this, and I learned my lesson. It's your business. But...family is important."

  Sh
e nodded and shrugged simultaneously. "Yeah. True. But I don't really have him, do I? He made a tiny little effort after the accident happened. He visited me at school once, visited Ever a couple of times. Then he vanished again. He's a coward, Cade. He can't handle grief. I haven't seen him in months. He hasn't visited Ever at the Home once. Not once. She's his daughter, and he doesn't visit her. I know it's hard. Obviously I do, but he owes it to her, to me. If he made an effort, I'd be there. I'd forgive him, best I can. But he's not, okay? He's not trying. So I don't want to talk to him, I'm not going to his house. Not now, not for Christmas, not at all. Not until he proves he's willing to try." She set the salsa on the coffee table and brushed her hands together, stood up. "And he's not gonna do that, so...fuck it. Fuck it, and fuck him."

  She went into the kitchen, rummaged in my fridge. More for an excuse to get away from me, to hide her emotions than anything, I think. She came back with two beers and hurt, angry eyes.

  "Fair enough," I said, taking one. "Happy Thanksgiving, huh?"

  "Yeah. Happy fucking Thanksgiving." She held out her bottle, and we clinked.

  We finished the game, ate more chicken. Watched Skyfall. Drank more beer. I'd picked up a case of Harp lager on the way home from work the day before Thanksgiving, which, in hindsight, was probably a mistake. I'd intended to make it last for a few weeks, one or two every once in a while, when I had a hard time getting to sleep. Just a couple of beers to take the edge off.

  Only now we were each three beers in, and I was putting on my dad's aged DVD copy of Dr. No. That led to two more beers each, and From Russia With Love. There was little conversation, as was typical with Eden and me during movies. It was strange for me. Ever had been chatty during movies. She liked to cuddle close to me and talk throughout the whole thing, a constant chatter about the movie, about the actor or actress, about school or her latest piece or whatever was on her mind. I'd learned to listen to her with half an ear, her running commentary simply part of watching a movie with Ever.