Never now, p.2
Never Now, page 2
“Eventually,” I confirm. “I don’t want to completely throw her into the deep end before I know she’ll stick around.”
Owen laughs, and a small smirk tugs at Reeve’s lips.
“I know I’m probably getting ahead of myself, but there was something about her that just made me feel like we could be good friends. Plus, it can never hurt to have a few girlfriends. I’m constantly surrounded by all this testosterone; I need something to mellow it out with!”
The guys roll their eyes in jest as I pull out my lipstick and reapply, hoping the edges match up as I managed to lose my mirror.
Owen rises from the table, leaving Reeve and me to our own devices. There is no awkwardness between us, our encounter three years ago a distant memory.
Reeve inclines his head, and I turn mine to the side in question. Reaching out, he swipes his thumb across the base of my lip.
I stare at him in question like a dumbstruck idiot.
“Lipstick.”
Oh. I had lippy on my face. Jesus.
“Thanks.” I grin, attempting to hide any semblance of embarrassment. What am I gonna do, ask him to touch my lip again? Lord knows rational thought goes out the window when he’s around, so I could. Who knows?
He just nods before pulling out his mobile and replying to a message.
“Em, you coming to Evie’s tonight?” Ali yells from behind the bar. I drag myself out of my chair and head over to him.
I smile up at my older brother. “You bet your ass I am. I wouldn’t miss a Sunday roast with Evie even if it was my child’s first birthday.”
“She’s coming,” Ali calls out to Owen, who’s on the phone in the corner, talking to who I’d assume is Evie, his ma.
Owen nods before redirecting his attention to his mama. Owen is the world’s biggest mama’s boy, and Evie worked her arse off all her life to make sure Owen and his little brother were taken care of. Owen’s dad died when he was just a kid. I can’t imagine growing up without my dad; I’m thankful I got him, even if it was just for sixteen years.
“I can’t believe we aren’t gonna see her for nearly an entire year!” I throw my body against the bar, full of dramatics. “Who’s gonna cook me Sunday roasts while Evie is living her best life globe-trotting?”
Ali laughs, both of us knowing I’m fully kidding.
If anyone deserves to travel the world for nine months, it’s this woman. Evie met her new husband, Steve, four years ago, and after marrying last summer, they’re finally taking their long-awaited and long-deserved honeymoon.
“Mum’s keen you’re all coming tonight,” Owen says as he takes a seat next to me. “She says come at six or don’t come at all.”
“Perfect. I gotta go home and change. Can’t let Evie down by looking like a dog.” I hop down, collect my stuff, and say my goodbyes.
“You heading to the Tube?” Reeve asks.
I nod.
“I’ll come with you,” he says, grabbing his jacket.
“See ya at six sharp.” I wink at Owen as Reeve and I exit.
“I’m gonna miss Evie and her cooking,” Reeve says as we walk the Notting Hill streets together.
“Tell me about it. The only times I get a home-cooked meal are on Sundays with her. I might have to start cooking for myself.” I cringe.
“Oh, the horror!” Reeve teases. I nudge his arm with my shoulder as we laugh, side by side. It’s in moments like these I thank my lucky stars I didn’t fuck it all up between the two of us all those years ago.
“You could learn how to cook, you know.”
I shake my head. “No thanks, I would burn down my flat and no one wants that.” We keep walking, and I find myself saying my inner thoughts aloud—something I would usually want to keep to myself.
“It’s more than that, anyway.” The words are louder than a whisper but have raw truth in them. “Evie is like a mum to me. I guess being around her, even for something as small as eating that food, makes me feel like I’m at home. I know it’s stupid, and nothing would ever replace my mum and dad. But sometimes it’s nice knowing there’s someone who cares enough to make sure there’s chicken for everyone and that my potatoes are extra crispy.” I laugh at how silly it all is, but people remembering those small things about you can make all the difference.
We’re quiet for a few moments, perhaps both of us lost in memories of our time with Evie, a surrogate mother to us all. Reeve’s home life is no more functional than mine or Ali’s.
“I could do it for you.” Reeve finally speaks, his words catching me off guard.
I peer at him, eyes questioning.
“I’m no Evie. But the one thing my nan taught me was how to cook. So, uh, I could do it. If you want, I mean.” Nervous Reeve, that’s a new one.
“You’d do that for me?”
He nods, zero hesitation. “You’re family, Emilia. Of course. You just can’t tell the guys about my special skills. Otherwise they’ll make me be in the kitchen for every birthday and holiday, and I don’t have it in me.”
I grin. “It can be our little secret.” And I know it will be, because there’s no way I’m sharing this part of Reeve with anyone but myself.
From his simple offer begins a monthly home-cooked Sunday roast between only Reeve and me. And true to my word, I don’t tell a soul.
Later in the month I’m at Reeve’s for our Sunday dinner. A lot has happened over the past few weeks. Stana has become a fast friend of mine, visiting Saint Street with me only to discover she had previously been there and already met Ali. The only person who seemed unsure of her was Reeve. But I know I will crack him.
“You really didn’t have to go to all this effort,” I tell Reeve as I place my fork on my empty plate. It’s practically shiny clean, my greedy fingers swiping up every little morsel of gravy that I can get. It’s only the first Sunday dinner he’s made for us, but it already feels like it’s been a staple in my life forever.
He smiles at me from across the table, still working on his food. I try to subdue the butterflies that wreak havoc on my stomach at that boyish charm only I manage to see from him. It’s been years I’ve harbored these feelings for him, feelings he clearly doesn’t reciprocate. I have to say I’ve become quite the professional at pushing them down, but in these moments where it’s just the two of us and he goes to all this effort to keep me happy, it’s hard to ignore.
“It’s really no problem, Emmy,” he replies, his voice smooth. “You’re my family. It’s important to take care of family.”
I nod, reaching across the cloth-covered table for my wine. Of course it’s my favorite, not that I need to tell Reeve that. He’s always noticed the little things. How I like my food cooked, what bottle of wine I want to drink, if I need company, if I need to be alone.
It’s what has always separated him from the “brother” category that Ali and Owen easily fell into.
“So, I’ve invited Stana around to Saint Street again,” I tell him, then wait to see his reaction. Reeve’s never been keen on inviting others into our small circle. He’s protective of those he considers family, probably because he isn’t close with his real one.
He just nods from across the table, face impassive as he eats a potato. I give him a pointed look, not willing to put up with him giving Stana the cold shoulder.
“What?” he asks. I keep my gaze on him, not letting him out of the hot seat. After a few moments, he breaks into a smile, shaking his head.
“You’re right, I know I was a dick when I first met her. You bet your ass Ali let me know it too. I’m just protective, Em. I don’t want everyone dealing with another Poppy.”
“Poppy wasn’t that bad,” I snap. “She’s my friend, Reeve.”
He looks away. “I didn’t trust her, Em. She would drop you for a lad at any second. What kind of friendship is that?”
“Well, maybe I did the same to her,” I respond, knowing full well I would never do that.
Reeve’s head pops up from looking at his plate. “With what lads?”
I burst out laughing. “I’m just kidding. Jesus, you’re so protective sometimes. You do know I’m not a child; I’ll be twenty-three soon.”
“Trust me, Emmy. I know you’re not a child.” His voice holds a darkened quality I’ve yet to hear from him, my attention captured by his stare.
As if sensing my confusion, he runs a hand through his hair, seemingly flustered. “It’s just, I’ve grown up with you. I know you’re not a kid,” he tries to clarify.
I nod, not really sure what to make of the comment.
“Dessert?” he quickly adds in, motioning toward the kitchen.
“I think I might need a few minutes to digest.” I pat my stomach and Reeve laughs, standing up from the table and collecting the plates. His tall frame practically towers over me, all lean muscle and dark hair. His usual black attire of jeans, T-shirt, and boots makes me smile. It’s almost a uniform for Reeve. While I’m all color and mismatched patterns, Reeve is dark and set in order.
“Let me do the dishes for once,” I say, but he’s too quick for me, grabbing the last of the glasses off the table.
“Guests don’t do the dishes,” he tells me, balancing about ten things on each hand.
“You let Ali do the dishes when we ate here last month!”
“Okay,” he replies, turning to me, “you don’t do the dishes.” I ignore how my heart speeds up, needing to constantly remind myself he’s just taking care of me.
“Pick a movie, Em. I’m just begging you that it’s not The Notebook.” His voice is distant as he enters the kitchen, but I can still hear the humor in it. I could pick Twilight for all he cares, and he’d still sit next to me and pretend to like it. I may or may not have made him watch the series a few times already.
Walking into his living room, I can’t help but laugh at the contrast between Owen and Reeve. A leather black couch faces the TV unit, also black, while a coffee table sits directly in the middle, not a thing on top of it. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to tell you Reeve decorated this part. Yet if you turn your head a fraction to the left, the walls are covered in framed movie posters ranging from The Godfather to Wedding Crashers, the latter film all Owen. If there was ever a lad into Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn, it was him.
Reeve and Owen’s dual personalities, although highly different, manage to complement one another around the room. But if I opened their bedrooms, Owen’s would be a hurricane of stuff while Reeve’s would be simple, kept to itself with small things that matter and a closet of mainly black.
My feet move me over to the fireplace that we once tried to use and nearly caught ourselves on fire with, so now it’s strictly decorative.
I bypass the books on the mantle, smiling at the painting I gave Reeve for his birthday last year hanging on the wall. But it’s the photo of the two of us from my seventeenth birthday that makes me stop. I pick it up, the memory of the day assaulting me, like jumping into an ice-cold ocean. Reeve’s arm is around my waist, pulling me into him, while Ali and Owen are joking with one another on the side. But it’s my face that really gets me.
The fresh innocence that overtakes me as I stare up at Reeve, my emotions practically written across my face. To anyone else it would seem like just another photo, a group of kids celebrating, but it’s so much more to me.
“What are you grinning at?” Reeve asks, catching me off guard as he comes into the room, our drinks and something else in hand.
“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen this photo,” I tell him. He places everything on the coffee table before coming toward me. “I remember when we took it. Ali stole the last slice of cake and Owen went after him.” I squeeze my lips together, fighting back a smile.
Reeve stands next to me, the heat from his body radiating into my own. It’s instinctual, and maybe crossing some imaginary line, but I lean into him. He stiffens; it’s momentary, but I feel it. Luckily, he brushes it off, his hand coming around to my shoulder.
“At the time I was pissed they ruined the photo, but after I had the pictures developed, I realized it made it better, more us.”
I smirk, looking up at him. “I think it encapsulates the four of us perfectly.”
Our eyes connect, and the storm inside of me awakens. Neither of us says anything or moves, my breath cutting off. Suddenly the weight of Reeve’s arm on my back feels overly heavy, the air around us thick.
“I, uh,” he starts before cutting himself off. “I got you something.” He quickly pulls away, shaking his head to himself as he walks to the couch.
I brush off the moment, unable to fully process what’s happened. I’ve never been afraid to go after what I want in life, but after one rejection from Reeve all those years ago, the risk of another is too much.
“You got me something,” I say, managing to find my voice. After walking to the couch, I grab my wine and take a few big sips. Okay, a few glugs.
“I saw them the other day, remembered you said something about liking this brand.” He looks around the room, trying to act as if it’s not a big deal as he hands me a packet of my favorite watercolor pencils. Pencils I know for a fact are not cheap.
I take them from him, our hands grazing in the process. He steps back as though he’s been shocked, but schools his features.
“Wow, I don’t know what to say. You really shouldn’t have,” I reply, looking over the gift. It’s exactly what I would use, and I’ve been meaning to get another set for months now, but it wasn’t a necessity and wasting money isn’t in my best interest.
“It’s not a big deal. I saw them, knew you’d like them, so I got them.” His voice is light, carefree, as if the act isn’t extremely thoughtful and heartfelt. He sits down on the couch, his attention now on the TV. “So, what are we watching?”
Swallowing a few times, I compose myself before sitting down. I look at him, ignoring his question about the movie.
“Reeve.”
He turns to me, his knee a few centimeters from my own.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice steady and true. He smiles, pleased at how much I love them.
“You’re welcome, Emmy.”
Clearly a bit uncomfortable from my display of gratitude, he refocuses his attention on the TV, pressing Play despite not knowing what I picked. He laughs when Bring It On starts to play, but says nothing. I know he secretly loves these movies.
And that’s how we sit as the movie begins, Reeve trying to hide his laughter while I grin proudly.
The next few months pass in a haze. My new friend Stana becomes a permanent fixture in our previously-a-foursome, her attention quickly shifting to my older brother, much to his chagrin.
Through ups and downs and rights and wrongs, they manage to finally make things work, while Stana quickly becomes my closest friend in London. Despite the little time I’ve known her, her presence radiates a permanence and age-long friendship. She becomes the sister I always wanted and the best friend I never knew I needed.
Along with Stana comes Lottie, her cousin, an absolute spitfire. And slowly, the walls our small group have built around ourselves to keep others out begin to melt, the idea of us having other companions that don’t necessarily know or understand the trauma life has thrown at us not seeming like such a horror.
After that night in January, Reeve and I meet at his place in Bloomsbury on the last Sunday of every month. It’s the night Owen is always out doing Lord knows what.
While never overtly romantic, the little moments between the two of us are hard to ignore, Reeve always managing to slip in some type of gift he’s seen that made him think of me. It’s two friends enjoying the company of one another with good food and wine. We keep it between the two of us, the reasons not really mattering. It probably rings true more to the fact that Ali would question why he and Owen aren’t invited. Well, Owen would kick up more of a stink, probably, hating to miss a good feed. Ali has never been a psycho, overprotective brother, but even he would question why it’s only Reeve and me.
But despite the secrecy of it all, that’s the day of the week I look forward to the most once a month. The day I know it will be the two of us. It’s the highlight of my month…until it isn’t. Until one terrible night in July ruins it all. When the excitement of Sunday turns into a dreaded night alone with cold Chinese food, and nothing to keep me company but the memory of how it all went wrong.
July 2018
“Shit, motherfucking, shit,” I mutter as I attempt to navigate the clusterfuck that is my bedroom. My Hello Kitty alarm from 2004 rings out, shaking violently on my side table. I throw my nearest shoe at it from across the room, hoping if the alarm hits the floor hard enough, it will shut up. That thing has managed to last fourteen years, though, so I doubt a heeled boot can take it down.
After disentangling my feet from my clothes on the floor, I gracefully—okay, haphazardly—kick the clothes into a corner, then grab my beaded handbag, the pearls hanging on for dear life as I bulldoze into my living room.
My orange tabby, Demon, runs out of my way, scurrying for his usual hideout in the corner near the bookshelf. He hates people, even me sometimes, but I love the feisty thing.
“Someone is in a hurry,” Ali remarks as I grab a slice of toast he made me from the bench. I eye my brother, mentally taking him in, something I’ve been doing every day since Stana went back to LA two weeks ago. Her childhood friend, who is a right bitch might I add, was hit by a car and Stana had to go back to help take care of her. Let’s just say I’ve met this girl, Willa, and she’s no one’s cup of tea. Stana is better than most for doing it. Too bad it leaves my brother on the brink of heartbreak at the notion Stana might not come back.
Despite me telling him numerous times she would never leave him, Ali has the same issue as me, always fearing the worst. I think all kids who are in the dead-parents club feel that way, sometimes at least. And if you don’t know what the dead-parents club is, you’re clearly not a member, so thank your lucky stars.
