The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (26 page)

Zeke bites his lip and looks as though he’s casting about for words. “It’s healing, Evie,” he finally says. “That’s what all this is about. Healing from all the stuff Tony did to you, healing from the scars he gave you, figurative and literal. Healing from everything he forced onto you. And it’s going to be hard. It’s like… it’s like a cut scabbing over. It doesn’t
feel
good. It itches and burns like hell and you want to scratch and pick at it, but that only makes it take longer to heal. It’s ugly and the scar will always be there, but soon enough it will be just a faint memory of the pain and you’ll hardly notice it. I know it doesn’t feel good, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t good for you.”

I don’t have anything to say, because he’s right. I know he’s right, and I keep telling him that he’s right. It’s not that I don’t
know
it. It’s that I haven’t let myself
believe
it. “I know,” I whisper, wishing I could brazenly say yes, of course, no problem. But I can’t. “I just… it’s just hard.”

“I get that,” Zeke is quick to assure. “And I’m sorry that I laughed at you. It’s not that I’m unfeeling or not sympathizing. You just… sometimes it’s a tension release. That was… that was rude and I apologize. I’ll try to do better in the future.”

I nod, and I can’t think of anything else to say. I’m suddenly exhausted and I slump back against the couch. Zeke grins at me.

“A little worn out?”

“Yes,” I admit, and his smile widens.

“Yeah, temper tantrums do that to you.”

I glare at him, disliking the implication that I’m a five-year-old crying because a toy was taken away, even though that is how I reacted.

He actually gives a small laugh and then gestures at me to get fully on the couch, helping me prop my legs up. “Come on, let’s tuck you in for a nap, baby.”

“Jerk,” I grumble, letting him coddle me because, traitor that I am, it feels nice to be babied, even if it’s from a joke at my expense. When he flips my legs up to the couch, however, the first thing I see are the pink toes, and it makes my body stiffen.

Zeke follows my trail of sight and then shakes his head, settling himself back down on the coffee table, but keeping one of his hands resting on mine. “Look, baby steps, right?” he asks. “How long before you caved last time you got them painted? The one you told me about?”

“Um,” I say, swallowing as I think back. “Maybe twenty-four hours?”

“Okay. So, how about we try for forty-eight this time? And then you can take it off, and we’ll try this again another time. But the deal is, less hysterics next time, and more effort into
practice.
Deal?”

I consider, and decide that even though I don’t want to admit it, Zeke is right. Practice. Practice makes perfect. “Will you stay with me?” I blurt out the question before I can think better of it. “Please?”

He regards me for a moment, and I know he’s on the verge of saying no, that this has already stretched him almost past his limit of not feeling anything too deeply. But then he takes a deep breath, and nods his head. We’re both silent as I move on the couch, sitting up more so there’s room for him to sit near my feet, and he picks up the remote from the coffee table and flicks on the huge television screen before grinning over at me.

“I’m only staying because of the TV,” he informs me. “That’s it.”

I snort. “Typical man. You going to hog the remote, too?”

“Or course,” he says gleefully, and I shake my head, but I’m smiling.

He flicks through channels, pausing on golf for just a moment while looking at me out of the corner of his eye, and then laughs and changes it when I glare at him. Finally he stops on a James Bond movie rerun, and we both settle in. I can’t relax though. Every time I glance toward Zeke, I see my painted toes, and it makes me uncomfortable and I tense up again. After almost twenty minutes of this, Zeke finally seems unable to take it any longer, and he looks over at me.

“Are you okay?” he asks curiously. “You’re still stiff as board.”

“It’s… the toes.” I force myself to explain, feeling prickly all over. “I just don’t like looking at them. It’s… a lot to take in and it keeps reminding me.”

“Right,” Zeke says, and I have to give him credit for not sounding exasperated or resigned. “Well, we can fix that.” He shuffles around and digs underneath him until he unearths a throw pillow, and then he puts it over my feet, keeping it in place by resting his arm overtop of it. “Better?” he asks.

And ridiculously, it is. I know it’s there, coated on my toes, but not having to look at it makes me feel better.
Baby steps.
I nod, trying to thank him with my eyes, because I don’t really have it in me to talk anymore. Zeke gives me a gentle smile, and then we both turn our attention back to the television, as though relieved for the break.

I finally feel myself relax as I lay my head down on the armrest. Lulled by both the undertones of the television and the feeling of Zeke’s big, safe presence so close to me, his warmth actually close enough to warm me, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, it’s dark outside. I can just see the last of the sun’s light disappearing through the small basement windows near the ceiling. My eyes crack open, and the hand resting over my stomach comes up to push some of the hair out of my eyes. I take in the setting sun, and then look down at the end of the couch. Zeke is still asleep, head resting on the pillow, which in turn is resting over my feet, so I can’t see them. One of his arms is wrapped around the pillow, and the other is around my legs.

It’s a warm, reassuring grip, and for some reason it sends a warm tingle through my entire body, giving me goose bumps that I try not to think too much about. I concentrate on the fact that it doesn’t make me feel dirty or uncomfortable when Zeke touches me, and that’s why I like it so much. I stare at him for a long moment, while the television drones on, a comfortable background noise. I study the planes of his face, which seem to be filling out once again, opposed to their sharpness right after Cindy’s death. With the amount of take-out we’ve been ordering, I’m sure I’ve gained back whatever I lost after my dad’s death, and I suppose that’s a good thing.

He finally got his hair cut; it’s buzzed short and close to his scalp again, and he’s lying on his left cheek, so I have a clear view of the stars that circle up from his left shoulder and around behind his right ear. I wish I could see his other tattoos, ask him what they mean, but I know that’s a conversation for a different time. Stubble is coating his jaw, a five o’clock shadow that gives his face even more definition and somehow makes him look older and rougher, but no less appealing. I don’t know who I’m kidding; Zeke would be appealing in a burlap sack, and I don’t think there’s anything that could diminish that allure he has, even the chip on his shoulder.

Finally, I can’t put it off any longer, and I slowly and carefully begin to pull my legs away from Zeke and out from underneath the pillow. It takes a bit of effort to be slow and gentle enough not to wake him, but finally I free them and Zeke has settled down against the pillow again with a soft murmur that makes me grin despite myself.

I move so I’m sitting upright with my feet on the floor and take in a deep breath. Then I force my toes to uncurl and my eyes to look down at them, my fists clenched as I take it all in. They’re still pristine, perfect; surprising, seeing how I dashed out of the spa when they weren’t even dry yet, and then all the running around I did at the house and in the backyard. But they’re perfect, and I feel… okay.

It doesn’t give me great pleasure, seeing the color on them, but the overwhelming guilt doesn’t surface either, and Zeke’s words echo through my mind.
I know it doesn’t feel good, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t good for you.
I used to hate when things looked too perfect, the way my toes do right now. It was like the world would mock me, because I know that was how Tony and I appeared on the surface; perfect. And yet no one seemed to realize what could truly lie underneath the sheen of perfection. It seemed perfect things would scream at me, saying that I would never truly achieve it, only be pretending at it forever.

But for the first time, it doesn’t feel mocking to look at it. Maybe it’s not what I am. But it feels like now, for the first time, it’s something I
could
be. Zeke is right, almost infuriatingly right about everything. Tony doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t need to live life according to his dictates anymore, and maybe I still care what he thinks, but the only way to get past that is to do those things anyway, and stick to it. Even though it doesn’t feel good. Practice makes perfect.

I smile at that one; perhaps that really is the key to reaching my own perfection. Practice. And I know where to start. I carefully slip off the couch, not wanting to wake Zeke, because this is something I need to do on my own. I ascend the stairs to the main level of the house and creep along on quiet feet, going upstairs. I pass Clarissa’s bedroom and can hear loud, heavy breathing from inside. I know I need to do something about her, too, even though I could care less if she drinks herself into a permanent stupor. I need to call Uncle Greg, I realize, and get some semblance of normalcy going here. School starts in just a few weeks, and I can’t drag an alcoholic stepmother to parent-teacher conferences.

I pass by her door, deciding to deal with that problem another time. I’ve had enough shouting, screaming, and tears for one day. I open the door to my office and turn on my computer, standing in front of the desk with my arms wrapped around myself, too anxious to sit down. I tap one foot, look at the polish anew, and decide next time, I’m getting electric green.

Finally, it’s ready and I open the Internet and sign in, finding the draft of the blog post I had written weeks ago, titled simply,
Darkness
. I re-read it, reflecting how true those words are, and yet not. Because I’m finally discovering that I’m not helpless to stop it. At least, not with Zeke there to help me. I hold my breath, finger hovering over the mouse pad.

And then I hit Publish, and the post goes live. I wait for a long moment, then release the air trapped in my lungs when no crippling wave of guilt comes over me. A small flash, a bit of remorse, and sadness that Tony has inspired me to write such dark thoughts, that he is the catalyst in all this. But it makes
me
pleased that I could publish it, and I decide to follow Zeke’s advice, and be selfish, to think more about
me
and what
I
want, not Tony.

I close the laptop with a quiet click and return to the basement, settling myself on the couch once again. I lean close to Zeke, right next to his ear, closer to him than I’ve ever been, and whisper, “Thank you.” He doesn’t move or hear, and I’m glad because I don’t think I want him to just yet.

I just pick up the remote and begin channel surfing, backtracking to the Disney channel when I see what’s playing, and it gives me a private grin. Zeke wakes up about an hour later, stretching out on the couch and rubbing his face into the pillow a few times before finally looking up and blinking at me.

“Hey,” he says, in a deep voice made even rougher by sleep. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pass out on you.”

“It’s okay,” I say, smiling at him. “I woke up not that long ago.”

He sits up and stretches again, hands up high in the air and it makes his shirt lift up, so I see a flash of his middle and part of the tribal tattoo that runs all the way down his side and disappears into his jeans over his hip. I swallow and jerk my gaze back to the television, and Zeke follows my line of sight, giving a bark of laughter.

“Seriously?” he asks, watching the movie. “
Aladdin
?”

I shrug, smiling back. “It’s fate,” I tell him, and for the first time, I’m starting to believe in things like fate. Fate that my tennis season ended early, fate that Jenny asked me to bring her dinner that night, fate that Zeke was there and we actually
saw
each other for the first time. Fate that he went out for his break at that exact moment both times at the club. Fate that Cameron dared him to tag my house, and fate that he was caught. And I know that fate, at least, is something you can’t change.

“I guess,” Zeke says over a yawn. Finally awake, he looks me over with alert eyes, first at my toes, which are still painted, and then over the rest of me, undoubtedly checking to make sure I haven’t harmed myself. “Are you okay?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

I consider for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I think I’m going to be,” I say honestly.

And for the first time, I’m starting to believe it.

Evangeline

67

The rest of the week passes in the slow, lazy fashion that is typical of summer. Zeke and I spend the following day finishing painting in the bedroom, and then it’s back outside in the heat to begin work on the gazebo and garden once more. The pond guys predict being done by the end of the week, and excitement fills me now as I look at the beautiful little oasis that is beginning to take shape in my own backyard.

I realize with a jolt that it’s almost the beginning of July and that Independence Day almost came without my even realizing it, and that school will start up soon, in barely a month and a half. I don’t know how I feel about that, how it will go or how I’ll handle it, and so I shove it to the back of my mind and decide to deal with it when the time comes. Zeke is confident we’ll finish just in time for school to start, since we’re close to being done with the planting, and all that’s left is mulching everything, laying down the paths, and then the heavy work of making the pond look like a naturally occurring thing. I’m not so sure, but I decide to trust him and his higher level of experience, and just throw myself into the work, gratified that I had a hand in shaping something so beautiful.