Everly After by Rebecca Paula

the settings so the picture I took is displayed on the back.
    His brows knit together as he stares down at it. I think he misses what I see, so I stop his hand from hitting delete. “Don’t get rid of it.”
    “Why?” His breath is warm against my face, and I lean a little closer because I’m a masochist apparently. I want to be near him without touching. I want to be with him without having to deal with the mess hookups bring. I want to stand here, staring at him, because he’s beautiful to look at. And I really, really want to kiss him.
    I don’t want to get rid of you yet.
    I twist out from around him and amble into the small living room.
     
    Beckett
    I had to sit on that quack’s couch again and tell him shit, and he won’t be satisfied with evasive answers. I know because I had to do the same when I was younger after my mother’s death. I’m smart enough not to drag it out longer than necessary, so I tell him what he needs to hear so I can return to work. That’s all I want right now.
    That, and to hear her voice.
    I needed a beer like I need air when I reached my place. Then I see her standing there, her back to me, pausing with her hand poised over my door. I wait for her to knock. At least I know that if she knocks, she wants to see me again as much as I want to see her. I’ve avoided the café, but Nadine said Everly never came in, anyway.
    And now she’s here and I don’t know what to do.
    “Coffee?” I ask again.
    She’s going through my aunt’s record collection, pulling out LPs and then dropping them back into the stack. I never would’ve pegged her for an Otis Redding fan, so I’m curious what she’s going to play next. Finally she looks up, hugging one to her chest before dropping it on the player.
    I’m expecting to hear something old. They were my aunt’s when she lived here and managed the café. The collection is hardly up to date. It’s mostly artists that are better left to old movies or forgotten. I should look into selling them now that she won’t be back.
    Instead The Color and the Shape comes on, and it shakes up my nerves more. I haven’t listened to that record since I worked at the café during my summers off from boarding school.
    Everly sways slightly, her lips moving to Everlong’s lyrics without singing. Then she slowly sinks onto her knees, down onto her back, the light from the windows washing over her. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe because I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
    I step closer, the camera still clutched in my hand. I kneel down and take a picture of her, expecting her to jump up and run out of my flat, but she stays, smiling as she rolls her head over the worn carpet to look at me.
    “Now we’re even,” she says.
    I move closer and zoom in to take a picture of her lips. They’re pale pink in the sun. She doesn’t have any makeup on. I like her better this way than with smudged raccoon eyes and hot pink lips. I take a picture of the valley where her neck meets her shoulder and the small freckle there. Then I take another of her hands above her head, her palms turned out to the dust motes floating around her. She’s lost to the music, opening up to me. I know it’s fleeting, so I rush to take in the small details because I’m afraid I’ll miss everything if she shuts me out.
    “Play it again,” she whispers when the song ends.
    I push to my feet and drop the needle, but she’s holding the camera when I turn around. She crawls backward until she hits the couch. I hear it focus. I wonder what she’s taking pictures of because I’m not much to look at.
    She points down to the floor, and I obey because I can’t say no to this girl. I’ve tried, and I fucking suck at it. It’s easier if I stop. If I stop lying to myself that I don’t like her, that I don’t want to kiss her, that I don’t want to lose myself inside her until the night turns to day and I forget why I’m stuck here in Paris.
    I want to forget everything