Every Little Thing

36

|| Reed ||

I wait for them in the foyer, where everything is silent and still. My heart's beating a hundred miles per hour, and I'm already sweating through my button-down. My back, slumped against the wall, is beginning to ache, but I don't care. My mind is racing too fast for me to care.

I wish there was a way to know. I wish there was a way to know that your life is about to change, before it actually does.

If only I hadn't invited Evelyn to come with me to the party. If only I hadn't upset her on the rooftop, leading to her feeling the need to storm away from me. If only I had gone downstairs to find her just a few minutes earlier. If only I would have seen that mystery guy leading her into the pantry—

I can't even bring myself to think about it anymore; I have to stop while I'm ahead. I can't bear to imagine Evelyn, helpless, trying to scream or breathe or do something, but failing every time.

"Oh, Evelyn," I breathe, shutting my eyes and leaning my head back with a soft thump against the wall. "Evelyn, I'm so sorry."

Just then, I hear the creaking of floorboards and am on my feet an instant. Sure enough, there's Mrs. Bracket, pocketing her notebook and offering me the saddest of smiles as she approaches.

"Is she okay?" I demand, my voice coming out more strangled than intended. "I mean, is she—did he—"

I ask the question silently, not wanting to say it aloud—that horrid, four-letter word that I don't want to imagine, never in my entire life.

Mrs. Bracket looks up at me and, almost incomprehensibly, shakes her head.

"She wasn't?" I breathe, unable to believe it, "He didn't—"

"No," she murmurs, and then releases a breath that sounds like relief. "No, he didn't."

"Oh, my God," I whisper, almost to myself. "Oh, thank God."

And before I know it, I'm hugging her. And crying. The tears are streaming without warning, but I can't stop them; I won't stop them.

"Oh, my God," I choke out, and Mrs. Bracket pats me on the back repeatedly, soothingly, like she did when I was little and had the flu.

"Reed, it's okay," she murmurs, "It's okay, little buddy."

At the use of her familiar pet name for me, I cry even harder. I cry to the point where my entire face is prickling with heat and my head hurts, but I don't care.

I don't care because, even though tonight has been one of the worst nights of my entire life, there is still hope.

After a solid five minutes, I finally pull myself together and take a step back, running a hand over my face and exhaling. Mrs. Bracket just looks at me with a knowing expression.

"Can I see her?" I ask, and she bites her lip in contemplation.

"Reed, this isn't easy for her," she half-whispers, as if I'm in on a secret, "This is not going to be easy for her, probably not in a long time, if ever. A drunken boy tried to choke her in a pantry and left her for dead when she fell unconscious."

Each word hits me like a ton of bricks, like a blow to the gut with every syllable. I nod, slowly, trying hard to swallow the lump that has risen in my throat.

"It's an assault, and could even be classified as attempted homicide," Mrs. Bracket tells me, her eyes downcast.

"Then we should call the police." I say immediately, "We should call the police and tell them what happened."

She shakes her head, her eyes drooping and sad-looking. "We can't. Ultimately, it's Evelyn's call. This was her experience. Whether or not she wants to act upon it is up to her."

"She will," I say, but I notice the waver in my own tone. "I mean—she will, won't she?"

Mrs. Bracket turns to look over her shoulder, down the hallway, where we both know Evelyn is still lying on the couch. She releases a long, slow breath.

"I don't know. But you can't pressure her about this; this was an extremely traumatic experience for her. She needs to stay put for at least two weeks—I'll write you both an excuse for school, since your dad's out of town. Are her parents around?"

"No," I say, pressing a hand to my temple. This is the first time I've even thought about Evelyn's mom in this situation. How on earth are we going to break the news? "Her mom's out in South Dakota and—and she doesn't know her dad."

"Okay, well, she's going to have to confess to her mother eventually. But that's not my place, either—I'll just take care of the school part. And if you're planning on keeping her here, you have to follow some certain guidelines."

"Of course," I say, pushing the thought of Lily from my mind and clearing my throat. Mrs. Bracket opens her notebook and says,

"Her vocal cords are sore and far from healed. She won't be able to talk for about four to five days, so make sure to keep her fluids to water only. Feed her soft foods, and if she's not hungry, don't worry about it. Just make sure she has about seven cups of water a day."

"I feel like I should be writing this down," I say, pushing the words through a half-hearted laugh.

"You'll do fine, Reed. Communicate using the blinking technique and write each other notes. It will help, trust me."

Note-writing might be helpful, but it's nothing compared to hearing her actual voice.

I shake the thought away, listening more intently as the nurse continues to rattle off instructions.

"She might have bad dreams—I would expect small bouts of post-traumatic stress disorder. If this happens, just hold her hand and talk to her. Try not to make it relevant, because that might set her off again. Talk about random, stupid things—anything to get her mind off of it.

"And, when she's ready, she needs to have someone other than you with her. Maybe a close friend, or a family-figure?"

Georgina, I think, but I immediately take it back. Georgie and Evelyn aren't on speaking terms, but maybe this might change that.

Maybe.

Instead of protesting, however, I just nod. I need to see Evelyn now more than ever, and the only thing standing between us is Mrs. Bracket.

"Thank you for all your help," I say to her, reaching in for a final hug. "Honestly, I don't—I don't know what I would have done."

"Of course, Reed. I was here for your mother, and I'm here for you."

Her smile is soft and understanding, and I have to fight the urge not to hug her again, lest I start crying. I just let her walk past me, opening the front door and making her way out.

But, just before she leaves, her voice comes echoing through the foyer. I turn to face her as she smiles and says,

"She's fragile right now, Reed. You have to show her how much you care, not just tell her."

The door closes, her round, kind face disappears, and I'm left with nothing to do but hope.