Twenty

EVERETT

I am in agony.

Cora has said a lot of harsh (if not objectively screwed up) things to me, and I’ve loved every syllable in some uniquely-Everett way. But what she said on Sunday burrowed beneath the layers of my skin to the bone. It lives in a malignant, lethal place, twisted in my marrow, weakening the very structures keeping me whole.

“I have nothing left to give you.”

Essie alluded to it at the hospital: other rich assholes. Now, after our fight, I need to find out who— who the fucking fuck —hurt her. Knowing that someone once broke Cora Flores—and my lies hurt her just as badly—is unprecedented torment.

I deserve these sleepless nights, the gnawing in my stomach, and the grayish bags under my eyes. I deserve the messages left on-read. I deserve Lander and Dalton’s knowing, I-told-you-so,-you-tool expressions. I deserve Valeria’s glare when she dropped Lander off at the debate prep room at the University of DC. I deserve the email Cora never acknowledged.

I deserve all of it.

“Ev, what can I do?” Lander asks. He’s standing next to me, scrutinizing my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

I meet his eyes and immediately regret it. I don’t usually envy him. After all, my eyes are nice enough that one of my professors at Princeton asked me to apply for a master’s in German so I could help with his research, and the only word I know in German is “schadenfreude.” But today, looking at Lander’s luminous blue eyes, it’s abundantly clear that I—for the first time ever—am a mess.

“Nothing,” I reply, but I’m gripping the edges of the sink, which then reminds me of Cora.

I’m such a tool. I’m beyond a John Deere tractor; I’m a whole ass combine.

Brow knotted, Lander glances at my white-knuckled hands. “Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” I grit, not even bothering to be convincing.

Just then, the bathroom fills with the sound of used and creaky hinges. A man appears in the mirror, and I recognize him immediately: my main opponent, Samuel Forrester.

DC, in the scheme of US politics, is an outlier. The District isn’t one of the fifty states, so it has limited representation in Congress, and up until 1970, DC didn’t even have a representative. Since then, the elected representative has always been from the same party and receives an overwhelming majority vote in the general election. Bottom line: whoever wins the primary is going to win the general election in November. It’s practically a guarantee.

Out of the four of us in the primary, only Samuel Forrester and I have a realistic shot at winning, and Forrester is now staring at me in the mirror.

He nods. I nod back.

Then he goes over to the urinal, unzips, and pees.

Lander and I exchange a look while Samuel hums to himself at the urinal. After a beat, Lander mouths, “ What the fuck?” at precisely the moment I identify the song he’s humming: the motherfucking “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Samuel stops peeing right when Lander can’t take it anymore and snorts into his fist. He tries to pass it off as a sneeze, but it’s a failure I can only describe as the sound Lander would make if he ever laid an egg.

“Bless you,” I say, shooting Lander a glare.

Now, Samuel is at the next sink and looking at me so fixedly that I’m not sure if he’s trying to intimidate me or ascertain if I’m down to fuck. “You’re Everett Logan.”

“I am.”

“Nice to finally meet you.” He shuts off the faucet. “Samuel Forrester.”

“Evening,” I reply before I pass him one of the paper towels from the stack in front of the mirror.

He grabs another three, staring me dead in the eyes while he does it, and that’s when I realize this asshole knows more about me than he’s letting on.

“Although, we’ve met before,” he goes on, crumpling his paper towels. I’m sure if we listened carefully, we could hear the frustrated wails from the spirits of the trees who died so this man could win a figurative dick measuring contest.

“I don’t recall.”

“You were…ten? Eleven? It was Princeton Reunions. I was the same year as both your fathers.”

Lander stiffens behind me. He’s a recent addition to the “My Father is a Cuntface Club,” but he’s already an active member.

Samuel bobs his chin. “At dinner one night, you wouldn’t eat a thing. Some vegan kick, from what I could tell. Warren looked like he was going to dissolve your trust fund right then and there.” He lets out a hearty chuckle. “He didn’t though, I take it. You’re still his pride and joy.”

“I don’t remember that,” I lie.

“No? God, he gave you this look,” Samuel goes on, canting his head. “This really serious look. No words. Something in that look made you pick up the hamburger in front of you and eat the entire thing.”

My stomach immediately churns at the memory. It was the last time I ate meat, and I vomited so much that Alyssa ditched the rest of the weekend’s activities to bring me to the Princeton Medical Center to get an IV.

“Does he still look at you like that?” Samuel continues before he drops his pile of paper towels into the trashcan. “I can’t imagine. That was the look of a man who doesn’t take kindly to being embarrassed.” Samuel checks his face in the mirror. “Best of luck out there, son,” he mutters before he breezes out the door.

Lander then faces me, brow knotted. “You barely said a word to him. What’s wrong with you?”

“Come on,” I murmur, heading to the door.

“Ev,” Lander hisses, falling in step with me in the hallway. “You didn’t seriously let that cheap tactic get to you. Everett. Are you good?”

“Do I look good?” I demand before we step back into my prep room.

Dalton is seated in one of the chairs around the conference table, and his brows elevate when we enter. “Shit,” he mutters.

“What?” I ask, dropping my shoulders.

“You look… human ,” he replies, frowning. “Which for most people would be great—maybe even aspirational—but you usually look like a woodland elf prince.”

I glance back and forth between my two best friends, exasperation creeping up my spine. I let out a slow exhale . Screw it . “I’m about to snap, so one of you needs to talk me through it or I’m going to blow this debate.”

Dalton and Lander exchange a look. I know what they’re thinking: In our twenty-eight years of friendship, neither of them has given me a pep talk because I’ve never needed one—ever.

More best friend telepathy takes place, and clearly Lander is the winner—or the loser, depending on perspective. He faces me. “Ev, it’s a debate. You’ve never lost a debate. Even if you weren’t ready, you’re…the most handsome one out there.”

I tighten my brow. “That’s supposed to inspire me? Pierre gives better pep talks than you.”

“What do you want me to say?” Lander questions before shooting a glare in Dalton’s direction.

“What, me? Okay, how about this: Everyone else is old as fuck, so even if you lose, you can run again in like, ten, fifteen years because they’ll all be dead.”

Normally, this is when I would tell Lander and Dalton that a pep talk this bad usually results in the end of a species. But I’m still fixated on Cora and how she’s the only one who gets it—who understands the pressure to be so goddamn perfect.

So instead, all I say is, “Can you give me a minute alone?”

Lander pulls his head back in surprise. “You want us to leave?”

We all know it’s weird. Lander, Dalton, and I have done everything together since we were literal babies. Still, I nod.

As soon as my friends are gone, I take out my phone. I don’t really consider the rashness of what I’m about to do. If I did, I would realize I don’t have time to do this well. I would realize I haven’t thought about it, planned it, and carefully selected every word.

Doesn’t matter. I need her. Winging it is my only option, so I’m winging it.

I’m so surprised when the call connects that I don’t say anything at first. Neither does she. But the smooth hum of her exhale streams into my ear, and for a moment I feel a calmness I haven’t experienced since I showed up at her doorstep, kissed her, and believed—for mere minutes—that everything was right.

“Hi,” I say, breaking the silence. “Look, if you’re willing to give me a shot—sorry, I shouldn’t use that word anymore because, you know, you got shot. Fuck, of course you know you got shot.”

This is pathetic. I’m rambling—and I never ramble.

Maybe she should know though. Maybe it’s good for Cora to hear what effect she has on me.

“This doesn’t happen to me,” I admit. “The stammering. The fumbling. I didn’t even know I was capable of being uncertain and, like, unconfident— ugh . But with you, I’m a mess. It’s the single most unsettling feeling I’ve ever experienced. But the thing is, without you, I’m worse.”

I pause. Cora still hasn’t spoken.

“I’m sorry I lied,” I go on. “I should have told you how much I wanted you, but I figured everything would magically work out. That’s how it’s always gone for me.”

I wait. Still no response.

I let out a slow breath. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I met you. I know I told you already…shit, how am I so bad at this?”

I pause again, hoping she’ll say something.

Nothing.

“Alright, well here’s the truth: You make me laugh,” I go on, pacing the prep room. “I know I don’t laugh a lot, but sometimes when I’m alone, I think about things you’ve said and start laughing. Like, this one time, you told me you’d take an Ambien and text Freddy Krueger before voting for me for president. I legitimately laughed about it for a month.”

I stop where I’m standing.

“I don’t really stop thinking about you. When I’m not with you, I imagine what it could be like to hold your hand. To be the person you text right before you turn on airplane mode. Four months ago, I flew to Paris and wanted to text you. When I landed, the first thing I did was check to see if you posted anything. You had. It was a picture of you with your middle finger up. I saved it. Sorry if that’s weird.

“But actually, I’m not sorry. You should know how you fundamentally rewired my brain. And I won’t lie—because I’m never going to lie again: Knowing you and not having you has been agonizing. It has been the great nightmare of my life so far.

“If you let me, I’ll do this right. I’ll hire the best PR team in the world, and they’ll figure out a way for us to be together. You have my word. And I know I don’t have any right, but I’m an asshole and I’m going to ask: Will you please come to the debate? I want to know you’re here. I don’t think I can do this if you’re not here. My father is going to be sitting in the front row, and if I don’t nail this…”

My palms are starting to sweat. There’s a lump in my throat, my suit feels itchy, and realization is starting to set in: I fumbled her so fucking badly.

“This isn’t working, is it? I’m so sorry and you have every right—”

I stop in the middle of my sentence.

Cora is standing in the open doorway with her phone on her ear. Her expression is even: neither happy nor upset to see me for the first time in days. She’s so pretty—truly the prettiest person I’ve ever seen, which is saying a lot because my best friend is Lander Dawson, a guy so indescribably pretty that Yale University asked if they could use his image on their website—and Lander didn’t even go to Yale .

She closes the door behind her before she ends the call and slides her phone into the purse on her shoulder.

“You were already here?” I ask, not embarrassed when the question comes out soft and relieved. Already, the mere sight of her has made my chest loosen.

“No, I hopped on my broomstick and beat the traffic on Connecticut Ave.” Cora moves forward and stops in front of me. “I just got here. I wasn’t sure I was going to come.”

“I’m sorry,” I say for the fourth or fifth time tonight, but it’s still not enough. “I’m sorry for lying. I swear I’m never, ever going to lie again.”

And I stare into Cora’s exquisite brown eyes when I sink to my knees at her feet.

My suit cost three thousand dollars. My watch was a gift from my father—easily twenty grand. Everything on me is the best money can buy, and I wear them all while kneeling for Cora.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat before I brace my palms on the gray carpeted floor, bow, and put my lips on the toe of her boot.

I kiss it.

I’m not quick about it. I linger, lips fixed against the scuffed leather toe, ready to lick it if she asks. After half a minute, I slide my lips up, dragging them to her laces. Her shin. Her knee. I kiss them while on all-fours until I feel her hand on my head, stopping me from going any higher.

My gaze meets hers once more, and I say, “I’m so sorry, princess.”

Cora’s eyes bear down on me, pools of dark, unyielding focus until they soften. “You should be,” she answers. Her fingertips press through my hair and touch my scalp, gentle and affectionate. “And I expect you to make it up to me.”

I bob my head, eager. “I will. Anything you want.”

Cora removes her hand from my scalp and snaps her fingers. “Stand.”

When I’m standing, I bow my head and hold her gaze. “I’ll put in the work. Constantly.”

She takes a step closer to me, slides her purse off her arm, and places it on the table next to her. “I would expect nothing less. But for now,” she says before she rests her hand against my side underneath my suit jacket, “I want you to show me my new cock.”