Ever: Ever After, #1

By Liz Czukas

She's the girl next door, my best friend, and all I want. If only I could figure out how to tell her.

Ever since my dad took a job in Washington D.C., I'm used to picking up the slack around the house. Between school, taking care of my four sisters, and diving practice, I'm a master at handling whatever life throws at me. Except when it comes to the girl next door.

Gwen has been my best friend ever since kindergarten. She's the jelly to my peanut butter, the frosting to my cake. She's there for me like no one else. The keeper of my secrets. Except there's one secret I can't figure out how to share—I'm hopelessly in love with her.

And secrets have a nasty way of multiplying. Just when I need my best friend the most, another guy asks me for advice on how to win Gwen's heart.

How much can one person really handle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liz Czukas
• Release date: Apr 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201358129

Book preview

Chapter

One

When I hear the shriek from down the hall, I know I'm going to be involved. It has a touch of howler monkey in it, which is my sister Annie's freak-out scream. After sixteen years of practice, I almost speak Girl, so I've learned to tell the difference between boy-band screams (slide whistle plus house cat), fighting-with-my-sister screams (angry chipmunk plus aviary) and genuine fear (the howler monkey). I've got a couple of seconds before she shows up, though, so I keep tightening the laces on my Nikes. All I want to do is get outside and go for a run.

Sam! Feet thud down the hall and then she's pounding on my door. Sam!

She's still hammering away when I open the door. Annie! Jeez, what?

There's a spider! She scoots behind me and pushes me back toward her room with both hands on my back. Hurry! It was running toward the closet! It can't be in there for the sleepover tonight!

I roll my eyes. This thing better be Harry Potter size.

There's no Kleenex in Annie and Zoe's room, so I grab a Hello Kitty Post-it note from the desk and send the spider (for the record, less than half an inch across) to spider heaven. It leaves a gray smudge on the wall, but Annie's not looking and I’m not about to be the one to point it out.

Thanks, Sammy. She beams at me.

No problem. I'm just about to go downstairs when I remember I left my phone in my room. There is no point in going for a run if I don't have music. There's no point in much without music (unless Annie and Zoe are the ones playing DJ, then there's no point in having ears). Unfortunately, the delay gives my mom time to catch me in the hall.

Kiddo, are you going to get to the lawn today?

I grimace, but nod. Right. I'll do it after I get back from my run, promise.

Thanks.

Guess I'll be mowing the lawn today. I'd sort of mentally penciled it in for tomorrow, but when The Mom speaks... I just hope there's enough gas. For a second, I wonder if I could run with the red jerrycan and carry it home full. Because clearly, running with flammable liquid is the best plan I've ever had (maybe I could play with matches when I get home, too).

I pause on the stairs, wondering if I should just give up the run and do the lawn now. No, forget that. I've been thinking about this since I got up. Even during diving practice, I felt the itch in my legs to run. I'm going. Nikes secured to feet, phone secured to left bicep. I'm outta here.

I trot down the steps to the back hall and shove some of the ten thousand shoes my four sisters own out of the way to open the door. When I come back, they'll be in the way again (I'm pretty sure they breed back here).

Sunny, cool and dry. Perfect running weather. While I pull each foot up to stretch my quads, I check out the backyard. I guess it does need to be mowed (harvested is more like it).

Not that one of my sisters couldn't do it. You don’t exactly need a degree in engineering to cut the grass. I don't know what they're going to do when I go to college. Waiting for my dad to come home isn't going to work; he's gone for months at a time (he’s in the Foreign Service). I lean into the fence, stretching my calves. The muscles protest for less than a second, and then the stretch moves through my knees and into my hamstrings. If I could bottle the feeling when a tight muscle releases, it would be the hottest selling drug on the market. I close my eyes.

In my ears, the music changes to some classic rock (The Rolling Stones--hell yeah), which always makes me breathe a little deeper, and makes my feet itch to put a few more miles on my Nikes. Giving a final adjustment to my neoprene armband, I can’t help looking up at the windows of the house next door. Gwen's room. She never thinks to close her curtains, but I rarely see her, so I don't know why I look.

Well, okay, I know why I look.

Never mind that now, I tell myself. Running. Honky Tonk Woman and running. Go.

I make it as far as the corner before a white BMW X3 slows to a stop in front of me. The driver's side window rolls down revealing Gwen's friend Emily behind the wheel. But all my attention goes to her passenger. It's Gwen, with her golden hair swinging as she crawls across the console to look out Emily's window. I tug one earbud out so I can hear them.

Hey, Sam-I-Am. You doing that running-for-fun thing again? She makes a face.

I raise my eyebrow. That was the plan.

You want us to chase you with the car so you have a good reason to run?

No, thanks. I'm good. I nod to the driver. Hey, Em.

Hey. She's white knuckling the wheel and her smile doesn't even cover her whole mouth, much less her eyes. I smell Girl Drama (I always can—worst super power ever), which is weird, because Emily isn't usually like that.

Come around. Gwen gestures for me to circle the car and unrolls her own window. She does a gimme hand, eyes on my loose earbud until I set it in her palm. She tucks it into her own ear and grins as she sings along with the dwindling chorus. Gimme, gimme, gimme the honky tonk blues... Her voice is a little scratchy when she sings, like she's a two-pack-a-day smoker, even though she's never touched a cigarette. I love that about her. When you're done with this ridiculous running plan, come to my house.

You want me to shower first?

"No, I really like it when you smell bad and get sweat stains on my stuff." She wrinkles her freckled nose. I love her freckles.

Stop staring. Great, I'll try to get extra sweaty for you, then.

She rolls her eyes as she reaches out to replace my earbud. While she's fumbling, the song changes to I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen, and I'm really glad she didn't hear. I made fun of her for liking it a couple years ago, but it got in my head (like a virus) and now it's in my running mix. She'd never let me live it down. When she's got the earphone secured, she gives my earlobe a light tug and smiles at me. Have fun!

I salute her and turn my back to run for Monon Trail. It's just a few blocks from home, and I've got the landmarks memorized for turn-around points at every conceivable distance. Today feels like a two-mile day--nothing special, just need to get my blood moving. The asphalt does its job. The thump-thump rhythm starts at my feet, but it spreads until my whole body matches the beat. The lawn, my English paper, the fact that the twins are having three friends over for a sleepover tonight...it all just drifts away. Exactly what I wanted.

Except, when everything else drifts away, there's always one thing left.

She took a permanent address in my thoughts about six months ago, and I cannot for the life of me evict her (I’m not really trying anymore). Hair the color of gold, and hazel eyes always full of barely contained laughter (she wears laughter like some girls wear perfume). She's not exactly destined to be a Victoria's Secret model up top, but her legs more than make up for it. They're the sexiest legs I've ever seen. And the freckles. Those annoyingly irresistible freckles. Maybe if she didn't have the freckles I could have kicked her out of my mind.

Okay maybe the freckles and the legs would have to go.

Gwen. Out-of-the-question Gwen.

And my run is officially ruined. She's keeping pace with me in my head, laughing her loud laugh, messing my hair with her fingers, bare knees sticking out below her uniform skirt, just inches from my hand on the gearshift when I drive her to school in the morning. My best friend since I can remember. A girl whose gradual shift to hotness I used to be able to ignore. Mostly. It was easy(ish) until she started seeing her stupid ex-boyfriend last year (I hate that guy).

Somewhere between my half-mile and mile turnaround landmarks, I turn back and pick up some speed. Running and thinking about her is not helping anything. Sometimes being with her makes it easier not to want her, like my brain is so happy getting direct input it doesn't take things to the fantasy levels it can reach if left unattended.

I tell myself I'm not going to look up at her window when I see the driveway that runs between our houses. I'm not going to give in to the urge. It's pointless, and I'm going to see her in person in a few minutes anyway.

Of course, my eyes go straight to the Northeast corner of the house (FAIL!).

Through a small miracle, none of my sisters are in the bathroom. I can hear the twins discussing music options for their sleepover. There is no doubt in my mind that Doja Cat will be making an appearance on tonight's playlist. This is going to suck.

The bathroom counter is a minefield of teetering piles of cosmetics, appliances that straighten hair tangled in heaps with appliances that curl hair, and if I'm lucky, one or more of them might be hot. Learned that one the hard way, and I have the faint brown burn scar on my left palm to prove it. There's only one spot to get into the bathtub, or I risk a domino effect with all the shampoo and conditioner bottles that line the edges. All around the toilet, boxes of feminine hygiene products make it impossible to look anywhere without seeing something I don't want to see. They used to keep it all in the cabinet under the sink, but not too long ago, they gave up that last nod of dignity for the sole male in the house.

But, of all the downsides of being the only male in a house of five women, the hair might be Number One. It's everywhere. Long hair in the drains, on the towels, on the floor, caught in the hardware on the cabinets...everywhere--brown (Cassie, Zoe, and my mom), red (Annie) and blonde (Brea). I don't know how my sisters have any hair on their heads.

After I'm as clean as I’m gonna get, I towel off and check myself out in the mirror. It's not often I care what I look like, but lately I’ve lived in eternal hope that any day might be the day Gwen decides to notice me. Between the pool six days a week and my five cowlicks, my hair pretty much sticks up in any direction it wants. When I need to tame it, I ask Cassie to do whatever magic tricks it is that girls have to do to find the right product from the pile. At least it's not green anymore (Thank you, Ultraswim shampoo). It's back to its non-committal dark-blond-slash-light-brown shade. When I got my license, I didn't even know what to put in the hair color box on the application (the DMV worker settled on brown).

I lean closer to check my eyes. Again, tragic victims of pool chemicals. But today, they're not too bloodshot. Just their usual gunmetal gray (also pretty noncommittal as eyes go). Whatever. I should just get dressed and be done with this.

My mom catches me in the kitchen this time. You didn't forget the yard, did you?

No. I promise, I'll do it. Gwen said she needs something.

Okay. Don't be too long. She looks up from the phone book. My mom might be the last person on the planet who still prefers to look things up on paper (I’m honestly not sure she’s aware there’s a browser on her phone). Would you be willing to pick up pizza for the sleepover tonight?

Able, yes. Willing? I never say no, so I guess that means yes. Where are you going to be?

I’m having dinner with a friend tonight.

You are? I think I could probably count the number of times my mom has gone out with friends in the past two years on the fingers of one hand.

I do have friends, Sam.

I know, I’m just…never mind. I’ll get the pizza.

You’re my favorite son.

I narrow my eyes at her. I’m sure the competition was fierce.

It was close. She nods, then it’s back to Mom-business as usual. Cassie’ll be home with them, so you don’t have to worry about it.

There is a God. Being in charge of a group of sixth grade girls is like being tortured. I would confess to anything after ten minutes. Anything to stop the high-pitched chatter (chipmunk plus dolphin). Why does everything they say sound like a question? That’s one job I always really wish my dad were around to handle.

Then I’ll throw the pizza out of my car as I roll past and stay the hell away.

Language, she says in a bored monotone. And thanks, Kiddo. Her words follow me as I go down the steps to the back hall (are there more shoes back here? How is that possible?).

I jog across the driveway and onto the Murphys' property. Gwen's dad is surveying the hedges around the back of the house with a pair of hedge clippers poised for destruction. I wave to him. Mrs. Murphy and my mom have been friends since they were in college. We’ve lived next door to them since I was five, and I’ve known them since I was born (Gwen was born the day after me, and sometimes I wonder if they planned it that way). They lived here first, and when my parents decided to stop dragging the kids from base-to-base (back when Dad was still in the Army), it was a built-in support system my parents couldn’t resist. The Murphys are more like my family than my aunt (a County Sherriff in southern Indiana) and uncles (a cop in Tennessee, and a Colonel in the Army).

Mr. Murphy wrinkles his nose just like Gwen, but the expression is considerably less adorable on him. I bet he doesn’t bother with it when he’s in court (he’s a lawyer)—it wouldn’t get him anywhere. Sammy, I think I'm just going to mow these things down. He gestures to the shrubs. We bond over yard work. I look at the bushes he's sizing up. The lower branches are brown, and the tops aren't all that attractive. If he trims them, he'll be left with a lot of ugly.

They're not great, I say.

I'm afraid this is a bigger job than I have ambition for today. He sighs. Maybe I'll just mow the lawn and be done with it.

I’m being haunted by the ghost of my uncut grass. Yeah, I gotta do that, too.

He glances across the way to my house. Tell you what--I'll do both yards and use it as an excuse not to do anything to these damn bushes.

You don't have to do that, I say, but inside I'm doing a victory dance. It's my job.

Sam, do me a favor and go be a teenager for a while.

I smile. Any suggestions?

Just don't get my daughter arrested, and I don't really care.

Thank you, sir. I know I'll repay him with shoveling or something soon enough, but for the moment, I'm pretty damn happy to be free of one job. I go in through the backdoor and head for Gwen's room. I know my way through this house as well as I know my own. It's always quieter here, but no less girly. Gwen has just one sister. I guess that's another thing Mr. Murphy and I have in common--between the two houses, we're outnumbered eight-to-two.

Gwen's door is open, but I rap my knuckles on it as I enter anyway. She and Emily are sitting on the floor, leaning against her bed. Her room is full of the color aqua (her favorite) and military neat, as always. Her parents used to have a housekeeper, but she retired and Gwen volunteered to take on her duties. She gets paid well to do it, and it's turned her into a total neat freak. Sometimes I like to mess with her by moving things around in her room, but I can’t do it while she’s looking.

Hey! Gwen says brightly, then clicks her tongue in mock disappointment. You showered, ya big liar!

I grin at her. Sorry, I forgot.

Eh. She flaps a hand at me, then pats the floor next to her. Come. Sit.

The space left between her and the nightstand is pretty small, so I end up squished hip-to-hip with her. There's not enough space for both our arms, especially given her penchant for wild gesturing while she talks (I love that about her). So I shift a little and prop my elbow on the bed. It's tempting to drop my arm over her shoulders…pull her closer, but I don't want an audience if I ever decide to do anything about my more-than-friends thoughts.

What's going on? I ask.

Em doesn't know what do to about Mike.

Gwen! she protests, slapping her hands over her eyes.

I can tell him when you're not here if that would be better.

Why would you tell him at all? she demands. A fair question if you don't know Gwen very well. Emily should know better.

She rubs my knee like she's petting a dog. I prop it up, in case she gets more ambitious with her petting. Stumbling across an erection she inspired is not exactly what I'd choose for the big reveal. He's my best friend; I tell him everything.

And there it is: her best friend. I am so deep in the friend zone, it would probably take a platoon of Army Rangers to get me out.

Even things I don't want to hear, I agree. It's one of the many hazards of being surrounded by women at all times. I hear way too much (it’s a wonder I’m not in therapy).

He's a guy. He has unique insight into the male mind, she explains. Emily looks doubtful, so she adds, He's useful.

I'm useful? That’s just great. She equates me with one of those pens that writes in four different colors, or a flashlight in the glove compartment.

Gwen gives me a rundown of Emily's story with her filling in occasionally. It's pretty typical. Emily was hanging out with a bunch of people last night, and ended up taking a walk with Mike (incidentally, a friend of mine, which just makes this more awkward for me). Anyway, walking led to...other things (her words, not mine), which Emily was fine with (and I'm sure Mike was, too, because, well...come on), but she didn't know what to expect out of Mike now.

I should act like I’m not into him, right? she asks.

Why the hell would you do that? I ask.

Hey! Her face crumples a little, and I know I’ve stepped in it.

Girls. Seriously. Why must everything be so complicated? What is the obsession with drama? And crying, for that matter? I have comforted way too many crying girls, and it only gets worse the longer I'm in high school. My sisters, my friends, random girls in my classes who seem to sense I am someone to cry around. I think it might be some kind of pheromone my sisters leave on me (God, please don't let it be that I actually smell like them).

Em, I’m sorry. Calm down. I stretch my arm out to squeeze her shoulder. She rolls her eyes (hopefully, that means I’m in the clear). First, you need to relax, I tell her.

Thank you, that's very helpful. She brushes my hand off her shoulder.

I'm serious. Just go with it. If you like him, just let him know.

But I thought guys didn’t like it when girls come on too strong.

Well don’t give him a love fern or anything. I have got to stop letting my sisters pick the movies. Just kiss him if you want to; don't if you don't want to. Just see what happens.

That’s your great advice? Emily asks.

It’s better than pretending you don’t like him if you actually do.

Gwen pinches my leg, which makes me jump and her laugh. I knock my knee into hers.

Emily sighs. So much for being mysterious.

Honesty is the new mysterious, Gwen says with a grin.

You’re about as helpful as he is. Emily elbows Gwen.

What is so hard about just doing what feels right? I ask.

But what if that’s the wrong thing to do? Emily asks, and her question is echoed in Gwen's arched eyebrows and expectant look. Still, her mouth twitches. She cannot be serious for more than a few minutes (I love that about her).

I'm starting to drift into a hypnotic study of her lips when I remember Emily is talking to me.

Right.

You’re thinking too far ahead. You’re wondering about next month, when all he’s wondering about is tonight.

Is that really how it works? Gwen asks.

Pretty much.

So, you have no expectations after you kiss someone for the first time?

I tilt my head from side-to-side. Mmm...more like... What's the best way to say this without getting smacked? ...hopes.

Hopes?

As in, 'I hope I get to do that again.'

And that's it? Emily asks.

Sometimes it's 'I hope I get to do more next time.' There, I think that was pretty girl-friendly.

Men. She rolls her eyes.

Guess not. Just try it for today, Em. I continue, ignoring her eye roll. Be a guy. You might like it.

Emily looks thoughtful for a moment.

If you don’t try it, you’ll never know.

She throws her hands up. Why the hell not?

Gwen pats me again. Her hand is further up my leg now and my blood pressure ratchets up accordingly. Another few inches and she will be rounding Second Base (where my base coach would be happily waving her onto to Third—stop that!). Contain and distract--that's the key. I think all sixteen year-old guys are probably pretty good at hiding an unwanted boner when they need to, but the