Beating Heart (8 page)

H
e pulls back to look at Carrie. Evan knows in the
back of his mind that it really isn't wise to start now, not with Libby in the house.

But this moment—or something very like it—has been dangled in front of him many nights.

Carrie tilts her head and leans in for a kiss.

He gives in. He really wants this; it's all set, it's just too good to pass up. The pattern has already been imprinted here: it feels as if it's in the room, in the walls, the floorboards, the very air—it's ready for him, and all he has to do is let his body follow and fill it in.

 

 

 

 

 

T
he pillows are getting in the way so without stopping
Evan shoves them onto the floor, and one knocks the metal box off the desk with a loud clatter, and he knows he should stop and check for Libby, curious, nosy Libby, or at least wait and listen to see if she's coming, but he doesn't want to, doesn't want to stop, can't stop, he
can't
stop, so he buries his face in Carrie's hair, her neck, and continues till it's finished.

 

 

 

E
van knows he ought to get up and get dressed
, because the door has no lock. But he's lying there relaxed, floating, after some of the best sex he's ever had. He pulls the sheet up to cover them and puts his arm around Carrie.

It takes him a moment to notice that she is not acting like she usually does. She's curled up against him—but she's completely still, completely silent.

“Anything wrong?” he asks.

Carrie does not answer. The best sex Evan has ever had doesn't seem to have made much of an impression on her. She looks like something's bothering her.

“What is it?” Evan asks. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Well, what's wrong?”

“I don't know. It's just that I haven't seen you in a while, and, well…have you ever noticed that every
time we see each other, we end up having sex?”

Evan's insides start to sink. Of course he's not going to be allowed to stay in that floating daze. No, Carrie's got to pick the moment apart, find something wrong, suck all the perfection out of it. “And that's bad?” he asks.

“No…” But she draws the word out, leaving it hanging in the air.

“So what are you saying?” Evan says abruptly. “That you don't want to have sex anymore?”

“No. I guess I'm just starting to wonder if that's the only reason we're together. I mean, we haven't seen each other in over a week and it's the first thing you want to do. It's why you asked me to come over here today, isn't it?”

“I asked you over because I wanted to be with you.”

“But not till your mom was going to be gone.”

Evan heaves a great, loud sigh. He doesn't know what to say, or how to fix it. All he knows is, he used to feel good about himself when he was around her, and he doesn't anymore.

She always nags and clings now, turning all the good
stuff sour. And he always has to find the right moment to ease away, a moment that doesn't look too obviously as if he's trying to escape all the sourness.

But this time he's stuck. This isn't Carrie's house. He can't back out quietly, can't wait for an opportunity to get up and leave. He's trapped—this is his home and his room, and he has to stay until
she
gets up and leaves.

“And you never say you love me,” Carrie complains, “unless I say it first.”

That's his cue, Evan knows. He's supposed to say he loves her again.
I love you,
that's what he's supposed to say.

He's just tired of being pushed to say it.

“See? Even right now, I have to pull it out of you. You never say it on your own.”

Evan stares up at the ceiling. He's thinking to himself,
Just let it go. This once, will you drop it and let it go?

“So. I'm almost afraid to ask. Do you love me, Evan?”

 

 

 

 

E
van digs his heels in. He is not going to ease away
or change the subject. And he's not going to say it, either; just this once he's not going to go along quietly and try to fit into Carrie's mold. “Why does everything always have to be about love?” he asks, impatient. “Why can't it ever just be about…about being together and enjoying each other's company and having a good time?”

Carrie's shocked into silence. Of course. He's always broken down and said what she needs to hear. Always.

Just not today. He feels like she's attached to him, glued to his side, and it's all pressing in on him.

“Is that all I am to you?” she asks in disbelief. “A good time?”

“God,” Evan says, staring at the ceiling. “Sometimes it's not even that.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's all you ever say: ‘Do you love me Evan, do you love me Evan, do you love me Evan?”

There's that shocked silence again. And then he can't believe it.

She asks him
again
.

“Well? Do you?”

It all goes through his mind in a flash: how she used to be happy just being with him. How he used to look forward to seeing her, not dread it. How she always finds fault with him now, as if he's not trying hard enough.

Now he's just tired. Tired of the whole conversation, of the whole thing. “I don't know anymore,” he tells her, not bothering to pretty it up.

“I never would have slept with you if I'd thought you didn't love me.”

Her voice trembles. But there's no sympathy left in him; she drained the last bit of sympathy out of him when she asked it one too many times.

“And I never would have thought I loved you,” he informs her, “if you hadn't made it part of having sex.”

It's funny, this is one of those times that he doesn't know what he feels until he says it out loud.

“Have you
ever
loved me?” Carrie's on the verge of tears—Carrie, who never cries.

It stings Evan, makes him feel guilty. “How am I supposed to know? If you want somebody and you care about them and you like being around them and you're
used
to being around them, how are you supposed to know if it's love?”

Carrie's face is pale. “It's a simple question. Did you ever love me?”

“You're always saying it's love, so I thought it had to be.”

She sucks in a deep, shaky breath. When she exhales, she's able to look at him steadily. “One more time, Evan,” she says. “Did you ever love me?”

 

 

E
van rolls onto his side and props himself up on one
elbow so he can look directly at Carrie. It occurs to him in a flash: Carrie
says
she loves him, but she doesn't
act
like she does. Not anymore.

She acts like she's going to make him be the answer to her fill-in-the-blank question.

He didn't really understand till this moment that he's been needing space, and he certainly didn't know why. He didn't realize that one or both of them had changed, or grown, or
something
.

“No,” he tells her. “I don't think I ever did.”

Carrie's face goes white. Weakly, she tries to slap his face, but he catches her hand, stopping it without any effort, and when she tries to pull it loose, he tightens his grip.

“You
asshole
!” Her voice rises into a screech.

Evan remembers Libby, who wouldn't stay in her
room, and he realizes that he's naked, the sheets mostly on the floor, and that there's no lock on the door. “Will you be quiet!” he hisses; he thinks he does hear his sister, the creak of small footsteps creeping tentatively up the stairs.

“Don't tell me to be quiet, you shithea—”

He puts his hand over Carrie's mouth. Carrie's super-pissed at that—she's clawing at his hand and maybe even trying to bite him so she can screech at him some more—but Evan thinks he hears another muffled step outside and presses harder to get her to shut up while he turns his head, listening, listening, for the sound of someone coming…

 

 

 

 

 

 

A
nd the air cracks.

It's a noise, something between a rifle shot and a high-pitched cry. It doesn't come from Carrie. Carrie cannot speak; Evan glimpses her eyes, wild and panicked above his hand—his hand, which not only covers her mouth but presses up against her nose. He sees it all at once: his hand and her eyes at the same second that a noise like a cry is lost in the shatter of splintering glass.

 

 

H
e lets go. There's a whooshing gasp as Carrie
sucks in air, but in the same second he's off the bed, pulling on his jeans to run out the door, to the stair railing.

One of the stained-glass windows on the landing has shattered. The last shards are falling to the ground like shining bits of tinsel or snow, and in the middle of them is Libby, frozen in mid-step, eyes squeezed shut, slivers sprinkled over her hair and hunched, frightened shoulders.