Covers

Chapter Twenty: Our Own Memories

I sit between Evan and my dad on the couch as we flip through a photo album. We laugh at the memories and retell the stories. Evan remarks that I have a huge resemblance to my mother. I return the compliment.

Evan fiddles with the box his father gave me, checking out its contents. Besides his documents, there are a pair of envelopes in there that he hasn't opened yet. I don't know if he cares to.

We laugh and talk until we're all tired. Evan carries the box up to our room after we say goodnight to my dad. As I get dressed for bed, I see his long fingers on the envelopes.

"Open them," I say. "If they're stupid, we can just throw them out. You have what you need from him."

I watch as he slowly pulls open the first envelope. It's a several-page-long printed document of some kind. His brow furrows as he reads it.

"What is it?" I ask, shoving my dirty clothes into the empty hamper.

"It's... a copy of his will. He wrote me back into it," Evan says softly. He sets the paper down on his lap. "Sole beneficiary."

I cock my head. I can't think of anything to say. I don't want to praise Mr. Byrd for doing the bare minimum, but the small gesture speaks volumes.

Evan carefully folds the copy back up and slides it into the envelope. Then he reaches for the second one. This one is thinner, lighter than the first. I watch as he pulls it open to reveal a check.

I don't want to intrude, nor do I care about how much the check is for, but Evan's wide eyes leave me unable to stop myself.

"How much is it for?" I ask.

"Fifteen thousand," Evan whispers.

I jolt. "What?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars. The subject line says... "to start your life"," Evan says, looking up at me. He hands me the check as though he's afraid of trusting himself with it, like it will catch fire in his fingers. "Holy shit."

I blink as I look at the figure. Then I hand it back to him. "Well. Congratulations."

"What do I even do with this?" Evan asks, putting the check back into the box before he closes the lid. "What is he trying to prove?"

"I think that was his apology," I say softly. "Giving you the headstart you should've gotten in the first place."

"Yes, but what-" Evan starts, then he stands up. "Audrey, I know what to do with the money. I'm going to go to school. With you."

I smile. "I think that's a fantastic idea."

"I'll get scholarships and loans. I'll busk for money for dates and... and..."

I can see him unraveling, thinking about all of the things he wants to do, all of the things he thinks he needs to do to prove to me, himself, and the world that he is worthy.

"Evan," I say, holding his shoulders. "I don't care. Spend it on a car. A new guitar. A better speaker. Invest it. Save it. Go travel like you want to. I don't care. It's your money. Not mine."

"It's ours," he replies, framing my face in his hands. "And I want to spend it on being better. For you and myself. For... for the future we deserve. The memories we've earned. I want a photo album like the one your dad showed us. Pages filled with happiness. I don't want to waste this opportunity. I love you, Audrey."

I have no words for the beautiful man in my arms. No words at all that are good enough for him. So I murmur what I can.

"I love you, too, Evan," I whisper.

***

The next morning, Evan happily tells my father about his plans.

"What major will you go for?" my dad asks as he flips a pancake.

"I don't know. Something sensible? Accounting?" Evan asks, his mind storming at the thought.

"I think you should go for music. Performing. Recording. Composing. Something like that," I tell him, reaching for his hand. "You could really make it, Evan."

"At the very least, go for something artsy. The world needs more beauty from people like you," my dad informs him.

Evan nods. "Designing signs or logos or book covers. I like that."

"I thought people shouldn't judge books by their covers," I say sweetly.

Evan grins. "I'm sure glad you didn't."

All of us share a laugh and a stupid joke pops into my head.

"What's the difference between a book and a musician?" I ask.

Evan thinks for a moment. "No idea."

I smile. "You should always judge a musician by their covers."

Laughter at this silly joke spreads through the kitchen like a pleasant scent, warming all of us. And it is here, as I hold Evan's hand and listen to my dad hum to himself as he cooks us breakfast, I realize how glad I truly am that I judged Evan by one set of covers instead of the other.

The end.

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