Every Little Thing

32

|| Reed ||

"Evelyn? Evelyn, where are you?"

My voice rings throughout the house, but if she hears me, there's no way of telling. I've made my way around the main floor about a thousand times now, and with each second that passes, I get more nervous. It's coming close to a full fifteen minutes since she left me on the rooftop, and I can feel myself beginning to panic.

Luckily, the kid who's hosting—James—is still at the foot of the stairs. I walk up to him quickly and start to speak, my words breathy and stammered.

"Hey, um, do you know where—where Evelyn went?" I finally manage to choke out, and he looks around, eyes narrowed.

"No, but there's a ton of people downstairs if you don't see her up here," he says, pointing to a set of stairs that leads into what looks like a game room.

"Thanks," I say, and don't waste another second.

I take the steps two at a time, practically flying through the room and scanning it once, twice, three times. No sign of Evelyn. My heart pumps ten times faster in my chest and I approach a group of people who at least appear to be sober, clearing my throat and asking,

"Hey, have you guys seen a brunette, about five foot two, wearing a green dress?"

One of them, a pink-haired girl sporting dark eyeliner, looks up at me and sneers. "What is this, a police station?"

"No," I reply impatiently, "I just really need to find her, okay?"

That's when a small, mousy-haired girl in the back pipes up.

"I saw her. She said something about getting punch, which is in the room over there."

I follow her finger to the door on my far left, thank her immediately and half-run to the door. I don't even think before pulling it open and saying,

"Hey, Evelyn?"

A shock goes through me, and it takes me a moment to register what I'm seeing. Evelyn is sitting with her back against the wall, mascara running in dark-tinted streaks down her face, her entire body covered in—

"Are those bruises?" I breathe, closing the door and locking it behind me. "Evelyn, are you okay?"

She doesn't make a sound. I sit in front of her, taking her ice-cold hands in mine, trying not to puke at the mere sight. Finger-shaped bruises line her wrists, her collarbone, her neck. My gaze travels down to her legs and I find them there, too. My eyes flash back up to hers in an instant. She's still crying. Her body is tremulous.

And that's when I piece together what happened.

"Oh, God," I say, feeling the bile beginning to rise in my throat, "Oh, my God, Evelyn, who did this to you?"

It takes everything I have not to scream, not to physically tear down the door and strangle every single guy in sight. My hands are shaking, too, as I cup her face and lean my forehead against hers.

"Evelyn, honey," I whisper, and my heart twists so hard I fear I'll pass out, "Evelyn. Evelyn, you've gotta—you have to tell me—"

And then, all of a sudden, her face crumples. A sob escapes her lips, and it's like a knife to the chest. Pain courses through me as she falls into me, and I hold her against my chest so tightly I might crush her, but I don't care. I can't care, not right now, not in this moment.

"Okay, Evie. Shh. I've got you. You don't have to talk to me right now, okay? I've got you."

She sniffles into my shirt, her chest heaving and breaths coming in torrents—she sucks in lungful after lungful of air, like she's been deprived of it for days. I shut my eyes and try not to imagine what happened in this room at this damned party, try not to think about who in their right mind would hurt someone like this—

And suddenly I'm on the verge of tears, and I feel myself begin to crumble, my breaths coming out uneven and heat prickling behind my eyes.

No, I order myself, No, you don't get to cry. You have to be strong for her.

So I tighten my arms around Evelyn Moore and press my lips to her forehead until her sobs go quiet and she's just shaking, shaking like a leaf on the brink of flying off of its branch.

"I've got you, Evelyn," I murmur, and slowly but surely, my tears recede and my vision turns clear again. "I swear, I'm never letting go of you. You're safe now."

________

An hour has passed since I've found her, and I know we need to get out of here. We need to get out of this room, this house, this atmosphere. I need to get her to safety, and I need to get myself to safety, before I start swinging punches and threatening everyone in sight. Fury runs in my veins like blood itself, pumping and pulsing and never-ending.

"Okay," I say, directing the word into Evelyn's ear, "Alright, we're gonna move, okay? There's a back door right outside, and I'm going to carry you out to the car and we'll figure things out from there."

Her head moves ever-so-slightly. A nod. At least that's something.

Her hands slip from mine as I stand, placing my hands carefully under her shoulder blades and at the small of her back, swooping her up into my arms in one swift motion. Her eyes find mine and I move the hair from her face, placing two fingers on the corner of her mouth, gently.

"You're beautiful," I tell her, and she shuts her eyes, releasing a breath. Her chest evens out. "You're so beautiful, Evelyn."

She whimpers, and I fight back the urge to kiss her, to run my hands down her face and across her cheeks and cry and thank God she's alive. At least she's alive.

That's the only thought that I can latch onto as I carry this poor, poor girl through the basement and out the door, into the warm, night air and out to the car. I set her down in the backseat so that she can lie down, and she doesn't make a sound as I move up to the front and start up the engine.

I drive carefully, trying my hardest not to hit a single speed bump or patch of rubble. Every once in a while, I glance back in the rear view mirror and watch her as she just lies there, chest moving up and down and up and down and up and down.

"I'm so sorry, Evelyn," I whisper, and our eyes meet in the reflective glass for a split second before she closes them and curls up on the faded, felt-covered seats.