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    Ever bAfter /bAwaits

    Chapter 80: Xavier bPOV /b

    first es I appreh bet godly but steadily

    blue’s out at the back steps, her kesex pulled up hun arms roped around them like she’s trying to fold herself into anmething smalle pool, but the’i emexture else. Probably reying every ninment, every bitchy word, and every bruise her mom ever gave her.

    I’ve never wanted to punch someone as much as I did Allison when she spat those words at La acres the rooms My fists clenched under t when the sand smart match like La’s future was some sort of investment portfolio.

    fee heard my bfather /bsay some cold shit before. Hell, I’ve said some cold shit before. But that? That was something else entirely

    I should leave her alone. But I don’t. I can’t, because seeing her like this squeezes that cold, dead thing in my chest that seems to teve been reverted sine La stepped into my life.

    I walk outside tentatively and pause just long enough to give her a chance to tell me to fuck off.

    But she doesn’t. So I sit down beside her. Not too close, but just enough that our shoulders could bump if one of us moved more than an inch or two.

    For a while, we both sit side–by–side and say nothing.

    The sky is a clear blue dotted with white tufts of clouds. The garden’s natural sounds are a soundtrack to our contemtive bquier/b, which is not ufortable in any way.

    After a few more minutesb, /bshe speaks in a sad but still strong voice.

    “I keep wondering what version she wants me to be,” she says quietly, “A pampered gold–digging princess like she’s be or a quiet, submissive little girl that bends to her every whim. Because I’m neither and will never be, and with her being my mom, I’d hoped she’d know that and wouldn’t want to change

    bme/b.”

    I nce towards her. Her hair is still pulled up, loose and messy, and I catch a trace of her signature scent of strawberries and something softer as theze afternoon breeze drifts past us. Maybe it’s her shampoo. But I suspect it’s just…her.

    “I don’t think she wants to bsee /bwho you are or could be,” I say, not looking at her. “I think she wants a version she bcan /bcontrol, no matter what that looks like or if she breaks you in the processb./bb” /b

    She huffs augh, and then says, “Well, that sucks for her.b” /b

    I pause, and the air thickens around us. I clear my throat bto /bclear bthe /bemotion that old memories tend to awaken.

    “My dad used to be a version of that as well.”

    She turns towards me slightly, curious but still cautious. Not pushingb, /bjust waiting me out.

    –

    “He’d…show up when it mattered at big events or during public wins. bHe’d /bbe there with a smile and a handshake, standing next to me for photos. The proud and doting single father supporting his son while running a sessfulw firm. But at home?b” /bI shrug before continuing, “Everything was conditional I wasn’t allowed to y ball if I didn’t keep my grades up because he would not allow his colleagues to think he raised an ipetent son. I wasn’t allowed to have a bad day on the field, because how could he show support to someone who didn’t give his all? If I wanted something for myself, I had to give him something in return – taking a business partner’s daughter out to wine and dine her, showing up to an investment dinner dressed up as a penguin so he could parade me around.”

    I pick bat /ba non–existent thread on my jeans as I continue, “I used to count how many days in a row I could go without being told I was an embarrassment to him.”

    Her face softens as she starts, “Xavier…”

    “Don’t,” I gently interrupt her, “I’m not saying it for sympathy. Just…I get it. What it’s blike /bto be a reflection of someone else’s ego binstead /bbof /bbeing allowed to be byour /bbown /bbperson/b.”

    She nods, barely, but with an understanding that belies her age.

    Chapter 80: Xavier POV

    “I think that’s why i hated you at first, I wid, sheepishly. “You showed up and just were. You had no filters and put on no performances to impins And you didn’t care who you pisted off in the process.”

    Leaning her head on her still drawn up knees, she looks at me and murmurs, “I cared, but I just learned to hide it well herauss thing weakness gives others the ability to cut you down.

    Her words hit me harder than i think she intended because, in the beginning, I was one of those who tried to rain her without learning bwhether /bis deep

    down

    My fingers twitch. Should I do it? Should I show her? Just do it, Reed. Just do the damn thing.

    I pull out my phone from my back pocket and unlock it. I tap open the music app, and scroll to the hidden ylist I haven’t even named spongiarely

    It’s currentlybeled La: Unspoken‘. I panicked bat /bthat moment and haven’t quite been able toe up with a suitable title that feels just right.

    I started creating it on Monday night as she was lying next to me in her bed, bandaged but not broken, and while my head was still warring with my heart about letting her in. But I think, deep down, I knew I would, and it was inevitable.

    I hit y, and a soft melody drifts out of the speaker–a guitar, followed by female vocals. It’s the kind of song you listen to alone because it says something you’re not quite ready to speak into existence.

    She looks at me confusedly, her brows drawn, then asks, “What’s thisb?/bb” /b

    Scratching the back of my neck, unable to look at her, bI /bsay, “I made a ylist.”

    She lifts her head, and she cocks a brow at me when she asks parrot–like, “You made a ylist?”

    bI /bshrug as if bmy /bfollowing statement isn’t a symbol of me slicing my soul open to bleed out at her feet, “Of songs that remind me of you.”

    “You made a iylist/ii,/ii” /ishe says, not a question this time, more of a statement, but still incredulous.

    “Don’t make it weird,b” /bbI /bbsay /bas a slight smirk tips the side bof /bmy mouth upwards.

    “It’s already weird. You’re Xavier Reed. I didn’t think you knew how to spell the word feelings, let alone iorganize /ithem into a curated list,” she sasses me.

    I roll my eyes but say nothing.

    The second song starts, and this one bis /bslower and deeper. The lyrics are about starting over and not knowing where you stand in the world, amongst your peers, and in yourself. Hauntingly urate after what happened earlier in the kitchen.

    She goes quiet again as she listensb, /bcontemtes the words being sung, and eventually just sits next to me and gets lost in this moment.

    We sit there, shoulder to shoulder for song after song, neither of us in a hurry to break this moment of quiet we’re wrapped in. We are not touching, but we are close enough that the distance between us feels optional and not forced like in the past.

    Her voice is barely ia /iwhisper when she eventually says, “This means more than I know how to say.”

    I nce at herb, /bthen up towards the sky, concentrating

    a cloud passing by. If only life could be as simple as that cloud: light, free to move as it wants, with no expectation to turn into something it doesn’t want to be, and bringingfort to those around it when life starts getting too hot under the cor.

    “Good. Because I wouldn’t know how to hear it if you tried,” I reply inly.

    She lets out augh that sounds somewhat like a sob, but then she does something unexpected and leans her head on my shoulder.

    I don’t move as her breathing bsyncs /bwith mineb, /band iwe /idon’t move as thete afternoon creeps up on us.

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