It's Too Cliché...Right? Ch. 05

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"Okay, I'll just be heading off then." Evan gave her a smile before she closed the door behind her as she left.

"Hey," Evan called, bringing my attention back to him. "Can you come here for a sec?" he asked, motioning to the spot next to him on the bed. He didn't even look in my direction, his eyes focused on the laptop screen in front of him. I gulped at the sheer closeness that would put me to his proximity, already imagining us brushing knees. Part of the reason why I had chosen to sit at his desk, was the distance that it had put between us. I mean, yeah, I was basically torturing myself as it was by trying to be his friend, but I didn't need to purposefully be physically close to him; I'm not that much of a masochist.

Still, I made my way over but opted to stand by the side of his bed instead of sitting down. In my effort to appear more casual than awkwardly standing there, I leaned down and rested my hands on the bed, peering towards his laptop screen. "What's up?" I asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Have a seat, I need to run some things by you," he said, still not removing his eyes from the screen.

I groaned internally, knowing that I had no choice but to sit now; he had basically asked me to. So, pretending that it wasn't the least bit affecting me, I sat down, though I made sure that there was at least an inch between us. I know, it's so middle school of me, thinking that just because I liked him meant I couldn't touch him, but I didn't want to tempt anything.

The moment my butt touched the soft cushions, Evan slid the laptop towards me. "Read through that paragraph for me. The phrasing seems a little off but I can't quite put my finger on it," he said.

"Sure," I replied, trying to focus on the words rather than his presence next to me.

"English was always more your forte anyway," he said. At that, I couldn't help but turn to him, my eyebrows creasing in confusion. I mean, yeah, I had always been pretty good in English, but I hadn't expected Evan to know that.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"You're the only one ahead of me in English," he said. "Well, you and your brother. I make it a point to scope out the competition."

"Since when have I ever been anyone's academic competition?" I laughed. In the Pearson household, I had never ever been in contention in the academic field, Tim fully securing that role.

"In English, you're mine," he smiled. I couldn't even begin to tell you the feelings that sentence sent through me. Sure, he hadn't meant it like that, but hearing Evan say that I was his, even when taken completely out of context, made my insides bubble with glee. Alas, I forced the blush from my cheeks, concentrating on the report. Sure enough, there were little grammatical errors here and there that affected the flow of the sentences a little bit, so I quickly corrected them. All this while, Evan sat beside me, staring at the screen and watching every correction I made. He didn't lean over, though, keeping the inch boundary that I had set up from earlier, something that I was grateful for. It's not like he wanted to get close to me too, right?

Eventually, Evan asked me to look through the entire report, asking me to make any corrections that I deemed fit. It was kind of nice how he trusted my amendments without so much as a dispute, even though this grade probably meant more to him than it did to me, so I willingly obliged, making minor rectifications here and there.

Around half an hour into the editing process, a phone chime rang across the quiet room, adding to the soft clicks of my fingers on the keyboard. Evan turned, seeing the phone sitting on his bedside table behind him. He sighed, probably cursing the fact that it was so far away, and I expected him to get up and get it. Instead, I watched as Evan leaned back, stretching out his arm in an attempt to grab the little device from its spot.

My eyes went wide at this, his change in position only causing his shirt to ride upwards, exposing his abs to me. My gaze instantly shot to them, taking in the beautiful trail of hair that led from his belly button, down past the waistband of his shorts and disappearing into the black material that barely hid the bulge that lay behind them. Defined obliques accentuated his slim waist, further drawing my attention to his crotch. It took every ounce of strength in me to not reach out and stroke his flawless skin, knowing how bad that would be if I had. My breath caught in my throat as I tried to inhale, the sight in front of me basically causing my brain to shut down.

Mustering all the willpower I had, I pulled my gaze away, staring hard at the screen in front of me. Evan groaned, trying to stretch the last few centimeters to his phone, the sound only making me all the more turned on, if that was even possible. I shut my eyes, willing myself to stop fantasizing, repeating the same words over and over again in my head like a mantra.

Stop it, he's straight. Stop it, he's straight. Stop it, he's straight. Stop it, he's straight.

Finally, I felt movement beside me as Evan returned to his sitting position. "You okay dude?" he asked, his voice like butter on my ears. I guess I was acting a little weird, my eyes forced shut as I sat there, unmoving. It didn't take a genius to know that something was up.

"Yeah, totally fine," I coughed, opening my eyes but not looking in his direction. "Actually, can I get a glass of water?"

"Of course, man," Evan said, this time actually getting off the bed. "I was feeling a little hungry anyway. I guess I should have taken Carla up on that offer just now. You want to follow me? It's gonna take some time."

I wanted to scream no, that I changed my mind about the water, anything to just have a few minutes away from Evan. But that would have been even weirder, asking for water and not even ten seconds later changing my mind, so I nodded and followed Evan out the room.

As we descended the stairs on our way to the kitchen, I avoided looking at Evan as he walked ahead of me. I knew that if I did, my eyes would no doubt be drawn to the perky ass hidden beneath his shorts. So, I looked at anything other than the temptation of a man who strode a few paces in front of me, trying my hardest to resist all the feelings my hormones were bubbling up inside me.

Soon, I found myself in the kitchen, the smell of whatever Carla had prepared still permeating the air. White cupboards sat among light brown countertops, metallic kitchen appliances adding flecks of silver to the otherwise two-tone kitchen. Sunlight cascaded into the space from large sliding doors, just behind it stood the backyard of the house, with the large pool and multiple lounge chairs neatly placed along the far end. Stone tiles lined the floor surrounding the little oasis, a fire pit built into a little terrace not too far off.

"Can I just say that your house is amazing," I stated, looking out into the tranquil backyard. "You could throw the sickest parties here."

"If I was popular that is," Evan chuckled. Behind me, I heard the opening and closing of a cupboard followed by the tap. "Here's that water. Would you care for a sandwich?" he asked, placing the glass down on the table.

I turned to him, giving him a smile as thanks and totally forgetting about avoiding eye contact with him. I swear, the way the sun shined on his face made it all the more difficult to get over this crush. "Why not, though?" I asked, taking a sip of the water, my vision still focused on Evan's handsome face. Oh, to hell with all this avoiding.

"Why not what?"

"Be popular. I mean, if people in school knew you were loaded, you'd be instantly popular," I said, not adding that his looks alone would have catapulted him through the ranks of high school popularity even without the money, that and his likable personality.

Evan scoffed at my statement, though. "So, I can get friends who don't actually care about me. I think I'll pass."

I'm not going to lie, that sentence did strike a raw nerve with me. I mean, I was popular. Mitch and Melissa, who are almost as rich as he was, were also popular, but that didn't mean that everyone in our group only liked them for their money. Fuck no, we were genuinely friends and his statement basically made me feel like he was calling out the integrity of our friendship.

"We do care about each other you know. Just because someone is rich, doesn't mean that everyone who wants to hang around them is just after their money," I said carefully, but you could definitely still tell that I was slightly peeved from the tension in my voice.

"Yeah well not everyone is like that. I know from experience," he spat back. "Back in Florida, I had a shit ton of these so-called friends. For years, I thought that those were the people I could count on, but then shit goes down and every single one of them abandoned me." I watched as his lip quivered slightly, I don't know from anger or sadness, but whatever it was, I knew that Florida definitely held some bad memories for him.

I immediately felt bad for calling him out, almost wanting to go over and hug him. To tell him that everything was alright. "Fuck them then, because they sure as hell don't deserve a friend like you anyway." Evan chuckled, but it was almost choked like he was trying to control his emotions.

I knew now why Evan put up these walls in school. Why he didn't try to get close with anyone and why he was so afraid of me knowing where he lived. He had just been through enough, especially at a young age, that made him lose his trust in people. I don't know exactly what went down in Florida, but I didn't need to. It told me more than enough, that in order to prevent the hurt he experienced before from happening again, he put up these walls to protect himself. Walls that while strong in the outside world, came crashing down within the walls of his very own house.

"I wish I had known you back then you know," he muttered. "I would have had a happier life I think."

"You can know me now? I can't erase what happened in the past but I can sure as hell make Cornway High a much better place for you. Make friends who like you for you and memories so good the bad ones just seem negligible. You know, the proper high school experience."

Evan laughed. "Are you a spokesperson for the American High School Dream Association or something?"

"That depends. Are you buying what I'm selling?" Evan smiled, before raising his hand in the universal symbol for 'a little bit', to which I laughed in reply. "So, does that mean you consider me a friend?" I asked.

"Maybe," he chuckled.

"Maybe? Oh, no, no, no, there is no maybe with me. It's a heck yeah," I joked.

"You're crazy, you know that?"

"You'll come to learn it's one of my more redeeming qualities," I smirked. "So, how about that sandwich then." I was happy then that we had managed to steer the conversation back to its lighthearted nature. I was glad that I was learning more about Evan, but I didn't want to bring up unhappy memories for him.

"Coming right up. You're gonna get to taste my famous 'whatever's in the fridge' sandwich," he said, smiling proudly as he grabbed the loaf of bread from one of the cupboards.

"Whatever's in the fridge?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Yep. I basically find whatever would make a good sandwich in the fridge and voila, a 'whatever's in the fridge' sandwich."

"That's not really a recipe, though, is it?" I asked.

"That's the beauty of it. It can be anything from a simple grilled cheese to the most elaborate, sometimes disgusting, sandwich in the world," he said, wiggling his eyebrow at me, before turning to the fridge and peering in.

"So, what kind of monster are we going to be making today?" I asked, trying to control the giggles that wanted to come out of my mouth.

"Hmm, let's see. We have some ham, that's always good. We have some lettuce, onion, and some leftover roast beef," he said, taking each of those and putting them in his arms. "Oh yes, mozzarella cheese," he cried, waving a packet of cheese as he turned around, closing the fridge with his foot.

"Seems a little heavy, don't you think?" I said, noting the number of ingredients he had taken out for a supposedly light snack.

"I'm sure a football player like you can eat way more than this easily. Besides, that's how a 'whatever's in the fridge' sandwich has to be. If you've taken it out, it goes into the sandwich," he said. "Word of advice, don't pull out the can of whipped cream, no matter how much you're tempted to do it. Tried that once, didn't taste good."

I laughed, suddenly realizing how different Evan was acting. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't complaining because I quite liked this Evan. He was more carefree and definitely seemed more like a teenager than he did in school.

"Here," Evan said, putting the onion in front of me. "Slice that for me." My eyes darted to the wooden chopping board to my right, and the rack of knives to my left.

"Slice the onion?" I asked, hesitating just a little bit. It's not that I didn't know how to cut up an onion, but I was apparently very bad in the kitchen if my mom's words are anything to go by. Anytime I tried helping my mom in the kitchen, she would eventually usher me out, saying that she could get things done faster without me helping.

"Yeah, just use that board next to you," he said, peeling off stalks of lettuce and heading to the sink. I turned back to the little yellow onion that sat in front of me, wondering how I was to go about doing this. I picked it up, moving to the board before turning my attention to the different knives sitting in their rack. I picked up a random one, finding a long thin knife. Thinking that a knife is a knife, I brought it back to the board, placing it beside the onion.

I turned back to Evan who was still busy by the sink, before returning my attention to the task at hand. I took a deep breath, thinking that this couldn't be that hard. I just needed to try recalling whatever I had seen my mom do, or even what I've seen on TV. It's an onion, not a thanksgiving turkey.

So, I took the thing and ran the knife through it, the two halves separating. I continued this, slowly cutting slices that were completely inconsistent. I swear, some of them were as thin as paper and other as thick as french fries, but I was doing it wasn't I?

"What are you doing?"

I turned, seeing Evan staring at the massacred onion with amusement on his face, a bowl of wash lettuce in his hand. "Um...slicing onions?" I said, becoming unsure myself. Evan laughed, walking over and placing the bowl down onto the counter.

"First of all," he started, taking the knife from my hands and holding it up. "This is a carving knife. You need a chef's knife like this one," he said, grabbing another knife from the rack. Looking at the newly retrieved knife now, I realized it was a lot more like the ones you see people using on cooking shows.

"Oh," I managed, feeling my cheeks go red.

"Secondly, that isn't slicing an onion, more like torturing it for information," he laughed, pointing to the pile of ugly onion slices. "Luckily for you, though, this isn't Hell's Kitchen."

"Yeah, as you can probably tell, I'm not much help in the kitchen," I chuckled.

"Make sure you find a husband who can cook then," he said, slicing the rest of the onions with deft precision and speed.

I almost wanted to say 'Like you?' before I caught myself. Instead, I kept quiet and watched him work, preparing the sandwiches before popping them into the oven for a bit. He looked thoughtful for a moment before he went over to another cabinet and pulled out a half eaten-bag of potato chips.

"You're that hungry?"

"No, just wait and see," he said. I did as he told, waiting as the sandwiches were done, Evan placing each on a plate. I was about to reach for one when Evan stopped me. "This is where the chips come in."

I raised an eyebrow as I watched Evan lift the top of each sandwich, before proceeding to crush a handful of chips over each one. "I thought it was a 'whatever's in the fridge' sandwich?" I asked, putting emphasis on the fridge part.

"Technicalities," Evan replied, putting the tops of the sandwiches back and handing one to me. "Bon appétit."

Picking up the sandwich, a few pieces of crushed chips fell out, landing with a clink on the plate. Looking down at those small pieces and back up to the meat filled bread, nothing about the two seemed to go well together. I looked up at Evan who had already taken his first bite. "Ish good, twy ik," he mumbled, mouth full of food and almost undecipherable.

I looked back to the...thing in my hands, gave a shrug and took a bite out of it. The first thing I tasted was sour cream, seasoning from the chips, then the hit of raw onion, before the taste of roast beef dulled the sharpness of it. After the initial shock of flavors, which my mind wasn't used to experiencing together, it actually started to taste pretty good.

"Okay, that was better than I expected," I said, after swallowing my first bite.

"Told you," he laughed, taking another huge bite, to which I followed, taking one out of my completely weird but strangely delicious meal.

After our little foray into the culinary field, we had both returned to his bedroom and put the finishing touches on our report. Somehow, after everything that happened in the kitchen, it wasn't so difficult being around Evan. I don't know what exactly changed, but I wasn't exactly upset by it. Maybe now I could actually be a real friend to the guy.

By the time we were done, it was just past seven in the evening. It was also around the same time that we heard the rumble of an engine approach the house. "I guess Dad's home. C'mon, I'll introduce you," he said, motioning for me to follow him as he exited his room.

As we made our way down the stairs, something akin to nervousness filled me. I don't know why, though, seeing that I didn't really have anything to be nervous about. Evan wasn't my boyfriend, and Mr. Trevorrow wasn't the father of said boyfriend, so why did I feel like it was exactly that. Maybe it wasn't that I thought that he was Evan's father, but the fact that I didn't know what this man was like. From what I could tell, he was a career driven parent and that could mean he wasn't the most doting father to Evan.

He was also no small fry in the business world, based solely on the value of his estate. That didn't really mean much, but sometimes you don't get to be successful if you're not a little ruthless. The twins' father is something like that, a no nonsense kind of guy. He wasn't nasty whenever I was over, but you could definitely tell that he didn't tolerate any shit, even if you're his kids' friend. I guess that's what scared me the most, that Mr. Trevorrow wouldn't deem me worthy to befriend his son. Especially the first one he has brought home, apparently. Do you understand the kind of pressure that is, to be judged as the first friend your son has brought home...ever?

"Well, don't look like your dog just died," Evan said, cutting off my train of thought.

"I'm just nervous," I replied sheepishly.

"Of what? My father? Oh, he's harmless," Evan said, waving his hand dismissively.

"But what if he doesn't like me?" I asked.

"Trust me, my father likes almost everyone."

We slowly made our way downstairs, seeing an older man walking through the garage door. "Hey Dad," Evan called out, drawing the attention of the older gentleman. He looked up, gentle brown eyes finding Evan before a smile formed on his lips.

"Hi son, miss me?" he said.

"How could I when you called almost every day," Evan replied. "It's good to have you home."

"It's good to be home. I swear, I don't understand why the board had to insist I be at the meeting personally when a video conference could have sufficed, especially when the meeting is halfway across the country," Mr. Trevorrow said, his eyebrows furrowing in frustration, the frown lines and wrinkles showing more of his age. His graying hair also screamed distinguished mature gentleman, but he looked and dressed incredibly well for his age.