Olivia (31 page)

“Tidal Wave.”

“I forgot about Tidal Wave,” he said with a little smile. His face turned serious as his fingertips traveled around her features, memorizing her by touch. “Why didn’t you tell me about your mom and sister?”

She pulled out of his arms and turned away from him as the buried anger instantly flashed into flame. “I don’t have a mom or sister.”

Fuck Clete and his big fat, fucking mouth. She pushed herself up and pinned George down and kissed him to get him to stop asking questions.

“Liv…” He brought his hands up and tried to push her away or at least slow her down.

“Shut up, George,” Olivia commanded and kissed him again.

“Olivia,” George said with more authority as he swiftly rolled them both over so he was on top and in control. “Tell me about your sister.”

“No.”

“Please.”

Olivia swallowed the bile taste of hatred burning up her throat and spread her legs so George’s hips could nestle into hers. She ran her hands across his shoulders and down his arms and stared into the deep well of concern in his eyes.

God, she loved him so much.

“What do you want to know?” she conceded, but only because he loved her so much as well.

“Everything.”

Olivia closed her eyes tight as the image of Toni Tennille came flooding back in a rush. Her eyes filled with tears and George kissed her with a tender love that made her cry more. He rolled off of her and held her to his chest, and through her tears she told him of the letter and Clete’s phone call and their trip to the Barnes and Noble.

She recalled everything they had said to each other, and the story Toni had told her of their mother. She told him of Clete’s disapproval that she had signed the paper relinquishing her rights, and expressed that she still believed she did the right thing and nothing George could say would make her change her mind.

When she finished her story, he asked, “Did you tell Eugene any of this?”

“No, and I never will.”

“Good.”

Olivia looked up at him. “Why is that good?”

“Just keep this one to yourself. Ok?”

Olivia nodded with relief that he understood. George had always understood everything about her without her having to explain a thing. They didn’t need to play Twenty Questions. They knew everything they would ever need to know simply by looking into each other’s eyes.

“Now,” George said and took a deep breath. “There’s something I have to tell you… Clete and I…”

“Shh,” Olivia whispered and brought her finger to his lips. “Don’t. Please. Not tonight.”

“But—”

“No,” Olivia said with firm authority. “I know what you’re going to say and I refuse to talk about that tonight.”

George removed her hand from his lips. “There’s no possible way you can know what I’m about to say.”

“Is it going to upset me?” she asked.

“Probably… Yes.”

“Then save it for tomorrow.” She brought her lips to his and closed her eyes. “Please, George. Just let me have tonight.”

“Olivia…” George protested, but Olivia was insistent on shutting him up this time, and he gave in to her wishes. He made a slow and gentle love to her, the perfect kind of love that made her feel so utterly and completely whole and beautiful that it took everything she had not to cry.

*  *  *

“Wake up, Baby Girl.”

Olivia opened her eyes and squinted from the bright, morning sun. Her hand scrubbed her face and ran around to the little knot on the back of her head with the tiny stitch in it. “
Oww
.”

“How does your head feel?” George asked.

“Ok.”

It hurt, and throbbed a bit in time with her heartbeat, but it was a dull ache. Nothing two Tylenol couldn’t fix. She stretched and listened to her joints pop, and George laughed.

“You sound old.”

“I feel old,” she said.

“Time to get up.” He gave her a light kiss, then stood up and pulled her blankets away.

“What time is it?”

“A quarter to ten.”

“I have four hours yet.” She rolled away from him.

“No, you don’t. You have to get up now.” He rolled her back over and pulled her into a sitting position. “Up we go.”

“Why?” she whined.

“Because Clete’s on his way to pick you up.”

Olivia rubbed her eyes again. “Why is Clete picking me up?”

“Because you’re going to stay with him for a few days. I have to go to Omaha and you can’t stay here by yourself.” George handed her a pile of clothes. “Get dressed.”

“Why are you going to Omaha?”

“Kitty’s,” George said without further explanation.

“So let me go with you,” she said.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” He sighed. “You just can’t. Ok?”

“But—”

“No buts. Get dressed.”

The doorbell rang. George left the room and shut the door, leaving her baffled, bewildered and confused. She pulled her clothes on quickly and followed him out. As soon as she turned the corner into the living room, she saw the two separate piles of luggage, one for him and one for her. And Clete was standing next to hers.

“Good morning, Olivia.” Clete picked up her duffle bag. “You ready to go?”

“So you’re talking to me again, huh?” She glowered.

He glowered back at her. “For the moment.”

“I’m not going with you. I’m going to Omaha with George,” she said.

“No, you’re not,” George said. He turned her toward him and gave her a hug. “Clete will take care of you while I’m gone, and when I get back I’ll come pick you up.”

She pushed him away. “I’m not a fucking dog, George! I can take care of myself!”

George sighed. “Just go with Clete, Liv.”

“Why?” she asked in frustration. “What the hell’s going on?”

George and Clete looked at each other, communicating in silent conspiracy. George shook his head. Clete nodded as though in understanding, then carried her bag out into the hallway and stood outside the door waiting for her.

“George?” Olivia asked in desperation. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her so completely it felt wrapped in finality, and it scared the hell out of her.

When he let her go, he said, “I love you, Olivia. Have fun with Clete.” He gave her a little push out of the apartment and closed the door firmly behind her.

She stared at the black, metal number 16 on his door with her mouth ajar and her heart shredding into a million pieces.

“You ready to go?” Clete asked.

“Are you going to tell me what the fuck’s going on?” she demanded.

“You really need to stop swearing, Olivia,” Clete said. He started for the stairs.

Olivia pushed past him. “Try and make me, you motherfucking asshole.”

She flew down the stairs and out into the parking lot and debated running away, but she had no cash and nowhere to go, so she stomped over to Clete’s cruiser instead. He threw her bags into the trunk and looked up at George’s apartment with longing before he slid behind the wheel.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Olivia held up her hand and turned away from him in her seat. Except for Clete’s heavy sigh when he finally put the key into the ignition, they drove to his house in silence. He was obviously just
thrilled
to be stuck with her. About as thrilled as she was to be stuck with him. Fuck George. She hoped he never came home from Omaha.

Clete drove across South and parked in his driveway. He carried her stuff inside, dumped it by the door and said, “I’m sure you know where everything is from all the peeping you’ve done. You can have Allie’s room. She’s staying with her mom while you’re here. You are not to leave the house unless I’m with you and you’re not going to work. I already called Sam so you don’t need to bother. And there is absolutely
no
smoking in this house. If you must do it, go out to the patio.”

He tossed his keys into the little pottery bowl sitting on the side table and headed down the hallway. A moment later a door closed, and Olivia was left standing all alone in the middle of his living room. It was a nice room, well-decorated, extremely clean and comfortably homey, but she
hated
it. It reeked of loneliness and felt like prison, and she still had no idea what the hell was going on.

“George,” she whispered. She closed her eyes tight and wished for him to come through the door and sweep her into his arms and whisper his love in her ear. But he didn’t come.

Not knowing what else to do, she carried her bag into Allie’s room and set it beside the bed. The little girl’s room smelled like cinnamon and bubble gum and cheap pop-star perfume. The vivid colors of the linens and walls were comforting, and they brightened Olivia’s mood a tad. Allie was still obsessed with the Jonas kid, but there were also new posters of another teenage boy Olivia recognized from one of those Nickelodeon shows she had watched with Allie at George’s house. The girl was growing up fast.

Allie’s desk was cluttered with papers and magazines and pictures Allie had cut into hearts and flowers and circles. Olivia looked through the cut-outs and recognized Clete in many of the photos. There was also quite a few of an older couple who were more than likely his parents—Allie’s grandparents—and a woman who looked like an older version of Allie. Clete’s ex-wife was an exceptionally beautiful, statuesque woman with an easy smile, and it was obvious in every single picture that she loved her little girl with her entire heart.

Olivia set the pictures down as jealousy snuck in, tightening in her chest. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She looked around the room, desperate for a distraction. The bright oranges and yellows and reds that had been comforting only a moment earlier started to close in on her, screaming loud, boxing her in, suffocating her with the vibrancy of someone else’s happiness. She had to get outta here—
fast.

She dug a sweatshirt out of her duffle bag, slipped it over her head, tiptoed down the hallway and carefully opened the front door without making a noise. Her escape started out as a fast walk that turned into a jog, quickly ramping up into a flat out run. She had no idea where she was going, but she didn’t care. She ran to the end of Clete’s street and kept running.

Her lungs burned and her head pounded and she got a stitch in her side, but she kept going. The director of her life’s movie felt it was a CCR moment, and “Ramble Tamble” poured from the sewers and cracks in the sidewalk and shanty apartment windows.

The music controlled her feet and her pace and her heartbeat as she ran all around South, past Carla’s where Eugene sat hunched over the dining room table, fixing a blender while Chester slept at his feet, past Izzie’s with its yard full of Mel’s kids’ broken toys and a fall crop of dandelions, past the Get ‘n Go where she’d crashed into Mitch, past Mitch’s apartment building with the clapboard siding and rusted fire escape, past the liquor store where she’d crashed the rolling marquee into half of the drivers of Juliette, past Movie Mania and the dented movie return box.

She ran past everyone and everything she knew, everything that comprised the world in which she lived, and ended up in Valley View, in her old neighborhood, in front of her burned out trailer and collapsed car port. And that’s where she stopped. She bent over and rested her hands on her knees and raked in air as she looked over her mess of a life and realized she had nothing. Everything she had ever loved she had lost, some of it quickly and up in flames, like her trailer, and some of it so slowly she didn’t realize it was happening, like Izzie.

When was the last time she’d sat in Izzie’s bathtub and listened to her friend? Was she ever really listening in the first place? Was her life so much more important than Izzie’s that she didn’t have the time to listen to Izzie’s fears? If she had been listening from the very beginning, would Izzie have ever become baby-obsessed in the first place? Would she and John still be together?

“Good afternoon, Olivia!” Mr. Turner called from across the road.

She turned and he waved. She crossed the road toward him and his open bathrobe and boxers and black socks. “Hey, Mr. Turner. What’s new these days?”

“Oh, not too much. Oil’s at sixty-seven a barrel,” Mr. Turner said.

“Is that good?” Olivia asked.

He shrugged. “I guess that depends on which side of the barrel you’re standing on.”

He set his newspapers at the curb and waved goodbye to Olivia as he went back inside. Her forty-seven seconds with him were over. If she thought about it, in the span of a lifetime, did she ever get more than forty-seven seconds with anyone? She looked back over her shoulder at her burned-up old life one last time and, with nowhere else to go, she started the long walk back to Clete’s house.

When she got there, Clete’s cruiser was gone and the front door was locked tight. She scaled the fence like she had all those long nights ago, but this time when she got to the other side she landed on her feet. Juicy Fruit came trotting up to her and looked at her in curiosity.

“Hey, big guy.” She sighed and scratched his ears.

Juicy Fruit licked her hand with his slobbery tongue and panted.

Olivia led him through the landscaping and they sat on the patio together. Clete’s backyard was even more amazing in the sunlight than it had been under the stars, and she took in the fall colors of the trees and mums. A cool breeze swirled around her as she wondered where she’d be when Christmas rolled around. Her eyes fell upon her stupid lobster tattoo, the one she got with Mitch when they thought they were destined to be together forever. She scrubbed at it with her thumb and wished she had a giant, pink eraser to wipe it away, but it would be part of her for all of eternity—a cartoony, crustacean reminder of her ignorance.

She should have known better when it came to Mitch. She wasn’t a stupid girl. Or maybe she was. Maybe she was as stupid as they come. She allowed her heart and her fantasies to rule her life, and she made stupid decisions because of it. That was her problem. She was all emotion and no brain. She flew off the handle and did things on a whim. It was no wonder George didn’t trust her to stay by herself while he was gone. She was no more mature than a child was.