Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Now

After a lazy afternoon of playing cards with Chloe, I have her drop me off at Wyatt’s. I want to see him and ask if he’ll help me out with something. I still have no clue where my phone might be—even after checking in with my parents, hoping they might know, it’s still M.I.A. I’m assuming I had it on me when I was hit and now it is either demolished or someone got lucky and found themselves a new phone. Either way, I don’t have tons of use for one. It’s not like I go anywhere or know any of my friends to call, but it would still be nice to have. There might be pictures or contacts that might help jog my memory.

Chloe waits in her car while I knock on the door. Wyatt answers, wearing blue plaid pajama pants and nothing else.

I fight off a blush, but it wins out. “Do you usually answer the door without a shirt?” I ask him, watching a horrified expression grow on his face.

He straightens his spine, suddenly surprisingly confident with his body. He should be, I think, and then feel myself starting to blush.

“Always. Gives my elderly neighbor across the street something nice to look at instead of her roses.”

I glance across the street, to the woman sweeping her back porch. “Well, that’s generous of you,” I say with a smirk, but unable to keep my eyes off his muscles myself.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Are you busy?”

“No...why?” His eyes narrow at me like I’m about to ask him to go streaking.

“You’re going to help me with something,” I step over the threshold. If he isn’t going to invite me in, I’ll take it upon myself.

“I am?” After he closes the door, he rubs a hand down his chest absentmindedly. I can’t help but watch.

“You wanna go take care of that?” I gesture toward his chest.

He smirks. “Am I making you uncomfortable? Maybe in a good way?” His eyebrows bounce up and down, making me laugh. If I laugh, he won’t notice how red my face must be turning.

He disappears down the hall and I’m left in his silent living room. Everything smells like dust and knitting or like a secondhand store, which would make sense seeing as half of the stuff in the house seems to have been bought in one. The house is brown, brown, brown and old looking, like a grandparents’ house. It’s comforting, though.

“What did you need help with?” his voice echoes deep within the house.

I walk toward the sound. “Do you have a computer?”

“Um...yeah.”

“Oh, yeah, skateboarding journalism blogging. That would be hard to do without a computer.” I peer into rooms as I pass. Brown and white bathroom, brown and yellow guest room.

“Well, that and my mom works in computer repair.” His voice is coming from the last room to my right.

Before I enter it, I glance to the left. A brown room with a wooden bed covered in a brown duvet edged in lace sits in a bath of sunlight. The plastic blinds are open and bits of dust dance around in light. His parents’ room?

In his room, Wyatt’s back is to me as he digs through his closet. I can’t ignore the way his back muscles move or the soft-looking skin. I look away, trying to focus my attention to his room, which is mostly blue. I shouldn’t feel bad for looking. He is, after all, my boyfriend. I’m allowed to look at him. So I do. I imagine the way those muscles would feel under my fingertips. He tugs a shirt over his head and it snaps me back to reality.

When he turns around, he starts.

I laugh at him. “Sorry.”

“You’re like a ninja.” He shifts his weight nervously, which makes me nervous.

I survey the room. It’s very lived in. “Are you planning on moving out any time soon?” I ask. “I mean, you are twenty.”

“Twenty-one,” he corrects. “I’m three months older than you.”

“I’ll be twenty-one in three months?” I ask, surprised.

He nods. “We’ll go out for a drink.”

“Okay,” I say with a smile. “So, if you’re twenty-one, why do you still live at home?”

He sits on his bed and tugs some socks on. “I could move out, I make plenty of money through advertisements on the blog, but Dad has some mobility issues because of his gout. He used to work when I was younger, but he has too much pain now. So I help him while I keep saving.”

“No college for you?”

“I’m getting an online degree for computer technology.”

“Wow,” I say. “Sounds pretty cushy. Nothing better than being able to work and go to school in your pj’s.”

“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “Can’t get much better than that.” He points to the computer across the room. “Well, there it is.”

Instead of moving to sit in front of it, I hesitate, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I guess I should have called first. Were you busy?”

“Not really. I hadn’t even gotten dressed yet, obviously.” He pulls the chair out and gestures for me to sit. I walk over and do that.

I smile at him. “Thanks.”

He smiles back and I grow even more nervous. Like I’ve suddenly realized we were alone. “I’ll be right back,” he says and disappears from the room. I’m left in the quiet, feeling like maybe I shouldn’t have come. It’s going to be awkward, us alone together. We’re dating but I don’t remember. I think about what it had felt like to kiss him or the feel of his hand in mine. I wish I could remember any lingering gazes and if he’s bought me flowers. Has he seen me cry and wiped away the tears? Does he know my deepest secrets—ones I don’t even know right now? My chest starts to hurt. A stereo stands nearby on a shelf and I flick it on, hoping some music or noise will help me relax. Smooth jazz rolls out.

“Ew. Ick.” I turn the knob, finding a more acceptable radio station. I’m not sure what music I like, or what Old Liv liked, but I’m fairly certain it isn’t jazz.

At the computer, I move the mouse and the monitor wakes up. I probably should have waited for Wyatt to return—what if he had something weird on the screen?—but that idea comes too late. The wallpaper is a still photograph of a waterfall, so I’m safe there. I click the little “e” on the taskbar and a search engine pops up.
Build your own website
, I type, and click on the first link that isn’t an advertisement.

A crinkling noise tells me Wyatt’s making the return trip down the hall. “Snacks!” he trills as he pops in, setting a family-size bag of lime tortilla chips on a nearby table. He blinks at the screen. “You want to build your own website?” He’s pretending the awkwardness isn’t in the room with us. But it’s the proverbial elephant and I can feel it standing right behind me. Maybe he doesn’t feel it at all. Maybe it’s just me.

“Not for me,” I say, playing the ignore-the-elephant game. “For Christakos Creatives.”

“I’ve been hoping your parents would do that for years. What got them to change their mind?”

“I don’t exactly know if they have. I’m just doing them a favor.”

“Uh...” He shifts in his chair. “Don’t you think you should ask them if that’s even something they want?”

“I wanted to make it a surprise. I’m trying to help out more. Chloe says I was kind of a selfish daughter and I want to make it up to them.”

“You could still make it up to them by asking what you can do to help,” he points out, opening the bag of chips and grabbing one. “Change is scary. They might not be ready.” He pops the chip in his mouth, swallows and adds, “Maybe they can’t handle a lot of new customers. They might not have the resources.”

Possibly, but they could hire out if they get more than they can handle, couldn’t they? I roll the thought over and over and over some more. Stepping on my parents’ toes is definitely not something I want, but I have to do something. I could get a job, I guess, but any money I would make would only bide time until the business goes down. No, I would have to do something bigger to make up the difference.

“I think I should do it,” I say. “If they choose to not use it, it’s up to them.”

Wyatt is silent for a moment. Then he says, “Yeah, but their reputation would turn to crap. If the customers contact them from the website and your mom or dad have to turn business down, word will get around that they’re impossible to work with.”

“But I’m betting on them not turning work down.”

He shrugs, “All right. Whatever you think.”

“Would you help me? I could really use your tech know-how. Dion and Cora don’t have a computer. I mean, I get the keyboard and mouse and internet...but setting up a website? I got nothing.”

“I don’t exactly agree with your doing it without their permission. Your mom’s always wanted to keep the business in the family.”

“But Christakos Creatives is on the brink of failure. They need help. If I ask Cora, she’ll tell me she doesn’t want my help because I should be letting my brain heal. I really want to do something for her. For them. I feel like I owe them something. I feel like I was maybe a bad daughter to them. Do you know if I was?”

He looks at me, his eyes going soft. “There was some...fighting. But nothing you guys can’t get past.” He worries the inside of his lip between his teeth and then sighs. “Fine. If you want to do this. If you really think it’ll help, I’ll help you do it.”

“Yay!” I clap my hands together. “Thank you!”

He smiles at me until my insides turn to goo.

I grab the bag of chips from him to distract me and reach in for a handful. I chew on them and think. A moment later, after I swallow, I say, “Okay. So. We design this awesome website, get it out into cyberspace, and then show it to my parents. If they like it, we advertise. If they don’t, we’ll take it down. I doubt anyone will find the site if no one knows about it yet. Let’s start by you showing me your blog. Is it just, like, generic or—”

“I do not have a generic blog,” he interrupts, annoyed. “I learned code. I made a custom website.”

I want to laugh at him because him being serious is so friggin’ cute. I want to reach over and feel the stubble on his cheek. “Oh yeah?” I say.

“Yeah.”

He reaches over me instead of asking me to get up and his arm grazes my boob. I pull back, so embarrassed that I might shrink into nothingness. But he doesn’t notice. He leaves it there. Even though I’ve pulled away, his arm is still on my body. I lean back as far as I can in the chair, but can’t completely get away from his touch.

As I’m about to say something or push the chair away from the table, his arm is gone. I gaze up at the screen. He’s already typed in his URL and it takes a few moments to load because his computer is several years old.

The static page is a black and white photo done in an antique-looking filter of him on a skateboard with his camera.
Board Photos
runs across the top
.
At first, I want to giggle because skateboarding journalism is kind of funny, really. But the picture is obviously quality. “That’s nice, Wyatt.”

“My friend took it. She’s a Cub Scout volunteer. We hang out sometimes.”

An unfamiliar feeling crawls up my spine and rolls around in my stomach acid. “She?” I ask before I know it’s out.

He laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous. She’s just a friend.”

“I’m not jealous. I just thought that only men could be in the Cub Scouts.”

“Time’s are a-changin’,” he says with a wink, like he knows I’m so full of crap. It’s obvious what I’m feeling. But why am I feeling like this? I have no reason to be jealous, do I? Plus, I’d pretty much asked him to back off—whether he’s taking that as a completely break up or not—so I have no ground to stand on even if I was jealous. If I’m completely honest, it’s not like I don’t feel anything for him. I feel something but I don’t know if it’s enough to say that I like him. Definitely not enough to say I love him. I’m so confused. I’m not ready to dive into anything with him yet, but don’t want anyone else to have him, either.

I don’t want to think about any of this, so I focus on the screen again. Below the picture, categories are written in a graffiti-style font.
Home
,
About
,
Portfolio
, etc
.

Reaching over to the mouse, I click on
Portfolio.
His most recent photos are at the top, some of which I recognize: my house, the sky, a close-up of the grass (possibly in front of my house), the shoes he was wearing that day, and my neighborhood street in like this weird stretched-out frame. My mind itches as I try to recall of the style of this filter, but I hit a wall. None of the pictures are of anything particularly unique, but the cropping and filters and everything he uses make each photograph its own.

“These are neat,” I say, scrolling through them.

“Neat?” he asks.

“Yeah, they’re really cool.”

“Cool. Hmm.” He narrows his eyes. “Either you don’t like the pictures or your entire memory of how to comment on art has been destroyed.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Yeah, probably that last one. I’m not sure what to say.” I keep scrolling down, looking at some of his other stuff.

I come upon the picture I took of him. It’s a gorgeous shot, but not because I was the one to take it. He’s deepened the shadows on his face and made the sun and his eyes the focal point. The sun baked the brown color into a melty-looking caramel. I want to say how amazing this photograph is, but I know it won’t come out right. It’ll sound like I made it look the way it does, which is totally not it at all. “You did a wonderful job on this photo,” I say, pointing. “The shadows over here. The sun. Your eyes. Whatever you did is amazing.”

“You took it.”

“I did, but I didn’t make it look this good. You did all the work. You could probably make a child’s picture of the carpet turn out special.”

He laughs. “I have a whole section on that.” He leans over again, taking control of the mouse. His arm lands on my good arm this time instead of my chest and I don’t pull away. “Look.”

He’s clicked on a sub-menu in his
Portfolio
tab named,
Charlotte’s Treasures.
It’s filled with photographs that his “Little Buddy” has taken—a selfie, a neighborhood dog pooping, a ladybug, and her shoes.

Cute.

And then I remember how amazing it is that Wyatt hangs out with her and seems to really enjoy it and I know I’m warming to him even more.

After looking through those, I browse the rest of his website, testing all the links, and then write him a fake email on his form to see how things work. “I like this layout,” I tell him. “It’s personalized, but still simple. Cora and Dion would like it.”