Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time (23 page)

Chapter Three

Inside the house, in the sanctuary of my room, I call James.

In typical fashion, he doesn’t pick up. Did I talk to him at all while I was out? Does he know about Wyatt? Or could he be back with Megan?

I text him,
Hey.
Got
my
memory
back.
Would
like
to
see
you.
I hit Send and laugh at the weirdness of the text. I mean, that is a weird friggin’ text message. I analyze the last sentence, almost worried that Megan will see it or how James will react to it, but I don’t care as much as I usually would. I’ve been through hell in the last few weeks and even though I can’t remember much of it, my body feels it. It feels as if I’ve been dropped from a cliff or hit by a truck—which I guess is what really happened—but also more than that. My mind is exhausted; my spirit feels like a fire that has been snuffed out. I’m too tired to care about the Megans of the world or if I’ve crossed the too-intimate line with James.

I just need someone. I need him, I guess.

But he doesn’t text or call back all morning, all afternoon.

Wyatt does, and at first, I’m glad to have someone to talk to. He asks how I am. The only thing I can think to write back is,
okay...you?

I want to keep talking to him, to ask him questions and have a friend who understands what went on in the last few weeks, but when he texts back,
You
already
know
that
, I’m too flustered to reply. Wyatt is going through his own stuff too. Stuff that I don’t understand.

I sigh and turn off my phone for the rest of the day.

Chapter Four

Later that evening, my parents decide they want to take Natalie and me out to dinner.

Apparently, she’s been updated that I have my old memory back but not any memory of what happened over the last few weeks. She says she is both glad and disappointed at the same time. I know that I haven’t been the best sister to her in years but maybe I’d been decent to her in the time I don’t remember. I hope I was, anyway. I should start being better to her now.

When we sit down at the table and the waiter hands us menus, I can feel the now-familiar tension around the table. It’s tangible, like I can reach out and touch it while it’s floating around us. Whether it’s because of what happened months ago or something that might have happened only days ago, there’s no way to know. I must have had a reason to be at a hotel. If the past with my parents is anything to go by, my mom got angry at something I did, shouted at me, and told me to move out. But that doesn’t explain why I had close to a thousand dollars on me or why I wasn’t talking to Chloe. I mean, yeah. I should be mad at her—at all of them for lying—but I can’t stay mad at Chloe. We used to tell each other that we were soul mate kind of friends. Nothing can break that.

“What was I like?” I ask, barely glancing over the menu. I already know what I want. I’ve been here lots of times before. James took me here once and, in a dark corner booth, told me he’d probably propose here one day. Just thinking about that day—the way he kissed the tips of my fingers so gently—sends goose bumps to my every pore. “I mean, was I any different?”

“Nope,” Mom says, laying down her menu. “You were pretty much the same person.” She says this with a touch of bitterness.

“She
was
different!” Natalie adds. “She was nicer. A little, anyway.”

“A little nicer,” Cora echoes. “Hmm.” She takes a sip of her water.

Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “Same as ever, to me, kitten.” He laughs lightly and it warms my heart. I do love my family, even when things are rough. I was such a shit to them.

* * *

That night I dream of Wyatt. Him kissing me and putting his hands on me and tracing his fingers over my collarbone scar. His bare chest and his smile. Are these memories or dreams? They leave me feeling confused but also a little friendlier toward him. Not that I would jump his bones or anything the next time we meet, but enough to open up to him a little.

After a breakfast of egg whites and wheat toast, my parents take me up to the office. I sit down in front of a brand new computer that was delivered that morning to help with the Cub Scout website and Christakos Creatives’ financial stuff. I don’t think Mom understands that Wyatt is supposed to do all of this, but now I feel bad that they splurged on the computer and I have no idea what to do with it. Mom shows me the website I guess I created. She tells me about our fight, about what Papa Joe wanted, but how she’s decided that saving the business would be more important to him than anything. So she’ll do what she has to, even if it is by expanding and modernizing.

The site is friendly and cute. Wyatt did a nice job. Then she shows me the website that Wyatt has been working on for the Scouts and hands me the contract, which states I must update the website weekly to show how the Cub Scouts are being active in the community. But Wyatt seems to have already done that. “Hey,” I say. “If the business is doing so well, maybe you guys can keep paying my tuition.” This comes out of my mouth without thought—like the worst knee-jerk reaction ever—and I know what’s going to happen: Mom volcano time. She’s going to blow up. I have absolutely no right to ask her that. I’m the one who owes them thousands.

Mom sits on the desk, next to my elbow. Instead of her face getting all hard like I’d expected, she’s frowning. “I know you stole the money, Olivia. And got the cards in our name.”

She pauses, waits for me to say something. After the longest minute ever, I nod, finally admitting my theft.

“And you’re going to pay us back.”

I nod again. I kind of already knew that much, but her telling me is like a slap to the face. “Well, I
am
doing work right now, aren’t I?” I point to the computer. “Do I get paid for this? I mean, I am a big part of the reason that you got this contract, right?” Which is kind of another lie. It was my idea, sure, but all of Wyatt’s work.

Mom looks at me like she hasn’t even thought about it.

“So how much money do you get from the Scouts? Will you be able to save the business?”

“A good chunk,” she says, crossing her arms, “but not enough to erase all the mistakes you’ve made.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

She sighs a little, but it isn’t too heavy. “We’ll work together, do what we have to do for the business this summer. I’m going to work you ragged. Then, we pay everything off.”

“Together?”

“Together,” she confirms. “We’ll pay off the credit cards first, then get the ten thousand saved and put back into the safe.”

“You’ll trust me? To be around the business’s money again?”

Her smile is small. “Well, we’ll see how it goes. You have to earn our trust back.”

“Ouch,” I whisper, but know I deserve that.

Mom jumps back in. “Also, UCLA is probably not an option for you anymore. Unless a miracle happens and we win the lottery—which isn’t a possibility since we don’t gamble—or you get a loan or something. You’ll have to start considering other options.”

I suck on my teeth, thinking. I still owe thousands for last semester. Maybe I could sell one of my fancy purses or something to pay for it. It would break my heart to get rid of a Louis Vuitton bag, even if I’d used my parents’ money to buy it in the first place.

Cora shuffles uncomfortably. “I’ll leave you to your work. I’ll bring you up something to eat.”

She leaves the room so my thoughts can bounce around my head spastically. School. Website. Selling fancy purses. Wyatt. It’s too much, so I concentrate on one thing at a time—the website. I read over everything Wyatt has done, feel pretty useless that I can’t add anything, and right when I’m about to click off I see,
Created by Wyatt Rosen and Olivia Christakos
on the bottom of the webpage.

Both names are hyperlinked, so I click on mine first. It’s a static page, with my picture as the background. I don’t remember him taking this picture of me, and it must have been in the last few weeks. The only things on the site are two poems. The first one is short:

One had a lovely face,

And two or three had charm,

But charm and face were in vain

Because the mountain grass

Cannot but keep the form

Where the mountain hare has lain.

—William Butler Yeats

And the other was a bit longer:

So shuts the marigold her leaves

At the departure of the sun;

So from the honeysuckle sheaves

The bee goes when the day is done;

So sits the turtle when she is but one,

And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds kind Nature hath

Made all the summer as one day:

Which once enjoy’d, cold winter’s wrath

As night they sleeping pass away.

Those happy creatures are, that know not yet

The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be

Some that with confidence profess

The helpful Art of Memory:

But could they teach Forgetfulness,

I’d learn; and try what further art could do

To make me love her and forget her too.

—William Browne

I wasn’t about to try to decipher their meaning—I suck at poetry, big time. But the first poem makes me feel nostalgic, though I can’t say why, exactly, and the other makes me sad.

The bottom of this website says,
Created by Wyatt Rosen.
My name, as well as my permission, surely, has been omitted.

After pulling the phone from my pocket, I text Wyatt,
Did
I
know
you
created
a
website
of
me?

Seconds later,
no.

I go back to the Christakos Creatives website and click on his hyperlink. It goes to his website, which is super neat. I look through the posts and pictures for a few minutes and spot a gorgeous picture of him, looking happy and unaware. The caption says:
one my girlfriend took of me when I wasn’t paying attention.
My heart thumps heavily, once. I took this?

While I’m on the computer, I get on the UCLA site, check out the classes that I’d picked for next year and groan: American Sign Language, Sociology, Paradigms Within Us, Banned Books, Math 105, Economy, and Body Works. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. It’s as if I wrote all the offered classes down on slips of paper, placed them into a hat, and picked them out at random while drunk. I don’t know why I would have to be drunk in that scenario for it to work, but it makes it sound worse.

I still have a week for the change schedule/drop out date, so I write down numbers of people I need to talk to about dropping out completely and feel a ball of emotion fly into my throat. I don’t think it’s sadness over dropping, but anxiety about what’s to come next.

Chapter Five

James texts me moments after I log off the computer.

I’m in town. Wanna cum over?

Sort of ignoring the misspelling—did he mean to do that on purpose? Probably—I get an excited chill up my spine. Finally, finally, he replies. Which is good timing, because I have no idea what I’m going to do for the rest of my day and I desperately need to talk to him.

About a half hour later, after ringing the bell at James’s parents’ doorstep, I’m feeling optimistic. Maybe he feels bad that he didn’t come to the hospital after I had my accident. Maybe he couldn’t come into town. I mean, I know we weren’t technically together, but there was a super lot of history there and he couldn’t
not
come.

Maybe he’ll make me a fancy dinner like he used to in high school and we’ll sit and talk about how I’m feeling, how he’s feeling, and he’ll make us official. Finally.

He opens the door after what feels like forever and he’s not wearing a shirt and I have this déjà vu moment of someone else answering the door half-naked, but the memory doesn’t stick and I don’t know who it was. Not that I mind that James is half-naked, but who answers a door with no shirt? His jeans are low-slung on his hips and his hair is a blond rat’s nest. His eyes are heavy and red. I’m guessing he either just woke up or he’s high. Maybe both.

Not like I care. He’s here, in front of me, gesturing for me to come in. When I step inside, I make sure to brush against him. His chest skin is warm and soft on my upper arms and it takes everything I have not to claw his face towards mine and plant one on him.

His smile is wicked cute as he closes the door. His head dips and he’s leaning into me, kissing me. It’s like no time has passed and we never broke up. This kiss tells me he’s still interested; it feels different than our booty calls. And I’m totally into it. I pull his shoulders closer and deepen the kiss. I press the balls of my feet into the ground and lean into him.

“Whoa,” he says, breaking away and pushing me back a little. “Easy there.” He grabs my hand and leads me down the hall.

I peer at the photos of him along the hallway. He’s an only child and his parents idolize him. He’s always talking about how they give him whatever he wants, pay for his schooling, his car, his food, his everything. The pictures prove their adoration: him kneeling next to a soccer ball, on a stage singing, holding a bat, sitting on a training toilet and giving a thumbs up, grasping an award for attendance, kicking a field goal, climbing a ladder to a slide, making a funny face and covered in spaghetti. His pictures cover almost every inch of the wall; he’s the center of attention.

We go to his room, which is super messy and kind of smells of BO. He gestures for me to sit on the bed and sits close next to me. Then he kisses me and I can’t even get a,
So
,
what’s been going on
in, because I’m kissing him back and it’s lovely. I’ve always felt his kisses in my toenails. His hand slides up my shirt and God, it feels good to have his fingers on me, but I also really want to talk to him. Maybe he can’t help it. Hell, I can’t help it. I want him bad. Maybe we can talk after. His hand expertly pulls my pants and panties away from my hips and down my legs. I’m leaning back onto his comforter before I even know it and he unzips his pants. But he doesn’t take them off.

Then I realize—he wants a quickie. He doesn’t even want to get completely naked and I don’t know how I feel about this. But it’s too late and he’s in me and my whole body aches in the best way possible and I close my eyes and just feel him. It’s been so long since I felt something like this.

When I close my eyes, though, it’s not James’s face that comes to mind. It’s Wyatt’s. His soft brown eyes and floppy hair and sad smile. My eyes fly open and I force myself to look at James but he’s staring at some spot on the wall. Before I know it, tears come into my eyes and I push him off. “Wait,” I say, breathless. “Wait a second.”

James pulls out. “Oh. Did you need a condom or something?” His eyes are lazy.

A condom? Um,
YEAH
. Among other things. Everything happened so fast I didn’t have time for a condom, didn’t even have time to think about getting one on. This feeling makes me sick. Good thing I didn’t let him finish in me—I might have a repeat of last time. I touch my fingertips to my stomach, a vat of emotions rolling around inside of me. Guilt. Sadness.

And now, not even thinking about a condom? Stupid. I’m not a big fan of myself right now and even less a fan of him.

James doesn’t bother to cover up or zip up his pants when I step into my panties and pull them back on. I know I should avert my eyes, but I don’t. It’s repulsing the lack of tact he has. I stare at his nakedness and it makes me even angrier. “Why didn’t you come see me in the hospital?” I ask finally. I feel like a silly little girl asking this, like I should never question his actions and I don’t like that.

“Who knows?” James says, an edge to his voice. “Probably because your parents hate me. Or because we aren’t together anymore.”

“Your dick was just in me and you didn’t think I was worth coming to see when I almost died?”

Finally, he zips his pants. He shrugs and looks away.

“Weren’t you worried about me?”

“Nah, you’re a tough girl.”

I pshaw. “That’s not the fucking point. Jesus. I was hit by a truck. I had broken bones! Memory loss! Like you even knew any of that, because you weren’t there. If you cared about me at all, you would have been there.” And, as the words stumble from my mouth, I realize everything. He hasn’t loved me in years.
Years
. “
Do
you care about me?”

“Sure I do. Why would you think I don’t?”

“Um...because of the last few minutes of conversation. You know, you not coming to the hospital and all that. Haven’t you been listening?”

“Not really. I don’t do good with people yelling at me.” He pulls a blue T-shirt from the closet and tugs it over his head. It’s a good thing he’s so good looking, because his head has grown so empty in the last few years. It’s a shame I’m only realizing this now. “You used to be cool,” he says with another shrug. “You like to hang out, drink and have sex. Very little conversation required.”

“You’re making me sound like I was a brainless body that walked around doing your bidding. We have history, James. Years of it. Most of it was really, really good. And you’re just willing to throw that away?” My heart twitches, anticipating what he’s about to say next.

He stretches and scratches the back of his neck, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

I want to scream at him. I want to tell him about the baby I got rid of, how there was a little part of him that was nearly in our world. But I think about this for another second and decide that I don’t want his grubby mind anywhere near the baby’s memory. My eyes fill up, but not for him. Never for him again. For the baby. Even though I still stand by my decision, it doesn’t make it any easier that I had to make that decision for myself.

I turn around before he can see the tears. No way will I give him the pleasure of seeing me this upset. When I walk down the hall and out the front door, James mumbles, “See you around.”

“Not a chance in hell,” I yell back.

* * *

My phone chimes when I get back into my car. Wyatt.

Did you like your website? Or should I take it down?

I don’t respond. Instead, I peel out of James’s neighborhood, trying to see through my tears. I drive past my old high school, where I’d spent more hours thinking about and obsessing over James than anything else. We’d done it on the football field after they won the game one night when everyone cleared out. He’d wanted to do it on the fifty-yard line, but I insisted we do it where he made the final touchdown. The night was crisp and chilly and we’d left our clothes on then, too, but it was different then how it was just now in his room. That night was like we were in on some kind of secret, not trying to slip in a quick one.

I’ve wasted so much of my love, my time, on him. It’s good that I figured it out now instead of later. Before I wasted ten or twenty years.

When I pull up in front of my house, my phone trills again.

From Wyatt:
can
you
come
over
to
talk?

Being in another guy’s house doesn’t strike me as something I really want to do. So I type, feeling a little claustrophobic
.
Meet
at
Lion’s
Park?

I have Charlotte today. Mind if I bring her?

The name rings a tiny bell, but I can’t place it.
Who?

She’s my “Little Buddy. Like the organization.” You might remember me talking about her back in high school.

Oh
,
yeah.
I
think
I
do.
No
problem.
Bring
her
along.
If his “Little Buddy” is going to be around, the conversation might not be too bad. He probably won’t let things get too heated.

Leaving now.

K. Me too.