“Please keep going,” I say in a voice that’s not mine. My legs are quivering, and he hasn’t even really touched me where I need him to. Oliver moves his head back and pulls my face into the moonlight coming through the window. He searches my face, and I nod frantically as he smiles.
“If I do this, are we still on a friends date?” he asks. The fact that he can make jokes when I feel like I’m falling apart is a little infuriating, so instead of answering, I grab his hands and push them down so that he gets the hint. Oliver shakes his head. “Is this still a friends date?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, rather loudly, my impatience beginning to get the best of me. “I don’t care. Just touch me!”
He grins and moves a hand into my panties, his moan matching mine when he finds how wet I am already. “You’re hazardous to my health. You know that?”
“It’s a good thing you’re a doctor then,” I whimper when he plunges his finger inside me. He does a little hook with it that makes my eyes roll back.
“You like that?” he asks against my neck. He increases his tempo when I nod against him.
My hands move from his shoulders down his chest and into his boxers. Before he has a chance to say anything, I close my hand over his length and squeeze.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Estelle,” he groans, shifting his weight to give me better access.
“You’re so hard,” I whisper, leaning forward to kiss him again.
“You’re so wet,” he says against my lips.
“You’re so big,” I say. I had forgotten how he looked, how he felt. He chuckles breathlessly, as I continue to move my hand to match the rhythm he’s making with his.
“You’re so tight,” he groans, his thumb circling over my clit as he moves his other fingers inside me.
“I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . .” I pant just before my vision becomes bright lights. I keep moving my hand over him until he’s grunting, and I feel hot liquid over my hand.
We sit there for a moment, wordlessly, only the sounds of our heavy breaths audible in the room. Finally, he drops a kiss on my forehead and gets up to go clean himself. I don’t know if he expects me to follow, but as I look at his broad shoulders walking out of the room, I can’t help but wonder if that was a mistake. He brings back a wet towel and wipes my hands thoroughly, and when he comes back again, he takes the place he had before.
Neither of us says a word as we settle down again, his arms around me as I lay in the little cocoon that might as well have been carved out and made for my body to fit in.
“I like you in my arms,” he says, finally, his breath against my ear.
My eyes close. “I do too.” Too much. Way too much.
“We broke a lot of your rules today.”
“We did. Too many of them,” I say, smiling into the darkness.
“When do we go on our next friends date?”
“You’re sleeping in my bed tonight,” I remind him.
“You wore red lipstick.”
I laugh. “You and the stupid lipstick.”
“I’m just saying—a woman only wears that color on dates when she wants to get laid.”
I shake my head, laughing, and he laughs along, holding me tighter. We’re quiet for a while, and I think maybe he’s fallen asleep. I feel myself relax, and sleep begins to drag me under again. When I wake up the next day, to the sun blasting in my face, I realize I’m alone in bed. A sense of sadness threatens to wash over me, but I push it aside. This was my own doing. I asked for it. I pushed him for it. Those thoughts don’t alleviate the pain I feel though. I close my eyes again and exhale. When I open them back up, I spot Wyatt’s discarded shirt, thrown in a corner like some washed up memory, and suddenly I get even sadder. He may not have been the perfect man, and we may have had a lot of differences, but Wyatt never made me feel like I wasn’t special to him. He never walked out after sex without giving me a kiss or telling me how lovely I was. He would have never, ever just left me alone in bed without acknowledging that we shared something special.
Tears brim in my eyes as I stagger to the closet and pick up the shirt. I hug it to me, asking it for forgiveness, because that was a total dick move on my part. Then I start crying because I’m talking to a shirt while wearing another man’s shirt. A man I let touch me, a man that once again left me without a goodbye. The door opens suddenly, and I look up just in time to see Oliver walk in. The smile on his face instantly drops when he takes me in—the crying face . . . me clutching my dead fiancé’s shirt for dear life . . .
“I thought you left,” I say in a hoarse whisper.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak . . . just stares for a moment longer. Finally, he walks over to me and wraps his arms around my head, pulling me into his hard chest.
“I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye,” he says against my hair. I think of all the times he did . . . all the times we did . . . and wonder if this time it’ll be different. “I had a great night.”
“I did too,” I whisper against him.
He drops a kiss on my head. “I don’t want to mess this up, Elle. So I’m going to give you some space, okay? Not because I don’t want you . . . not because I don’t think last night was incredible . . . but because I don’t want to push you.” He tilts my face to look at him, and my heart lodges in my throat as I wait for those green eyes to spear through me. “I want this to happen.”
“Okay” is all I get to whisper before he drops his hand and walks out the door. I’m not sure what to do with any of that. I don’t know what “that” is. All I know is that I’m scared to want him as much as I do. I’m terrified that I’ll get burned again.
A couple of days later, I wake up and throw on the navy scrubs Nurse Gemma gave me on a day that painting got extra messy. When I show up at the hospital, I see her at the nurses’ station, and she laughs.
“You here to offer back up?” she asks.
“Not unless you want the malpractice lawsuits to start pouring in.”
“Never give Estelle anything with a needle. Noted.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll be quick today. I just want to make sure it looks perfect.”
“Last day,” she says, smiling. “I won’t lie; I’m going to miss having that Micah guy around.”
“Well, there’s always the maternity wing.”
“Nooooo! Don’t send him over there! I have to stake my claim over him first!”
After talking a little longer, I finally make it to the room we’ve been working on, and pull the blinds open to check on the progress of the drying paint. I smile at the beauty of what we created and select a small brush to touch up the clouds that are missing some color.
“I heard you were in here,” Oliver says behind me, almost making me paint outside of the lines.
“Never sneak up on a person holding a paint brush.”
He chuckles. “Sorry. You want help?”
I stop moving the brush and shoot him a frown over my shoulder, which makes him shrug.
“I can fill in.”
“Grab a brush. The clouds need another coat.”
He does as I ask and stands beside me. I look over at the cloud he’s painting and move on to the next one, which is a couple of steps further away.
“You look great in scrubs, by the way.”
I try not to smile and fail. “Thanks.”
“You would make a good nurse,” he adds.
I stop painting and turn to him with a raised eyebrow. “But not a good doctor?”
“Entertaining that question would mean that I’m saying doctors are more important than nurses, and they’re not. If anything it’s the other way around . . . either way, I’m not going there. I will say, though, that you would be good at any profession where you deal with people.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if this painting thing doesn’t work out,” I say with a smile.
“Meaning never?” he responds with a chuckle as he moves to the next cloud, on the oppo
site side of the room. “What do you think you would be if art didn’t exist?”
“Dead.”
Oliver lowers his paintbrush and looks at me. “Don’t ever say that.”
Somehow, with one look, he makes me feel the intensity in his words.
“Okay, fine, probably a teacher or a school counselor.”
He nods and goes back to painting. “For the record, I think what you do for a living is perfect. This whole project is really incredible.”
“Just doing what I can.” I shrug.
“Why are you doing it?” he asks, walking toward me. “I know how much you love working with kids, so I knew coming here and painting with them would be something you would like . . . but this? This is a lot, Elle.”
I turn away from his gaze—back to the cloud in front of me—and look at the wall as I answer. “It sucks to be having a bad day and have to get up in the morning and go about your business because it’s expected. Imagine having an illness and having no choice but to come here and be stuck looking at the same four ugly walls, every single day. It makes all of my bad days seem so stupid when I hear these kids talk about what they’re dealing with, and they don’t even complain about any of it,” I say, letting out a breath as I drop my hand and turn to face him. My heart skips a beat at what I find in his eyes. I walk to him and brush my fingers under his left eye. “You look so tired.”
“This is what twenty hours straight looks like, but it’s like you said, they don’t complain, and that gives me no reason to complain either,” he says.
I drop my hand and rock back in my heels, still looking at him. “You’re a good man, Oliver Hart.”
His lips curve into a smile, and I watch his hand come up. I brace myself for his touch, but he drops his hand before it reaches my face. “You’re a great woman, Estelle Reuben.”
“Art is pretty selfish. I create things for myself and hope others like it, but it’s not like I’m thinking about the greater good when I make anything. What you do, on the other hand, is completely selfless.”
His green eyes twinkle. “That’s where you’re wrong. This job may seem selfless, but helping those kids makes me feel like I’m leaving my footprint. When I help them leave in a healthier state than when they got here, that’s . . .” He sighs, looking away for a moment. When his eyes meet mine again, he looks completely happy. “It’s everything. It makes me feel like I matter.”
“You do matter,” I say with a smile.
“So do you. You think art is selfish, but I think it’s pretty giving. I can’t do this.” He waves his hands around the room. “I spend sleepless nights and endless days in here making sure these kids are getting better, but aside from the days that I announce that they can go home, I won’t put a smile on their face like this will.”
His words make my heart soar. I turn back to the wall and finish the cloud I’m working on before walking back to the supplies and dropping my brush there. Oliver has a way of making even the smallest things you do, seem like they’re making a worldly difference. It’s part of his charm, I guess.
We say goodbye, teetering on unchartered territory. I’ve never gotten one hundred percent of Oliver. As far as I know, only his job gets that. In the past, we’ve been friends . . . and then more than friends . . . but this feels like something else. I’m scared to let go and get more than what I bargained for. I’m also scared that I won’t.
Past
I COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time I’d cried, if ever, but when I went to visit my dad in the hospital and saw the way half of his body was slouched, that’s exactly what I felt like doing. He may not have been an ideal father to us, but he was always larger than life. Between seeing him all crumpled up, trying to ace all of my finals, and my job as an undergrad student helper—which consisted of everything from tutoring to helping them pick their classes—I was stressed.
This particular morning, I’d settled myself into a corner table in the coffee shop by my mom’s house, and was working on a Quantum Physics paper and trying to keep my mind off my dad’s condition, when Estelle sat down in front of me. I looked up in time to see her cross her legs and smile at me as she closed her mouth over the straw of the cup she’d been holding.
“What are you doing in this neck of the woods?” she asked.
I let out a deep breath and put my pen down. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of weeks. The last time we’d hung out was in a crowded Chili’s. I’d gone with Victor and took a girl with me because I had no idea Estelle would be there. She hadn’t acted like she cared. She’d been talking to Mia and Jenson most of the time, but it had felt awkward to me, having her there after we’d kissed so many times . . . after I wanted more all of those times . . . and there I was with someone else. I felt relieved seeing her now, and having her talk to me as if everything was totally okay, which was something I’d feared wouldn’t happen after that night.
“You cut your hair,” I said after a beat.
“Only the front, and I’m already regretting that decision.” She brushed the long bangs out of her face.
“It looks good on you.”
“Are you meeting someone here?” she asked, looking around. She looked hesitant suddenly. I smiled, wondering if she meant the girl from Chili’s.
“Would it bother you if I was?”
Her eyes widened before her face settled into a small, thoughtful frown. “Not really.”
“Are you meeting someone here?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t. Why? I didn’t know. She was free to date whomever she wanted, but that didn’t mean I wanted to witness any of it. Her mouth turned up slowly as if she could read my thoughts. I was starting to think she could.
“Nope. I just left a terrible date.”
“Why was it terrible?” I asked, leaning in a little closer, both of my elbows on the table, as hers were.
“He talked about himself the entire time. Total jock move. All the girls want him, all the guys want to be him,” she said, mimicking a guy’s voice as she rolled her eyes. I laughed.
“That sounds pretty terrible. Why would you even give a jock the time of day?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I can think of one jock I like . . . but he’s sooo nerdy,” she said, her eyes dancing in so much amusement that I had to chuckle.
“Tell me more about this nerdy jock.”
“Well,” she started, dropping her gaze. She started using the condensation from her iced coffee to draw circles on the table as she spoke. “He’s really good looking, if you like tanned surfer dudes with long hair . . . and ridiculous dimples . . .” She looked up at me and smiled shyly in a way that made my heart stop. “He’s a really good guy, but rumor has it he’s not much into relationships.”
“It doesn’t sound like he’s good for you. You can’t base a relationship on hard abs and dimples.”
She grinned. “I didn’t say anything about hard abs.”
I shrugged. “I put two and two together. What else do you like about this nerdy jock?”
“I like how smart he is. I like the way he makes me feel when he talks to me . . . when he looks at me . . .” A blush spread over her cheeks. “When he kisses me.”
I tried to ignore the hammering in my chest. “You think pretty highly of a guy who’s not into relationships . . .”
“We all have our downfalls, and that just happens to be his,” she said, shrugging as she looked away.
“What if he was into relationships?” I don’t even know why I asked. It didn’t matter. Not only was I not into relationships, I was totally against them.
Her gaze cut to mine again. “I have it on good authority that he’s not.”
I nodded sharply and exhaled, looking away.
“Did I upset you?” she asked, her words bringing my eyes back to hers.
“No. Why?”
“You look . . . I don’t know . . . you’re acting weird.”
“I’m . . .” I ran my hands over my face. I wasn’t planning on telling her or anybody abou
t this, but the way she looked at me with those beautiful, nurturing eyes made me want to lay it all out there for her. “My dad’s in the hospital.”
She gasped and reached for my hands. I let her take them. Hers were small and cold, but her touch warmed through me. “Again? Is he going to be okay?”
I let out a short laugh. “He had another stroke. He should be fine if he takes care of himself this time. He’s so stubborn though. He won’t quit smoking. He won’t diet or exercise. It makes me crazy.” Estelle squeezed my hands and gave me a small smile.
“He’s going to be fine. I have faith that he’ll change.”
Her words made me smile. She’d only met him once. She had no idea what he was like.
“Do you think people can change?”
Her eyes flickered between mine. She moved forward until half of her torso was over the table, closer to me. I wanted to take my hands out of hers and pull her face to mine. I wanted to kiss her and get lost in the feel of it, the way I always did. Her face stopped centimeters from mine.
“I know they can. They just have to want to,” she whispered in a breath against me.
“You have a lot of faith in people.”
She backed away, leaning back into her seat. She smiled, wide and confident, as she picked up her cup and put her lips around the straw again. “I sure do.”
You make me want to change, I didn’t say. You make me believe that I can.
The next day, at the same time, we ran into each other there again, and the following day one more time. We sat down, talked, made each other laugh, and went our separate ways after. She made me smile on days that laughter seemed impossible. She made me see hope in things I didn’t know existed. That was when she truly became my Estelle. She just didn’t know it. Hell, neither did I.
Present
A WEEK LATER, my painting team is done with the rooms and the hallway. We’ve turned an ocean into a field filled with flowers and kids playing. Everyone has been working around the clock to make sure we meet the deadline, so needless to say, when we’re finally done, we all cheer loudly about it. We walk out of there, with our arms linked to one another’s, fighting the urge to close our eyes in exhaustion.
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