Vivian's List (Vol. 1)

by Lovell, Haleigh

“A noodle?” I said with a gurgle of laughter.

  “A noodle.” She nodded so hard I feared her head would snap off. “But—” She raised an index finger. “Not an al dente noodle. A limp noodle. I go into a liquefied meltdown. My limbs, my bones, my guts and my muscles turn into mush.”

  Chelsea shook her dark hair out behind her and turned to me with wide, inquiring eyes. “Did you turn into a noodle? After sex with Liam?”

  I fought a losing battle to keep the smile off my face.

  Long seconds passed before she spoke. “Does Brody know about this?”

  “No,” I said at once. “Of course not. He’d flip if he ever found out.”

  “Is that why you did it?” Her eyebrows knitted tightly. “To get back at him?”

  “No.” I gave a firm shake of my head. “I know that’s how it looks, but that’s not it at all.”

  Chelsea hopped to the left, neatly sidestepping a cyclist. “So is Brody still calling you?”

  “He was. Nonstop.” I rolled my tensed shoulders and tried to relax. “But I haven’t heard from him today, though.”

  Her mouth curved into a humorless smile. “But he’s always been that way. A control freak. He’d call to check up on you all the time. Brody never left you alone.”

  “I know, Chels.” I exhaled a clipped sigh. “I know. You’re not the only one telling me that. Liam seems to think Brody is abusive. Not that he’s ever hit me,” I quickly added. “The … um … the other kind of abuse.”

  Without missing a beat, she said, “You mean psychological abuse?”

  I felt her heavy gaze upon me, assessing, weighing.

  Uncertain of my ability to school my features just yet, I chose to look away.

  A whispery breeze teased my hair and I swiped an errant strand from my face. “Something like that.”

  There was a moment of silence during which I thought she would let the matter drop.

  But no.

  Her voice turned grave. “What do you think?”

  I didn’t miss the alteration in her tone. “I think Liam may actually be right.” Saying those words aloud caused my throat to constrict.

  More silence, then Chelsea reached out and lightly touched my arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shrugged.

  Gently, she prompted, “Why don’t you tell me how it all started.”

  I drew a deep breath. “To be honest it all started out harmlessly enough. It was, I think, on our second date … Brody started with the lavish gifts. A Gucci purse and a Gucci headband.”

  “A headband?” Chelsea gaped at me. “Random.”

  I shrugged again. “I thought so, too. I’m not much of a headband kind of girl.”

  “I know.” Chelsea scoffed as if Brody had noodles for brains. “Didn’t the idiot know that headbands give you horrible headaches?”

  I gave a tired laugh. “I guess not. Still I thought it was sweet of Brody to think of me. I was really touched by the gesture. Then he asked me to put it on and I didn’t want to be rude, so I did. I wore it for a couple hours, and the next day he asked me why I wasn’t wearing the headband. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I started wearing the headband,” I explained all in one breath.

  Chelsea frowned as if she didn’t understand. “Even though you didn’t like wearing it? Even though it gave you horrible headaches?”

  “Even so,” I said ruefully. “The next thing I know, he’s buying me maxi dresses and long skirts because he says he loves how they look on me.”

  The look Chelsea gave me was long and pointed. “Slippery slope.”

  “I don’t know.” The air left my lungs. “I guess you could call it that. And pretty soon he didn’t want me working out at the gym, or even running outdoors because he didn’t like me in shorts and tank tops. Before I knew it, I guess I began accepting the unacceptable.” I drew another long breath. “It was so subtle, I’m not so sure I even realized it at first. And I always tried to understand him, you know … look at things from his point of view.”

  Sighing, I stared out at the ocean, watching the white ripple rising and disappearing into the even surface of the water. A child sat playing with seashells on the sandy beach. “Brody always told me how much he loved me. And he was so persistent that I always gave in to him, not wanting to hurt him. But now …” My pulse pounded in my throat and I swallowed hard around it. “Now I realize how much I hurt myself.”

  Chelsea waited for me to continue, and when I didn’t, she tacitly dropped the issue. “Look on the bright side, you’ve got Liam now. Hullo? I’ve always told you to lose the zero and get with the hero.”

  “I’m not dating Liam.” The corner of my lips pulled into an asymmetrical grin. “We’re just having sex.”

  She studied me with raised eyebrows. “What do you mean you’re just having sex?”

  “Well, we haven’t actually had real penetration.” My words were awkward and stilted, and I couldn’t stop fidgeting. “I mean, there was penetration, but not with his, you know …”

  “Not with his noodle,” Chelsea finished.

  “Chels!” I burst out laughing. “What is it with you and noodles?”

  “So.” She regarded me with an impish grin. “Are you gonna let Liam stick his noodle in you?”

  “I don’t know.” I laughed again. “We’re still working our way down the list.”

  “List?” She stared at me with wide-eyes, a hint of interest flickering across her features. “What list?”

  Damn.

  “What list?” Chelsea clung stubbornly to that question and I knew she couldn’t be deterred. “Talk to me.”

  I flashed her a toothy grin. “We’re talking.”

  Folding her arms, she sent me an exaggerated look of reproach.

  “All right,” I conceded. I give in way too easily. “But don’t tell anyone,” I quickly added. “Not even Katie.”

  “I won’t.” Chelsea assured me, and to prove her point she chanted, “Cross my heart, hope to die. Eat a horse manure pie.”

  “Well,” I hesitated. “I kind of have this … this list.”

  With exaggerated courtesy, Chelsea said, “Go onnnnnn. Tell me about this list.”

  “It’s sort of like a bucket list, but not exactly.” I struggled to articulate my words. “It’s more of a … a sexual bucket list.”

  “A sexual bucket list.” Chelsea nodded with understanding, a slight smile working its way onto her face. “I have one of those, too.”

  “You do?” My brows lifted in surprise. “How many items do you have on your list?”

  “Mmm. I think, like fifty,” she said aloud, in obvious deference to the eavesdropping couple walking near us. “How about you?”

  “Fifty? Whoa!” I stifled a giggle. “Mine’s way smaller. Way smaller.”

  “Sooo …” She pursed her lips around the drawn-out word. “What’s on your list?”

  Gathering my wits, I met her patient gaze. “I’ll share my list if you share yours.”

  “How about I share some of the things I’ve already crossed off my list?” Chelsea suggested.

  When I nodded, she launched right into it. “Sex in the shower … it’s one of those things that films better than it feels.”

  I nodded slowly. “How so?”

  “You saw Zero Dark Thirty, right?” Chelsea asked, amusement sparkling in her eyes like sunlight on water.

  “Uh-huh,” I said warily, uncertain where this was going.

  “Remember that waterboarding scene with the terrorist?”

  I nodded again.

  “Listen,” she went on. “When you get into the wrong position in the shower, and with all that water spraying in your face—trust me, you get an idea of what waterboarding might actually feel like. Add to that, you have to deal with shampoo in your eyes and someone’s always freezing their butt off because it’s practically impossible for both of you to be under the shower at once.” She paused. “Not sexy.”

  “Okay.” I gave a sho
rt hiccupping laugh. “I have that on my list, too. What else?”

  “Sex on the beach. Tried it. Didn’t live up to the hype. Let’s face it, you don’t want a sandy taco, do you?”

  “No,” I said, barely able to contain a snicker. “Of course not.”

  “My point exactly.” She paused a moment, tapping her chin absently. “Mmmm. What else? BDSM—it was okay. I’ll put it this way, there’s a fine line between pleasure and pain, and some guys just don’t know how to walk that line … that fine line between sexy-pain and painful-pain.”

  She flinched a little before continuing. “Oh, and anal sex—tried it. Hated it. I know some girls get way into it, but for me it felt like I was pooping in reverse. And it hurt like a bitch and my backdoor was broken for five days and I pooped out cum.”

  “Ewww.” I heaved and pulled a face. “I. Just. Can’t.”

  She turned to me, looking at once innocent and impish. “Can’t what?”

  I restrained a shudder. “Can’t handle what you’re telling me. Now I just want to go home and wash my brain out with soap.”

  “Wait, wait,” she went on. “I’m not done telling you about sex during the Crimson Tide.”

  When I appeared somewhat puzzled, she added, “Elmo Riding the Cotton Pony, Time of the Month, Aunt Flo, whatever you wanna call it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I call it my period.”

  “Listen.” She waited until I met her gaze. “If you don’t mind doing it on your period, and if he doesn’t think it’s gross, just make sure you throw a beach towel over the sheets. Trust me, or else your bed will end up looking like a double homicide scene.”

  “Chels!” I sent her a long-suffering look.

  “All right, all right.” She set her lips in a pout. “I’ll stop now before I give out too much information.”

  “You already did, Chels.” I bit back a laugh. “You already did.”

  It was no surprise really, since this was classic Chelsea. The TMI queen.

  “Okay.” She flashed a quick manic grin and was now looking at me expectantly. “Your turn now.”

  “Don’t laugh at me, okay? Mine’s pretty lame.” After a fraction of a pause, I started rattling off my list. When I’d finished, Chelsea gave me a hearty slap on the back, propelling me forward. “It’s not lame. It’s overwhelmingly lame. But it’s a good start.”

  I shrugged in response. “So what are your plans this summer?”

  “Same as always.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Take a class at the U, do some surfing, work on my tan. What about you? Are you still going to volunteer at the animal shelter?”

  “Yep. I start in two days.” I started to say more but I stopped mid-sentence, my attention temporarily waylaid by a woman wearing six-inch heels with a bathing suit.

  Chelsea and I looked at each other, wearing identical raised eyebrow expressions.

  As soon as the woman was out of earshot, Chelsea whispered, “Who does she think she is? A Kardashian?”

  Bursting into girlish laughter, we collapsed onto the nearest bench.

  For a long while we simply sat and soaked up the rays, people watching. Lunkheads with Ed Hardy shirts, girls in bikinis showing off their tramp stamps, couples playing suck-face and grab-ass.

  A lanky guy walked past us, wearing a red-and-white striped shirt. With his ski hat and hipster glasses, he looked like the Where’s Waldo character, but easily found.

  In the near distance, a young couple caught and held my interest. I found myself watching them as they idly strode down the boardwalk, hand in hand.

  In the pallid glare of the afternoon sun, all I could make out was their silhouetted profile, but there was something about the guy.

  I had this distinct sense I knew who he was.

  They appeared to be intimate. He was whispering something in her ear and she was nuzzling against his chest.

  The sun was behind them and I lifted my hand to shield my face against the glare, narrowing my eyes to get a better look.

  Suddenly my lungs could not pull in enough air and my head grew light.

  My hunch had been right.

  It was Brody.

  And it was strangely surreal, watching him with a new girl so soon.

  Though I was visibly shaken, I realized that I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even jealous.

  And I didn’t hate him. I found it strange that it would take a lot for me to hate him, and yet it took so little to love him. And I knew it’d be a while before I got over him.

  I pulled some air into my burning lungs, feeling a deep sense of pain and heartbreaking sadness.

  Brody had come into my life after my parents’ passing. Julian and Liam had left to join the army, and I was in such a fragile state and in a pretty bad place. But Brody was there for me every step of the way. Completely.

  At the same time, Brody was also the person who hurt me. He made me so happy, and yet at the same time he made me so sad.

  It was so unfathomable, so incomprehensible that I couldn’t even begin to explain it to myself, let alone Chelsea.

  I’d kept on overlooking his flaws, blocking out the hurt, blocking out the pain, doubting myself because it seemed less painful than accepting the reality of the situation … recognizing Brody for what he was—an abuser.

  Now I found myself dealing with this loss, and grieving this loss.

  The loss of an illusion.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I had been staring at Brody for a long while.

  I looked away with determination, watching the waves surge against the shore like some fickle lover, hurrying up to steal a kiss, and then slipping away.

  Surge.

  Then fade away.

  Surge.

  Fade away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Liam

  I twisted my body and glanced at the alarm clock. It was almost noon.

  As I eased back against the pillow, my first thought was of Vivian.

  How was she? Would she hate me today?

  A familiar sense of concern filled me. But comingled with the concern was an even more foreign emotion. I stared at the ceiling, searching for a word for that emotion.

  It almost felt like excitement. Yes, that was it.

  My mind was abuzz with excitement and possibility. I was anxious to talk to her. Anxious to make her smile. To make her laugh.

  I took a mental step back to examine my own feelings. If I was being honest with myself, my own feelings for Viv began well before we even had sex.

  While she was my friend first, before all else, I’d always been drawn to her, always felt more than a physical pull … like a magnetic force field.

  A force far stronger than my own mind or my own will.

  And I was still drawn to Viv. Emotionally and now physically, too.

  I couldn’t deny it. There was something between us.

  The sexual attraction sizzled, and the emotional connection was there, too.

  Perhaps it was there all along, and I’d been too stupid to recognize it.

  Or perhaps I’d been too busy fighting it.

  Skyping with my mom last night had helped calm my fraying nerves. She helped me see things a little differently, and give me another perspective on things.

  Despite Vivian’s resilient front, I now saw past the bravado.

  She was on shaky emotional ground and it certainly wouldn’t help if I pulled away from her now. By being intimate with her, by showing her how much she was cared for and loved just for herself, and by making her feel at peace, defenses unnecessary … perhaps Viv would see that love wasn’t something to fear, rather something to cherish.

  But what about Julian? A small voice in my head asked. You’re hooking up with his little sister.

  Best Case Scenario: Julian would eventually get over it once he came to realize that I’d never hurt Viv.

  Worst Case Scenario: Julian would beat the shit out of me and I’d lose the one true friend I had.

  The sound of
front door banging shut broke into my thoughts.

  I slipped out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans and strode out in search of her.

  I found Viv in the kitchen, busying herself with the blender and some ice.

  Her hair had started to loosen from her ponytail, and soft tendrils framed her angelic face.

  My gaze dropped to take in her frayed denim shorts that were hugging her hips and showing off her rounded curves and long, slender legs.

  An image from our night together flashed before my eyes. My hands, like a vise, clamping around her hips.

  I shook my head and drew in a deep steadying breath, trying to dispel that image.

  “Hi,” I said, coming to stand next to her.

  “Hi.” Her voice was strained. She was pouring a cup of black coffee into the blender, her movements jerky—with nerves or anger, I was not certain.

  I studied her in silence, trying to work out how she was feeling. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” she said too cheerfully as she added some milk to the blender.

  She surely didn’t appear to be fine.

  Physically she might have been present, but emotionally she seemed miles away.

  Was she upset about last night? Did she regret it?

  “Viv,” I said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I think we should talk.”

  “About what?” She walked to the fridge, retrieved a can of whipped cream and slammed the fridge with deliberate force.

  “About last night.” My voice was uncertain, with none of the self-assurance I usually felt. “Do you regret it?”

  “No.” She glanced up at me, the blush along her cheekbones turning rosier. “I don’t.”

  In the awkward silence, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m making a Frappuccino,” she said suddenly. “Would you like some? Are you hungry? I can fix you a sandwich.”

  “Viv,” I said gently in an attempt to stop her nervous ramblings. “Look at me.”

  Taking a deep breath, she set the canister of whipped cream on the island top, then lifted her gaze.

  I took a step closer, my hand coming up to caress her cheek. “You don’t have to feel embarrassed or shy around me, okay? I’m still the same Liam.”