by Unknown
My body succumbed to his every move, building on itself, until all I could feel was my need and his movement, spiraling together, one then the other, so unbelievably right, and then once I could take no more, an explosion rocked through my body, every nerve ending sparking with satisfaction.
Preston lay beside me and pulled me to him, tucking my head under his chin. He was completely naked and I still had on my gown, but he didn’t seem to mind. He understood why. He understood me.
He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Thank you.”
I smiled. “For what?”
“For taking a chance on me. For being you.”
I snuggled into him, wishing I could sleep right there, wrapped in his arms. “Thank you for being worth it. For being you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Rose Campbell.”
“Rose, it’s Olive.” I covered my cell phone with my hand and walked farther out onto the dock.
Preston and I had stayed curled up for another half hour after we’d had sex, before I reluctantly made my way back to my room with Kara. I spent most of the night tossing and turning, unable to get warm without him beside me, and then finally, the sun peeked through the blinds and I eased out of bed, put on my clothes, and walked down to the dock, my cell phone in hand.
“Olive, it’s Thanksgiving day. What exactly are you doing phoning me?”
I glanced back at the house. “I had to talk to someone, and, well, you’re my someone.”
“I’d say I was flattered if I didn’t think it was terribly unhealthy of you.”
I sighed. “Are you going to lecture me or can I talk here? I don’t have all day.”
I heard the sound of Rose lighting a cigarette on the other end. “By all means, go.”
“Okay, so I slept with Preston last night,” I whispered, glancing around again to make sure no one had snuck out of the house without my seeing.
Silence.
“Rose, did you hear me?”
“Of course I heard you. I’m old, not deaf. Were you done speaking or am I allowed to respond?”
I rolled my eyes. Clearly, holidays were not the best time to call her. “I’m waiting.”
“Have you opened the box since you left?”
“No, but—”
“Have you talked about the fire with Preston?”
“No, but he—”
“Then, I have nothing to say.”
“Rose!”
“I’ve changed my mind. I have one thing to say. At least you showed him your scars. I can accept that as a positive step.”
“Well, I . . .”
Rose took a draw of her cigarette. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I . . .”
“Olive, I expect you in my office tomorrow. Nine a.m. Bring the box.” And then the line went dead.
I sighed heavily as I sat down on the dock and dropped the phone in my lap, torn between anger at Rose and anger at myself. I placed my head in my hands and closed my eyes, trying to figure out how I had managed to screw up our first time together. Why couldn’t I just trust him to see me, really see me, without walking away?
I felt the presence of someone behind me and peered around to see Preston holding a coffee cup extended in my direction. I smiled. “Hey.”
He seemed more uncertain. “Hey. You look . . . I don’t know. Not the way I’d hoped to find you this morning.”
I stood up and took the cup in my hand, glancing down at the caramel liquid. I took a sip and felt the warmth of the coffee and the gesture wash over me. “It’s perfect. How did you know how I take it?”
“I pay attention.”
My gaze returned to the cup. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t, you know, be as open last night as you were.”
His eyebrows threaded together. “What?”
“The clothes thing. I couldn’t . . . well, you know.”
Preston took my cup and set it down on the dock, then he pulled me to him and wrapped his arms tightly around me. “It was perfect. I understand, and I know when you’re ready, you’ll show me.”
“Tell Rose that. She just went off on me.”
He smirked. “So, let me get this straight. You called your therapist to tell her we had sex last night?”
“I—no. Of course not.” Crap.
Preston laughed. “Promise me something.”
“Okay?”
He leaned down and kissed my lips, then my cheek, before resting his forehead against mine. “If and when you get tired of me, let me try before you go. Give me a chance to convince you to stay.”
I pressed my lips to his, soaking in the emotions of the moment. I had never felt this way about anyone. The possibility of me leaving him, even the thought, made my insides ache. “I promise. But I’m not going anywhere.”
“I hope not.”
***
Thanksgiving lunch came quickly, and then we were all around the table again, our eyes closed as Mr. Riggs gave the blessing and then Mrs. Riggs asked us to offer our thanks. I felt my cheeks blush as everyone’s eyes fell on me, waiting to hear what I was thankful for. I peered around the table, thinking that I was thankful for that moment, but I didn’t want to sound cheesy. I turned my attention to Kara across from me. “I’m thankful for Kara and Preston. I couldn’t have asked for better friends. I love you both.” As soon as the words slipped out, I realized the double meaning in them, the deeper meaning. I wasn’t sure that I loved Preston in that way yet, though I knew I felt stronger feelings for him than I had ever felt for anyone.
Mrs. Riggs beamed back at me and I felt my already hot cheeks grow warmer. I refused to look at Preston, even as he began to give his thanks.
“I’m thankful for family,” he said, and then his eyes drifted to me. “And for beginnings.”
We piled up in Preston’s truck shortly after dessert, Kara again in the front seat at my insistence. I didn’t want her thinking that I was taking her place. I wasn’t. I wouldn’t let that happen.
Mrs. Riggs hugged me as I left. “Now, I expect to see you back soon.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I would like that.”
Preston pulled up to the house of one of Kara’s high school friends a few minutes later to drop her for the remainder of Thanksgiving weekend.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me?” she asked as she grabbed her bag.
I shook my head. “I have a session with Rose first thing tomorrow.”
She gave me a hug and waved to Preston, and then we were alone in the truck. For three hours. Just me and him. My insides heated at the thought. I imagined him alone in his apartment, me in my dorm. I wanted to ask him if he wanted to stay with me, but I didn’t know what he had planned or why he insisted on coming back instead of staying with his family.
We arrived at Liberty faster than expected, the conversation flowing smoothly the entire trip, and I hesitated in the truck, not wanting to leave him. It was a strange feeling after spending months begging everyone I knew to let me be alone. I unbuckled my seat belt and glanced over. “Well, I guess I’ll call you later?”
He studied me. “Or . . .”
“Or what?” I asked.
“Or you could stay with me tonight. I can drive you to Rose’s in the morning. If you want.” He acted as though the offer was no big deal. Simple. But there was nothing simple about it. Not with the way I felt about him.
I contemplated. I needed to try to look through the box today. I knew Rose would force it tomorrow, and I needed to be ready, but the look on Preston’s face, full of every bit of the longing I felt inside, had me shutting the door. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude if you have plans.”
His eyes leveled on me. “I’m sure. Stay with me.”
A short drive later, we were at Preston’s apartment, my nerves awake and aware and qu
estioning my sanity. It wasn’t that Preston made me nervous. It was that the feelings he conjured made me nervous, like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains, deciding whether to protect myself and back away or close my eyes and jump.
We made our way inside his apartment, and I set down my overnight bag on his sofa and reached for the lamp on his end table. It was nearing nine now, and I was tired because I’d barely slept last night, yet I knew I wouldn’t sleep tonight. Last night felt more urgent; this was planned, slower. I had plenty of time to doubt myself and my decisions.
“Are you hungry?” Preston asked. “I can make us something.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You cook?”
His mouth quirked up on one side. “I like to think of myself as multitalented.”
“Okay, let’s see you perform then, chef.” I slid onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter as he took out a few pans from the cabinets and ingredients from his refrigerator. He began chopping and sautéing, and before long the apartment smelled just like Gia’s, a family-owned Italian restaurant back home.
He passed me a salad with homemade vinaigrette dressing. “Do you want something to drink? I have water or beer.”
I started to answer when we heard a knock at the door. Preston wiped his hands on a dishcloth, his eyebrow cocked. “Be right back.”
I heard the door open and then a female voice, though I couldn’t make out the exact conversation. My stomach dropped at the sound of her voice, and questions circled through my mind. Ridiculous questions. The sort of questions Kara asked about Ethan all the time. They talked for another minute, and then he shut the door and returned to the kitchen. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“That was a neighbor.”
“All right.”
He watched me. “Aren’t you going to ask something?”
“When are we eating? That smell is slowly killing my stomach.”
He grinned and walked around the bar to where I sat. “No questions about the girl, then?”
“It’s not my business.”
“It’s every bit your business, but this nonchalance is making me want to forget dinner.” He bent down and kissed my neck. “I’ve never met a girl who didn’t care about other girls.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t care. We agreed to no definitions. So, I’m keeping my jealous mouth shut.”
He grinned. “Jealous, huh?” He leaned in until his lips brushed mine. “You have no reason to be jealous.” He placed his hands on either side of me against the counter, his body moving in as he ran his lips over my cheek and down my neck. “Hmm, I’m going to have to stop before I burn dinner.” He smiled at me as he walked back around to the kitchen. He began stirring the sauce, his back to me. “So, I noticed the box sticking out of your bag.”
I glanced over. I hadn’t realized it had jutted out of the open zipper. “Oh.”
“I thought maybe . . . if you want . . . we could talk about it.”
I looked away. I didn’t want to talk about it. What I wanted to do was walk over to that bag and zip it up, hiding the box and everything it represented.
“Have you looked inside it yet?”
I fidgeted with the single silver band on my right hand, the beaded bracelet on my left, doing anything I could to keep from looking up.
“You haven’t, have you?”
I released a slow breath. He told me about the abortion. He confided in me the one thing that had hurt him the most. He deserved to see me try, which was what Rose meant this morning with the clothes. She knew that because I’d stayed clothed during sex, I was only giving him a piece of me, not all of me. I’d never given him all of me. And Preston deserved more than a piece.
“Rose had me open it a few weeks ago. It’s filled with photos, I think. I don’t know, I’ve only seen one.”
Preston turned to face me. “Who was the photo of?”
I kept my chin up even though I wanted to duck down and disappear from this line of questioning. “Claire. She was one of my best friends.”
“Was?”
“She died.”
He nodded. “Right, sorry. You mentioned her on the pier.”
I shook my head, feeling my emotions come alive. Pain. And sorrow. And guilt. Always the guilt. “No . . . that was Trisha. I was talking about Trisha on the pier. Trisha was my best friend. My real best friend. The one who knew everything, who loved me even when I was at my worst. She . . .” I trailed off, realizing that my voice had begun to crack and my hands had begun to shake.
Preston set down the serving bowl he held in his hand, but he didn’t come for me. He knew me too well to come. He knew I liked distance when I felt weak. “You lost both your best friends. I can’t even imagine.” I instinctively rubbed my left arm and his eyes snapped over. “Damn . . . you were with them when it happened, weren’t you?”
My bottom lip wobbled, betraying me, but I wouldn’t let myself look away. “Yes.” I kept my gaze on him, my eyes filling with tears, my entire body shaking so violently that my teeth were now chattering as though I were out in the cold. Preston was to me in two quick strides, sweeping me into his arms and cradling me in his lap on the sofa.
“I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” He stroked my hair while I cried, first tears of sadness then of anger. I couldn’t talk about them without crying. It had been six months, and I couldn’t even talk about them. I felt weak. Rose was right. I wasn’t moving forward. I was standing still, watching as life’s carousel went around and around, but I was unwilling to get on.
I pushed myself up to sitting and dragged the heels of my hands over my eyes. “Will you do something for me?”
Preston ran his fingers over my back. “Anything.”
The decision was made before I’d stood. I could do this. I was strong. I gripped his hand and tugged it toward me, beckoning him to come with me. He followed my lead into his bedroom and opened his mouth to say something, but I stopped him with my hand. “I need to do this.”
I closed the blinds and clicked on the lamp on his nightstand. I couldn’t do this in full lighting. I swallowed once more and then hit the main light switch.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
I stopped in front of him and drew a long breath. “I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down.” And then I gripped the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head, leaving me standing in front of him in only jeans and a pink bra and a body wrecked with scars. Some were light and flat, almost imperceptible, but those were never the ones that I consciously worked to cover, that made me cry like a child every time I had to throw away a favorite shirt that revealed their horror. I shrugged a little, refusing to cry. “This is me. The real me.” I lowered my eyes and began to tell him the story that destroyed my life, only this time I felt separated from it—the story, the fire—instead of consumed by it. “Just before graduation, I went to a party. The final party before we all said goodbye. All of my friends were there. Everyone that meant anything to me, outside of my family, was there. And then a fire started in the house, and just like that, they were all gone.” My lip shook as I said the last word, and Preston reached for my hand.
“So, Claire and Trisha, your best friends . . . ?” he asked.
I nodded. “They both died in the fire.”
“And your scars . . . ?”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t really remember much. I’m told that I was burned badly in my effort to escape from the house. I remember the smoke and the feel of my clothes and flesh burning, but . . .” I swallowed again, refusing to look at him as I finished. “I was high, so I don’t really . . . it was . . .” Tears collected in my eyes, and I shook my head. “Anyway, that’s my story. That’s what happened to make me look like this.” I held out my arm and then dropped it back lifelessly to my side, my gaze lifting to his, s
earching for the disgust I knew he must feel.
Preston took a step toward me, his eyes on mine, and then they fell to the waistband of my jeans, his eyebrows threading together. He hooked a finger inside the waistband and tugged it down to reveal the entire crescent moon tattoo I had inked when I turned eighteen. Trisha had chosen a dragonfly for hers. Claire, a flower. Preston’s gaze lifted to mine. “That’s just . . .”
“What?”
He pulled off his shirt and spun around, and immediately, my eyes locked on his back. I gasped. “Is that . . . ?” Positioned in the top center, between his shoulder blades, was a Celtic moon. I traced the deep black lines with my fingers. It was intricate, emotional. Beautiful. “Your tattoo is a moon.”
He turned. “Just like yours.”
“That’s . . .”
“I know,” he whispered, his hands trailing down my arms to my hands. “I don’t care about your scars. You’re perfect. This”—he ran his hand back to my left biceps, gently tracing the red and purple deformed flesh—“changes nothing for me. I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. The fire. Losing your friends. The pain of it all. But you can trust me not to run.”
I lifted my head, my eyes burning with emotion. “You have a moon.” I couldn’t get past the irony. Preston’s only tattoo was of a crescent moon, just like mine. That had to mean something.
He unbuttoned my pants and slid down the zipper, opening them up to get a better view of my tattoo. It was simple, only a black outline, nothing as elaborate as his, but I loved it. Maybe because it was the first thing I ever did without my parents’ permission. Or maybe because it was the last thing Trisha and I did together before the fire. Before she was gone, and I was the mess I had become.