by Unknown
I looked down at my notes and then at the time. I needed some sleep. I sluggishly pulled my legs off his lap and dropped my notebook into my bag. “I’m too tired to go back to the dorm. What time is your exam tomorrow?”
“After yours, but I can drive you in tomorrow. I don’t mind.”
“I didn’t bring a change of clothes or pajamas or anything.”
“I’ll drop you at Liberty at eight so you have time to get ready before the test. And you can sleep in something of mine. Or better yet, nothing at all.” He grinned. “I won’t complain.”
I returned the grin. “Is that right?”
He started toward me. “Oh yeah.” He placed his hands on my hips and pulled me to him, fixing his mouth over mine. Suddenly, I was completely awake.
I pushed my fingers into his hair, tugging him closer.
“I think it’s time for bed,” he said, his eyes burning with need. In one motion, he lowered his mouth back to mine and lifted me up, my legs straddling around him as he walked us into his room. We took our time undressing each other and then we were under the covers, skin to skin, with nothing in between us. Preston gently kissed my lips and then my neck, and everything about the moment was slower and purer. I wondered if this was what making love felt like. No unrestrained passion, just simple emotions, simple touches, simple kisses. Everything was on the table. And I knew as soon as I slid on top of him and peered into his eyes that there was no turning back. My every heartbeat and breath and thought belonged to him. He tore open a condom, rolled it on, and then slipped inside me. We began to move, our eyes locked, our bodies linked together as one. I felt vulnerable in every way. We had yet to say those three small words, but they were there with us, swirling in the air, reminding us that we were forever bound to one another. Love had that power. You could move on, you could love again, but you would never forget. The heart was too impressionable to forget.
I closed my eyes as we finished and laid on him, tucking my arms in close so I was blanketed in him. His arms. His chest. His neck.
We didn’t say a word. We didn’t have to. The words were already there.
***
The next day I shuffled into poetry like a zombie from being up all night. I had survived my morning exams and now this one was the only final I had left. Lauren decided to make the final a two-part exam. For the first part, we had to hand in an essay on a poem of our choosing that we’d been working on for the past two weeks. The second part was an oral exam held during the testing period, involving the entire class. Lauren was going to read some of her favorite poems she’d read during the semester and we would discuss them openly. Grading would be based on participation and the way that we supported our individual interpretation.
I sat down beside Taylor, who smiled widely, like the sun had risen just for him. “Clearly someone missed her coffee cup this morning,” he said.
“Funny. Very.”
The grin spread. “What did you choose for your essay?”
“ ‘The Severing’ by Leonie Adams. What about you?”
“Whitman, ‘To You.’”
I laughed. “You always choose Whitman.”
“That’s because he’s the best.”
Lauren came through the door at that moment. “Debatable at best,” she said to Taylor, winking in my direction. “I’m assuming you went with someone without a penis?” she asked.
I grinned up at her. I’d grown to trust Lauren more and more over the semester. How she allowed us to read our work in class without feeling embarrassed. How she never mentioned the work we submitted to her, as though it were a private conversation just between the two of us. I’d begun to use those assignments as another means of therapy, writing everything in poetry that I refused to say out loud. “I did,” I answered. “I chose Leonie Adams.”
She smiled. “Great choice.”
Lauren continued to the front of the class and Taylor leaned over. “Someone’s getting an A.”
“I already have an A,” I said with a smirk.
Lauren asked us to arrange our desks in a circle. She passed around stapled copies of the poems, everyone quiet while they circled our group. I grabbed the stack, prepared to take one and pass the rest along, when I glanced down and my insides turned to ice. The first poem was one of mine, but it wasn’t one I’d read in class. It was one that I’d submitted to her, one I’d trusted to stay private. I stared down at the words, my throat closing up. I would never have read the poem aloud in class, would never have allowed anyone else to read it besides Lauren or Rose, and now . . .
My gaze lifted to find Lauren watching me for my reaction. I shook my head, pleading silently for her to choose something else, but she only nodded encouragingly and sat down at the front of our circle.
I lowered my eyes as she cleared her throat and began to recite my poem—my pain—for the class.
There are no words that remain.
No beating heart.
No life inside this lost soul.
What of hope? Of goodness?
They are but a memory.
The clink of glasses, the laughter, the noise
are empty sounds.
For this soul, it too is empty,
and now—nothing shall remain.
I swallowed hard and stared forward, my body raw and exposed. It reminded me of the burns after I had woken in the hospital. How even the smallest movement brought on the pain. I didn’t want to hear these words. I was past them. I was moving on.
“Discuss,” Lauren said, her eyes flickering to mine again, a hint of an apology in them, but I didn’t care. It was too late for that. She should have asked, and now my darkest moment was in front of twenty strangers, ready for them to dissect as though it were as disposable as the sheet of paper it was printed on.
A girl beside Lauren spoke up first. “I think it’s about a broken relationship. It sounds feminine. Like a girl whose heart has been broken.”
Lauren nodded. “Okay. But what else?”
The class began to talk all at once, and for a moment I felt safe, like maybe that moment would stay mine, a dark spot in my past. A moment of weakness. And then a guy across from me spoke up, his eyes on the paper. “It’s not about romance. Or love. It’s about suicide.”
My eyes burned as the word circled the class, a hush following in its wake. Lauren nodded slowly. At least she had the decency to not look at me. I dropped my hands into my lap under the desk and ran a finger over the small scar across my left wrist.
I would never forget the look on Mom’s face when she found me, the fear that remained in her eyes for months and months after. I couldn’t believe Lauren used this poem, since there were countless pieces I’d read aloud over the semester. She could have chosen any of them, not this one. I wrote it earlier in the semester, when fragments of that lost girl still remained inside me. Hearing it now showed me how far I’d come. With Rose. And with Preston. I knew I wasn’t whole, maybe I would never be whole, but I had begun to heal.
I tried not to listen as others began to chime in, offering opinion and critique. I wanted to dart from the room or disappear or scream at the top of my lungs for them to stop talking about these words. This author. Me. Anger surged through me. Why had I turned in the poem in the first place? I had grown too comfortable with Lauren, too trusting. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up and walked out the door. Screw her. She could fail me if she liked, but I wouldn’t sit there and listen to the class talk about the lowest point in my life.
I pushed through the stairwell door, sat down on the stairs, and buried my head in my hands, needing a moment to breathe. I heard the door behind me open and then felt a hand rest on my shoulder. “Hey . . . are you okay?”
I peered up at Taylor. “You’re going to fail the final.”
“She released us right after you left. I’m sorry she did that. I
t wasn’t cool.”
I looked away. “Was it that obvious that it was mine?”
“No,” he said. “Not until you left.”
“I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why. It didn’t matter what Taylor thought.
He shrugged. “We’re all a little crazy sometimes. Besides, it’s in the past, right?” He studied me, and I knew this was his way of checking on me. Making sure that I wouldn’t hurt myself again.
“It wasn’t . . .” I shook my head. “Right. In the past.”
“Good.” Taylor reached out to help me stand, and we walked out together, only to find Preston waiting just outside.
His gaze moved between me and Taylor, his eyebrow cocked. “Uh, hey,” he said to me. “I was going to see if you wanted lunch.”
Taylor smiled knowingly at me. “I’ll see you next semester, Ms. Warren. Take care of yourself over break.” He leaned in to give me a hug, and then left us alone, Preston staring after him for a second too long before returning his gaze to me.
“What was that about?”
I sighed, not wanting to get into the poem or why I had written it. “Nothing. I just screwed up on my final. That was all.” As soon as the words were out, I felt guilty. I didn’t want to lie to him. I wanted to share everything with him, good or bad, but this was different.
Preston kissed my cheek and took my hand in his. “How about I buy you lunch to make it better?”
“Okay, but about the final . . .”
“Yeah?”
I stopped and looked up at him, prepared to tell him about the poem and why it had affected me so, but I couldn’t find the words. We were so great. I didn’t want to give him a reason to turn away. I cleared my throat and looked down. “It was only a small part of my grade.”
He smiled. “Good. Let’s eat then; I’m starved.”
“Okay,” I smiled back, but inside, my heart felt heavy. One bad hour and I was crawling back into my safe zone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I stood outside Liberty, my bags in hand, waiting for the moment when my parents pulled up to take me home for Christmas. I had been running through all the things I would say to them. My classes. My grades. My goals for the next three and a half years. I knew my dad, and he would appreciate a conversation about goals. Mom would want to talk about Rose, whom I had agreed to call once a week over the next three weeks of winter break. The true question was whether I would mention Preston.
Mr. Riggs had known my dad, which meant there was a solid chance dad would approve, but even now, they’ve remained very close to Matt’s parents. They loved Matt. More than I ever loved him.
Preston and I had said goodbye an hour before he and Kara left to go home, and I already missed him. His smile. His touch. His smell. I contemplated asking him to come visit me during the break, but it was a three-hour drive, and I hadn’t decided whether to mention him to my parents, and then the time came and he was gone. I gripped my cell phone, checking the time, and then clicked Preston’s name and typed out, I miss you.
A minute later my phone vibrated and the words I miss you more appeared. I pressed my phone to my forehead and sighed. Three weeks. That was nothing. Yet somehow it felt like an eternity.
I dropped my cell into my coat pocket, just as Mom’s Mercedes pulled up, Dad at the wheel. I smiled as Mom got out of the car and started for me, her arms already outstretched for a hug. It had been months since I’d seen either of them, and there was something comforting in the fact that Mom was still Mom and Dad was still Dad.
We set off down the road for the drive to Westlake, each minute growing more comfortable than the one before. I listened as Mom told me all about my sisters and nieces and nephew. How they would be arriving in a week and how they were excited to see me. I felt older listening to her talk, more like I was one of them instead of the child of the family, surrounded by adults. Finally after a few moments, I glanced up to find Dad watching me in the rearview mirror.
“You look different,” he said. “Happier. Are you happy?”
The sincerity in his voice gave me pause. “I am,” I answered, and for once it was the truth.
We arrived at our house hours later, and I beamed with excitement as we pulled into the driveway. I had seen my house decorated for Christmas plenty of times, but this time was different. The twinkling lights, the Christmas tree through the family room windows, all of it reminded me that I had a home. I had a place. I was never alone.
I grinned as I stepped out, taking Mom’s outstretched hand. “It’s amazing. Did Corrine do it?”
“Is that Olive I hear?” a voice called from the front porch. I took off running up the stairs and into Corrine’s always open arms. Mom had hired her years ago to handle daily house chores, but she had become more like family to us over the years. Her once dark hair was now peppered with gray and white strands, and her olive skin had more wrinkles than I remembered, but her smile was the same and her hug was as warm as ever.
I kissed her cheek before pulling away. “I’ve missed you.” And that’s when I realized why I’d grown so comfortable with Rose so quickly. She reminded me of Corrine.
She squeezed my cheeks between her palms. “And I you, child. You look different. Better.”
Mom wrapped her arm around me, motioning for us to go inside. “She does,” she said with a smile.
I walked in to the smell of hot cider and fresh pastries and immediately thought of Preston. Of his house at Thanksgiving. My heart clenched at the thought, and I reached instinctively for my phone and then placed it back inside my coat. I wouldn’t be that girl, calling all the time, clinging to him like I needed him to breathe. Even if there were moments when it felt like it was true.
I looked up to find both Corrine and Mom watching me. “What?”
Mom shrugged, but Corrine was never one to hide her thoughts. “Who is the boy?” she asked.
“Oh—no one. He’s . . . there isn’t. No one.”
“Ha, it doesn’t sound like a no one.” Corrine laughed. “And you’re blushing scarlet.”
I grinned. “Okay, so there might be a boy.”
Mom’s face lit up. “A boy? Can we meet him?”
I opened my mouth, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Preston knew about the fire, but I wasn’t sure he knew how deep my scars ran, how broken I’d been. For now, Preston knew enough.
“Leave her alone, ladies,” Dad said from the family room. “She’s an adult now. She’s allowed her privacy.”
I spun around, astonished at his words. Dad had never thought of me as anything but the baby of the family. And when I turned down Columbia, he said I was behaving like a child, ruining my future. I didn’t know what to say.
He motioned for me to join him in the family room. “Tell me about classes. How do you think you’ll finish out?”
I thought of my walking out of poetry. I had no idea how that would impact my grade. “I think I did pretty well. I should have final semester grades sometime next week.”
“That’s great.” And then they were all around me, listening as I talked about my classes and professors and what I hoped to do after graduation. We talked about graduate degree programs and study abroad programs and before long it was dinnertime.
I sat down at the dining room table and placed my napkin in my lap. I had resented Mom’s formal dining rules for most of my life, but this time, they served as another comfort. I wasn’t there to eat quietly. I was an active part of the conversation. It felt good to be viewed as one of them. I expected Columbia to be brought up during conversation, but not once did either of them say a word. Instead, they focused on Charleston and what all it had to offer. I found myself smiling wide by the end of the meal, proud that I’d chosen the College of Charleston. Proud of myself. I worried that my refusal to come home to visit had scared them, that mayb
e they were putting on a front to guarantee that I would stay, but never once did their support waver.
I helped Corrine clear the table and started for the stairs as Dad called out my name. I turned around. “Dad, did you need me?”
He lowered his head as he walked toward me, his hands tucked in his pockets as always. I wondered if I was about to get a lecture, when he looked up and said, “I’d like you to take the Land Rover back with you. You need a car. And I’m sorry that I’ve made it harder than it needed to be there, but it sounds like you’re doing amazingly well. We’re very proud of you, Olive.”
I walked over and gave him a hug, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Thank you. So . . . do you want to play tomorrow?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “What are the terms?”
I thought for a second and then smiled. “Loser has to help Mom wrap presents.”
“You realize I may be old, but I’m still the Warren family Ping-Pong champion?”
I laughed. “It’s easy to be the champion when you’re playing a twelve-year-old. You sound afraid. Are you afraid?”
He grinned. “I’ll take your bet. Best of five. Winner gets no paper cuts this season.”
I held out my hand. “Deal.” But he didn’t shake my hand. Instead, he pulled me back into a hug.
“I love you, Olive. Thanks for coming back to us.”
I felt my throat close up at his words, my eyes burning. “I love you, too, Dad.”
I went upstairs to unpack my things, glad that Mom had left my room alone. There were no photos in frames, no yearbooks in sight, nothing that could directly jog my memory. Still, as soon as I stepped through the door, I began to see myself there years before. Claire, Trisha, and I painting our toenails. Matt and I making out in my bed. Changing the room didn’t erase those memories. They still happened. They were as real as me. And that was okay.
I set my bags on my bed and began to unpack them, just as my phone buzzed with a new text message. I picked up the phone and peered down, smiling.