by R. C. Martin
Our relationship’s life source was trust. Nothing but. We didn’t share the same group of friends, hobbies, or interests—but we could trust each other with the burden of our loss. If I just needed someone to sit with me, someone to share the air with me in the house that was too lonely and empty, I could trust her to do just that. When she needed someone to listen, someone to hear that her heart was broken with disbelief and anger at the fact that her mom was dating again, she could trust that I’d really hear her.
Junior year, her mom remarried and Olivia didn’t take it well. Her stepdad was pretty clueless as to how to nurture any sort of relationship with his new stepdaughter, which only made matters worse. When she started acting out, he stopped trying and her mom got angry. That backfired, making Olivia more incorrigible than ever. Shit really hit the fan when she got the news that she was going to be a sister. For seventeen years, she had been an only child. The thought of a sibling—fathered by a man she wouldn’t accept as family—made her wild.
The night William was born was the first time Olivia and I had sex. She came to me in the middle of the night, crawling through my open window. I woke up to her small body snuggled up next to mine. She told me that she needed to be taken someplace else—she wanted to escape, to run away—and she wanted me to go with her. I didn’t know what she meant until she reached into my pants and wrapped her hand around my dick.
Our first time was about trust. Not love. Not lust. Just trust. She trusted me with her body and I trusted her with mine. We both trusted that we could go through with it without either of us regretting it in the morning. And we didn’t—regret it in the morning.
We did it again.
With William in the house, she couldn’t sleep. He cried a lot. More than that, he was a reminder that life began just as quickly as it ended. She didn’t think it was right that her mother’s life had seemed to move forward at a pace that didn’t match her own. On nights that she couldn’t deal, she’d seek refuge in my bed. I learned her body well and she memorized mine. I didn’t realize that I was falling in love with her until it was done—the words falling from my lips, her insides clinching my cock and pulling me over the edge of bliss right along with her. The look in her eyes at my thoughtless admission was a proclamation that I had broken the rules.
We were best friends. We were confidants. We were fuck buddies. But we were not lovers. My slip of the tongue—slip of the heart—splintered her trust in me. Her response shattered my trust in her.
A week later, she was calling some other jerk-off her boyfriend. Then she had the audacity to speak to me as if nothing was different. It pissed me off. It was like she was trying to put me in my place—or the place she felt I belonged. I knew I deserved better. It wasn't even that she didn’t reciprocate my feelings, it was the way she ran away from what we had. She was scared and I knew it, but it hurt too much to stay. I wasn’t her pet, so I bailed.
It was only a couple weeks before I got pulled back into her life again. Jerk-off didn’t know her like I did; couldn’t handle her. When she let her wild side out, no doubt as an act of retaliation over something that happened at home, I was the one who saw her floundering. I was the one who had to save her from her reckless behavior.
I was the one she clung to when I found her too drunk to stand at some stupid party.
When she woke up in my arms the next morning, she wouldn’t let me go. She apologized. She spoke of how much she missed me. She told me that I was her anchor and that she needed me—her best friend.
It wasn’t the last time she’d leave me.
It wasn’t the last time I’d rescue her.
It wasn’t the last time she’d apologize.
It wasn’t the last time I’d forgive her.
I loved her…
You’re my best friend. You won’t say no. You never do.
I love her still…
I despise myself for that truth. I resent her for not letting me go. Me, here, in her bed—it’s got nothing to do with love. It’s about companionship. It’s about history. It’s about pleasure. It’s about dead dads and countless mistakes. It’s about hoping for redemption that only one of us believes in. It’s about trust. Trust. With us, it’s always been about our fractured trust.
She trusts me with her mangled heart. I trust her with my hardened body.
It’s not enough. It never is.
In spite of our late night and my exhaustion, I’m still up at dawn. Occupational habit. I wake to the familiar scent of Olivia and the feel of her skin pressed against mine. I’ve always found it incredibly ironic how someone with such severe commitment issues loves to cuddle as much as she does.
As I trace the tips of my fingers along the length of her exposed side, I let the questions that plagued my mind yesterday fill my head. What is she doing here, staying at a hotel, when her family lives across town? What has she been doing for the last year? It’s not the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking. We’re just as good at fighting as we are at making each other come; not to mention her uncanny ability to shut people out when she decides she’s had enough. But the last time we spoke was different. The last time we spoke hadn’t ended in a fight. It ended in promises—promises she broke with her unexplained silence.
What happened to Phillip? Does she still work at the law firm? Does she still live in Denver? Why in the hell didn’t she come back? Why is she here now? What am I supposed to make of this?
Nothing. I remind myself. This means nothing. Isn’t that why you didn’t chase after her the last time? Because you know that all of this means nothing. It’s just who we are—who she is.
Suddenly, I’m not interested in any answers. Instead, I have the urge to get up and leave. It won’t make a difference if I stay or if I go, so why not go? It’s Sunday. I usually go to church on Sundays with Aunt Row. She always takes me to brunch afterwards. It’s our thing—has been since she moved back to Colorado, seven years ago. Now that I’ve got God on the brain, getting out of this bed seems like the right thing to do. I don’t belong here.
I slide myself out from underneath her and sit up, turning my back to her as my feet find the floor. My hair falls across my shoulders and as I glance around, trying to spot my hair tie, I feel her snake an arm around my waist.
“Looking for this?” she murmurs before her lips press against my back.
I glance down and see what I’m searching for around her small wrist. I’m quick to slip it over her hand, pulling my messy mane back into a knot as she continues to assault my back with her mouth.
“The sun is barely up. Why are you?” she asks, sitting up to wrap her arms around me. The feel of her warm body pressed against my back makes my cock twitch.
“I need to go.”
“Nonsense,” she whispers before her teeth gently tug at my earlobe. “It’s far too early for clothes.”
I shrug away from her touch and stand. I’m tired. Physically. Mentally. I don’t have it in me to give her anymore of myself. “I've got to meet Aunt Row for church.”
“Seriously?” she asks derisively. “You still do that?”
I scowl at her as I step into my briefs, irritated by her condescending tone. “Not everyone has an aversion to consistency, Olive. Or commitment. Or relationships.”
“After last night’s performance, I wonder if you can claim you have any sort of commitment to God. You’ve been unfaithful. He may have broken up with you.”
I shake my head as I reach for my jeans. I won’t argue with her about God and she knows it.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she concedes, crawling to the edge of the bed. She reaches for me as I grab my shirt and stops me from pulling it over my head. “Bran—stay. We haven’t even had a chance to talk. You can’t possibly need to leave for church at five in the morning.” I pause for just a moment and my hesitation encourages a smirk to tug at the corner of her mouth. “I like this,” she says softly, her fingers grazing my cheek. “The beard is very sexy. I meant to tell you
last night—you kept me too distracted.”
Her observation reminds me how long it's been since we've seen each other. I started growing it after her last disappearing act, which makes it far from new. “It needs a trim,” I think out loud. I make a mental note to take care of it today. If it gets too long, I’m required to wear a beard net at work—like hell. “I try and keep it short,” I tell her.
“Looks pretty damn perfect to me.”
I pull away from her as she leans in for a kiss, taking a couple steps back so I'm out of reach. “Why are you here?” I ask, ignoring her pouty expression.
“I told you. It's William's birthday. He called and invited me himself. I couldn't say no.”
“But The Archibald? Why didn't you just stay at the house?”
She arches an eyebrow suggestively. “Somehow, I think we wouldn't have been able to get away with our reunion under their roof. I'm a big girl now, I require my privacy.”
Right, I think to myself. And I'm just as predictable as she hoped.
“Come on, Bran—come back to bed. Tell me about Little Bird Cafe. Your name’s on the door. That’s incredible.”
For a fraction of a second, I think about indulging her. Then I remember she can’t be trusted with my heart, which means she doesn’t get to hear about my dreams. Not anymore.
“You’re just passing through, right? You’ll be gone tomorrow?”
“I have a life I've got to get back to,” she answers, sitting on her heels. “But I'm here now. I'm here now, Brandon. We have today—if you'll just stop being so stubborn—”
I huff out a sigh as I tug my shirt on over my head. “Because, for you, it’s just that simple. You can blow through town, take what you want, leave what you don’t, and dust your hands off before you get back to your life.”
“Hey,” she bites as she stomps out of bed, dragging the sheet along with her. For the first time since she woke up, she covers herself. “Don’t give me that high and mighty bullshit like you didn’t take what you wanted last night.”
“Oh, and now you’re the martyr?” I cry, snatching up my shoes. “You came to do what you always do—fuck my dick and fuck up my head. Well, you got my dick, but you won’t get my head. Not this time,” I grumble, turning to head for the door.
“Dammit! Brandon—wait!” she insists, racing toward me. She blocks my path to the exit, stopping my progress with a hand against my chest. “Just wait.”
I shake my head at her, immune to the desperation in her eyes. “I did wait. I’ve been waiting. I’ve always waited for you. You left me, remember?” She pulls her hand away from me as if I’ve burned her with the truth. “I should never have come,” I say, reaching into my pocket. I toss the keycard onto the floor and step around her. “I’m done, Olivia.”
I SKIPPED OUT ON church. It wasn’t that I felt condemned or unwanted after my night with Olive. If anyone understands how messed up I am over that girl, it’s God; but after my five mile bike ride home, I needed sleep. When I got in, I took a long shower, I called Aunt Row, made my excuses, offered up my apologies, and then I crashed. I didn’t wake up again until after noon.
I spent the rest of the day running errands and trying not to think of Olive—Olivia. I wanted what I said to be true—I want to be done. For good, this time. I should never have gone to her hotel room in the first place. It just confirmed what I already knew with every fiber of my being—we’re broken. We can never be more than what we are.
What we are neither is, nor will it ever be, enough.
I had plenty of things on my to-do list to stay busy and distracted. Cruising around town on my bike, the weight of my groceries on my back, felt good. The weather was nice and I needed the exercise; I needed to punish my muscles and remind my body that I am capable of staying in control. The exertion and the sun wore me out enough for me to get a good night’s rest, which is exactly what I needed.
Now, as I pedal my way through the quiet streets, the darkness of Monday morning’s pre-dawn serving as my only companion, I think about Daphne’s reminder that CSU students will be pouring into town any day now. When school starts, business will pick up and I need another set of hands at LB. I decide to take her advice. I have to stop being so picky and just hire someone who can get the job done. I’ve got a handful of resumes from interviews that I’ve conducted over the last couple of weeks. I promise myself I’ll go through them as soon as I’m done with today’s baking.
Just like every other morning, time flies as I busy myself in the kitchen. At seven thirty, when a knock sounds at the front door, I shouldn’t be surprised at how three hours seem to have disappeared, but I am. If it weren’t for the supply of freshly baked pastries I have to show for it, I’d wonder what the heck I’d been doing.
“Oh, my god, I love working the opening shift,” Rachael gushes as I let her in. “It smells like heaven in here. What’s on the menu?”
“Banana nut, cinnamon apple, blueberry crumble,” I reply, listing off the muffins I threw together. “Cranberry orange, lemon zinger, french vanilla,” I continue, naming the scones. “Berry and caramel,”I add, remembering the two kinds of coffee cake that are cooling as we speak. “And if I have time, I was thinking about playing around with a new loaf recipe this morning.”
“You’re a baking beast,” she laughs. “What kind of loaf are you thinking about trying?”
“I’ll let you know if I’m successful,” I say with a grin.
The shop opens at eight and I leave Rachael at the front to man the counter while I make up a supply order. When business starts picking up, I jump on the espresso machine and help her through the rush. We find a steady groove and as soon as Joey arrives, he takes my place and I’m back in the kitchen.
“Brandon,” I hear Rachael call a little while later. “There’s a cutie out here who wants to see you.”
I freeze, thoughts of Olive—Olivia—filling my mind.
Did she come back?
“Stuey, don’t make me come back there.”
My shoulders slump in relief at the sound of Daphne’s voice. I cough out a chuckle at her use of my nickname. Every time she calls me Stuey, I regret telling her what the S stands for in Brandon S. King. I didn't know Stuart could get even more embarrassing. In any case, I know she means to express her affection for me when she uses the name; she does the same thing with her brother, Roman, whose middle name is Cornelius. I still haven't decided which is worse, Corny or Stuey?
I wipe my hands off on my apron and head out to the front. She’s got Caroline in one of those cross-body-wrap things and she smiles when she sees me.
“Someone missed me,” I tease.
She shrugs, absentmindedly running her fingers through Care’s curls, the same dark brown as her mother’s wavy locks. “I just needed to check and make sure you were still in one piece. I didn’t hear from you yesterday.”
“Right. Yesterday,” I mutter, rubbing my chin.
“You saw her.”
I know she’s asking a question, but she doesn’t phrase it like one, and the look in her eyes speaks of her worry. We’ve only been friends for a couple of years, but in that time we’ve come to know each other well. Not to mention, she witnessed the aftermath of my last encounter with Olive. Olivia.
Dammit—it’s time to sever ties of familiarity.
“Shit, Brandon. Why didn’t you call me?” she asks, gripping a fistful of my apron before dragging me to a nearby table. She sits and I follow her lead. “What happened?”
“Same thing that always happens,” I admit. “Except this time I walked away. It’s over. For real, this time.”
“You mean it?”
I nod before I say, “Yeah. I mean it.”
“Good.” She shakes her head before she continues. “You were one of my loudest advocates when it came to Trevor. You were so sure that he’d want me like I wanted him—”
“Daph, it was the most obvious thing in the world.”
“I see that, now. My point i
s, that’s what love is supposed to look like. I know you know that—you just need to start acting like it. You deserve someone who loves you so much that it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And I know she’s out there. She’s hot as hell, too. I’m sure of it.”
As if right on cue, the bell above the door sounds as someone enters. I look up casually, and when I lay eyes on her, I can’t look away.
“You mean someone like that?” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I can’t bring myself to take them back.
Her long legs are golden, tanned from summer’s sun. She’s got a body that makes my hands tremble—the slight curve of her hips and the shape of her breasts slowing my eyes’ assent. Her long blonde hair falls in waves over her chest and down her back, and her face…
She looks familiar but I can’t figure out why. The thought of me forgetting someone so gorgeous seems impossible. I can’t take my eyes off of her and I watch as her bright blue eyes savor her surroundings.
“Sarah?” says Daphne, breaking my focus.
When Sarah looks in our direction, I furrow my brow in confusion as I look at Daphne.
“You know her?”
“So do you,” she says with a laugh, waving Sarah over.
“Daphne?” she speaks as she draws closer. “Oh, my gosh, hi! I didn’t recognize you. Your hair’s different and—”
I can tell the moment she lays eyes on Caroline. It’s written all over her face—a face I can’t seem to get enough of. Aware that Care’s bound to keep her oblivious to my stare, I don’t stop.
“She’s adorable,” Sarah gushes.
“Do you want to hold her?” Before Sarah has a chance to respond, Daphne’s on her feet, carefully extracting Caroline from the cocoon she’s wrapped in. She fusses as they make the exchange, but Sarah’s quick to comfort her as she rocks from side to side.
“What’s her name? How old is she?”
“Caroline. And she’s sixteen weeks.”
“Oh, my god, Daphne, she’s—oh, my god, Daphne!” she gasps, distracted by the hand that straightens Care’s headband. Or, rather, the two carat diamond ring on said hand.