Before anyone can say more, Mom ushers Ash, Jada, and me out the door and soon the three of us are walking along Commonwealth Avenue—Ash and Jada acting like my official chaperones for the evening. Jada has one of my hands, dragging me along—I guess I’m not untouchable after all—and Ash keeps us laughing with her nonstop chatter.
You can always count on Ash.
Before long we reach the tall iron gates of the Public Garden. The park is teeming with people enjoying the break in the August heat. Parents pushing strollers. Couples walking hand in hand. The sky is vivid with reds and pinks as the sun sets.
At first I hesitate, nervous to be out, to be so exposed, to be in a place where he could find me. Us. Or even just watch. See. But I know my family, friends, and Jamie are right, that I have to start somewhere, start taking back my life, and here is as good a place as any. Maybe even the best place because I care about it so much that if I lose it my heart might break.
Soon the bench comes into view, my bench, the calm lake, the weeping willow, and I see Jamie, waiting there like he said he would. Ash and Jada hang back, giving us some space. Then, when they are sure that I am okay, when I tell them it’s okay, they turn to go, leaving Jamie and me alone.
“Olivia,” he says when I come around to the front. He stands. “You look…” He stops, as if my appearance is not the best place to start. “I’m glad you’re here. I was worried that maybe…”
“I’d decide this was a bad idea?”
“I guess. Yes.”
“Well, I’m here,” I say, sitting down. Jamie offers his hand and after a second’s pause I take it and our fingers weave together, his warm skin surging with life like a shot of energy I’ve needed. “Back in our place,” I add, and he smiles.
Then Jamie, his voice soft, like he’s afraid it might sting, says, “There are movers boxing up Father Mark’s office, Olivia. His nameplate is gone, too.”
“Really?” My voice is hushed. I lean my head on Jamie’s shoulder. I don’t ask where Father Mark might be moving to. I don’t want to know.
“Yes,” he says. Then, “What are you going to do with your story?”
I’d e-mailed “This Gorgeous Game”—my version, my story—to Jamie after I told him about it, when he asked to read it. “I’m not sure yet,” I say, and Jamie puts his arm around me.
“Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out. In time, you’ll know what is right.”
“Yes,” I say, because it’s true. I will. “I wish this was all over with. It’s not, though. There is so much ahead to deal with.”
“But the worst is behind us,” Jamie says.
“Us?” I watch as he nods his head.
“Yes, us. Keep repeating that to yourself if you have to,” Jamie says gently.
“Oh.” I am unable to keep back the tears that spring to my eyes.
The sky turns from twilight to deep blue and the stars begin to brighten the night and we sit in silence, Jamie and I, on the bench by the lake under the weeping willow in the Public Garden. I think about “This Gorgeous Game,” how it sits, stacked in a pile, on my coffee table. I think about how maybe, maybe someday, someone will publish this story. My side of the story.
“This Gorgeous Game” by Olivia Peters.
I can wait for that day. Even if it’s a long way off. There will come a time when I can share this. When I will share it. But now, right now is for letting go. Making peace. Finding some peace.
Finally.
And that’s the moment when I look at Jamie, really look at him, as if for the first time, as if I can see right through those big, beautiful eyes into the depths of his soul, his gorgeous soul, and I know this is not a dream, this “us.”
That he won’t leave or disappear.
He is real. This is real. And this relationship, this love, I know I want. There is no doubt.
I. Just. Know.
Eventually, after a long time gazing into each other’s eyes, we rise and begin making our way back down the path toward the gates. And I am so grateful. I am so grateful as he walks me home, holding my hand, because that is all I need right now.
That is all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story has been a long, intense journey, in which I have too many friends, teachers, and loved ones to thank for accompanying me along the way. You know who you are. My gratitude to those who read drafts—Lisa Graff, Lauren Myracle, and Marie Rutkoski. To everyone at FSG, especially you, Frances, for your faith and patience with this challenging project. To my agent, Miriam, as always. Two others I must name: Molly Millwood for your insight, and Michele Burrell for the same. And to Dr./Father/Monsignor Stephen Happel, who I know is still out there, somewhere, looking out for me.
This Gorgeous Game Page 16