by Abigail Haas
I turned. His eyes were on me, sharp and blue. I looked away.
‘You don’t even know me.’
‘I know everything about you, sweetheart,’ Oliver’s voice was matter of fact. ‘And I know you’re better than this. Than anyone in this town.’
I swallowed, my skin prickling with awareness. ‘Your family’s here,’ I pointed out, trying to deflect his laser-sharp attention.
Oliver chuckled. ‘Yes, they are.’
Silence.
My pulse kicked. I didn’t know why, but I wanted desperately to believe him. That I had something special inside me, more than Haverford could contain. That I could be more than this.
Tears stung, sudden in my throat. I slid down from the hood. ‘I should be getting home,’ I mumbled, not meeting his eyes.
Oliver didn’t object.
We drove back in silence, but this time, I couldn’t shake my awareness of him, inches away in the dark car. My head was spinning, just a little, from the whiskey and the day, too long. Work, and Crystal, and school, and the quarry all blurring into one.
Just one day, but it felt like something had shifted, split open inside me. I felt raw, the many weeks of holding it all together catching up all at once, too messy and too damn sharp to keep contained in such a small body. I clenched my fists at my sides, digging my nails into my palms, counting the breaths until Oliver pulled into my driveway and turned off the engine.
‘Thanks,’ I muttered, grabbing my bag. ‘For the ride. And . . . ’ I stopped.
‘Anytime,’ Oliver replied lightly.
I opened the door and bolted up to my front porch, scrabbling for my keys. I’d left the light off and now I felt blindly around in my bag for the touch of metal.
‘Chloe.’ Oliver’s voice rang out.
I turned. He was sauntering towards me, unhurried, his face cloaked in shadow. ‘Did I forget . . . ’
My words died in my throat as he kept on walking, straight up to me, backing me up against the door without breaking stride and taking my face in his hands.
He kissed me hard, before I had time to think. Before I had time to even breathe; his tongue demanding, his body pressing into me, hands trapping me in place with no space to resist as he branded me with his mouth, biting down on my lower lip hard enough to make me flinch.
He stepped back, leaving me gasping.
‘Good night.’ Oliver’s smile was almost cruel as he turned and walked back to the car; starting the engine, sweeping back out on to the street and away, the noise receding in the night.
I stood there, shaking, my heart racing, my body weak.
What the hell was I supposed to do now?
I’m used to secrets.
This year, I became an expert, accumulating them like rare butterflies in a delicate glass case. Mom’s illness; the money; Dad’s betrayal; my own illicit desires. I tucked each one away in turn and locked the door tight, hidden and silent, as secrets should be.
Now, they’re all escaping. Sharp wings and an angry flutter, beating louder in the silence of the empty hospital hallways. A crescendo, building to the most terrible truth of all.
The body I left in the burning building. The boy I didn’t love enough to save.
The wingbeats stalk me with every step. Soon, they promise.
Soon, you’ll have to tell.
I didn’t tell Ethan about the kiss. I couldn’t. What would I say? He’d think it was my fault somehow, that I’d led Oliver on. He was his brother, after all, I was just the girlfriend. It was no contest whose story he’d believe, and then where would I be left?
Alone.
I’d be all alone in this town, with nothing to take me out of that house, alleviate the dark lonely drudgery that my life had become. Without Ethan, there would be no warmth, no fun, no laughter between work, and Mom, and the quiet glare of the television, night after night after night.
I couldn’t take it. I wouldn’t make it through.
So I said nothing and waited, anxious, for a change in Ethan. Any sign that Oliver might have told. He wouldn’t, I told myself, what reason would he have to hurt his brother like that?
But what reason did he have to kiss me in the first place?
Ethan was busy, thankfully, with work at the construction site and commuting out to the new development, so I was able to avoid the Reznick house for weeks. Guilty, I did my best to be the perfect girlfriend: calling him every night, responding to his texts right away. I even invited him for dinner at my house and cooked his favourite lasagne, painfully aware of my Mom, sitting in front of the TV in the next room, even as Ethan slid his hands around my waist and nuzzled my neck from behind.
‘Did I tell you you’re, like, the best girlfriend ever?’ he murmured, lips against my throat. I stepped away, pivoting across the kitchen to grab some milk for the white sauce.
‘Don’t distract me,’ I protested, trying to sound normal. ‘I want to get the recipe right.’
‘Whatever you do will be great.’ Ethan lounged back against the countertops, smiling at me. His hair was getting longer, a ruffled mess. ‘You’re the sweetest.’
‘I’m not.’ I concentrated on stirring.
‘You are.’ Ethan insisted. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing all this for me.’
‘It’s nothing.’ I felt my cheeks flush, guilty. ‘You’ve been working hard all week, that’s all. I wanted to do something nice.’
‘Well, this is perfect. I’m just happy we get to spend some time together.’ Ethan reached out and caught me against him again, arms settling loosely around my waist. ‘I’ve missed you.’
His eyes were warm and honest as he smiled at me. I looked away.
‘I missed you too,’ I murmured. I moved to step away, but instead of letting me go, he tilted my chin up to him and found my lips in a slow kiss.
I swayed against him, feeling the warmth of his mouth, and the slide of his hands bringing me closer, but when I closed my eyes, all I could think about was Oliver’s lips, not his. Oliver’s body, hard against mine.
It has been intoxicating.
That was the source of my secret shame, the reason I was running in circles trying to make it up to Ethan. Not just that it had happened, although the simple fact of my betrayal was bad enough to make me sick with guilt. But worse still, worse than anything, was the fact I had liked it.
God, I’d loved it.
When Oliver had kissed me, there had been no hesitation or sweet, eager fumbling. His lips had been ruthless, possessive, hard on mine with a stony intent. I’d never been kissed like that before, taken so completely, and even now, with Ethan’s arms around me, I felt the imprint Oliver had left, shame mingling with desire in my bloodstream, glittering and dark.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ My mom’s voice came, and I broke away to find her in the doorway, dressed in sweats and a dressing gown. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘That’s OK!’ I exclaimed quickly. ‘We’re fine. What’s up?’
‘The bulb went out in my craft room,’ Mom explained. ‘I was looking for that stepladder.’
‘I’ll get it.’ I made to move, but Ethan quickly cut me off.
‘Who needs a ladder? I’ll take care of it.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mom asked. ‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘No trouble at all.’ Ethan grinned.
‘I’ll go get the bulb then,’ Mom said. ‘It’s just upstairs.’
She left and Ethan turned to me with a smile. ‘Craft room?’
‘It’s her new thing,’ I sighed. ‘I cleared Dad’s files out of the study and put the old TV in there with her knitting stuff. She never leaves. Just watches old movies and crochets these terrible sweaters all day long.’
‘It must be helping her,’ he said. ‘She seems much better. Hey, maybe she’ll be back at work soon.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I nodded brightly. ‘Maybe.’
He exited the kitchen and I took a breath. It wasn’t the knitting helping Mom, it
was two hundred and forty milligrams of anti-depressants daily, but even that wasn’t enough to get her out of the house. She’d fought it, I knew she would, but I’d managed to get her to the doctor, and we’d tag-teamed her with the hard-sell. Just a few pills and she’d be right as rain. Wouldn’t that be nice? Didn’t she want to feel better? She’d relented, but still, progress was incremental. Sitting up all day instead of lying in bed; knitting for hours instead of staring blankly at the wall.
Small, expensive victories.
I turned back to the stove, checking the food. I’d asked Annette for her recipe, Ethan’s favourite, and baked garlic bread too. He’d been so surprised at the invitation, but I was wondering how much longer I could keep up the charade. How much longer I would be paying penance for my crimes. Maybe Oliver would go back to school, or take off on one of his trips soon, I thought with desperate hope. Then, everything could go back to the way it was, before.
The sound of the doorbell came.
‘I’ll get it,’ Ethan’s voice called. I quickly grabbed a towel to wipe my hands, emerging from the kitchen with it still damp in my hands.
‘Mmm. Something smells good.’
I froze.
It was Oliver, of course it was. Taking off his coat and hanging it in the hallway, like he was supposed to be here.
‘But . . . Why . . . ?’ I stuttered, painfully aware of my hair in a mess and the stained apron tied around my waist. ‘I mean, what are you doing here?’
‘Baby brother said you were cooking.’ Oliver sauntered towards me, an unreadable smile on his face. ‘I couldn’t resist. I know, I’m gatecrashing, but look, I brought gifts!’ He held up a bottle of wine, and a six-pack of beers. ‘I’ll put them in the fridge, OK?’
He brushed past me, leaving me with Ethan in the hall. ‘Sorry,’ he said, rueful. ‘I didn’t know he was coming. I could ask him to go, if you want?’
I caught my breath. For a moment, I was tempted to tell him yes, make Oliver leave, but that was impossible. I had no reason not to want him here, at least, none I could explain out loud.
‘What are you talking about? It’s fine.’ I tried to pull myself together. ‘There’s plenty of food. The more the merrier, right?’ I pasted on a smile.
Ethan kissed my forehead as he passed. ‘Thanks, babe. You’re the best.’
I stayed there a moment, alone in the hallway, panic taking flight in my chest. Why would he come here? Was he going to make a scene of it, let something slip?
No. I forced myself to take a breath. He wouldn’t do that, surely. This must be him trying to smooth over what had happened and act as if nothing had changed. And if he could do it, then I would too: pretend, the way I had been doing for weeks.
Simple.
When I joined them in the kitchen, Oliver was uncorking the wine with swift, expert movements. ‘Do you like red?’ he asked, looking up. ‘I got a great Pinot.’
‘I . . . don’t really know anything about wines,’ I replied. My voice came out forced, too high, and I blushed, feeling like our betrayal was written all over my face. But Ethan didn’t notice anything was wrong, he just helped himself to some chips and dip I’d left out on the countertop.
‘No?’ Oliver raised an eyebrow. ‘What a shame. Well, no better time to start than now. You’ll love this, I promise.’ He poured into wine glasses I didn’t even know we had, holding one out to me.
‘I don’t know . . . ’ I tried to avoid his gaze, busying myself with fetching silverware and plates.
‘I insist.’ Oliver closed the distance between us and I felt his hand on my arm. I froze, flinching back from his touch. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ His lips curled with amusement as he pressed the glass into my hand. ‘Here, try it.’
I took it, caught in his gaze. His eyes watched me, clear and blue, and I remembered the look in them as he’d strode towards me on the front porch, just outside. Full of intent.
‘Thanks,’ I managed. His fingers brushed mine and I fumbled. The glass slipped, shattering to the floor.
‘Are you OK?’ Ethan sprang up.
‘Yes, fine,’ I said quickly, stepping back. The wine pooled, dark as blood on the floor, glass shards scattered everywhere. ‘Just clumsy, that’s all.’
‘You should be more careful,’ Oliver said calmly. He stepped over the mess to the sink to grab the roll of paper towels. ‘You could hurt yourself.’
‘Here, I’ve got it.’ Ethan found the broom and swept the glass into the dustbin. ‘I’ll put it straight in the trash, you might cut yourself.’
He opened the kitchen door and headed out, into the dark of the backyard.
We were alone.
I waited for Oliver to say something, but there was silence. When I looked over, he was sipping his wine, gazing at the photos and books around the room, utterly at ease.
The moment stretched and, all the while, my pulse raced. ‘Why did you come here?’ I finally blurted.
Oliver slowly turned, raising his eyebrows inquisitively. Immediately, I regretted saying anything. ‘I told you, I’m a sucker for a home-cooked meal.’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about,’ I replied, swallowing.
‘No?’ Oliver watched me, his expression even. ‘Let’s not beat around the bush. Why don’t you say what you really mean?’
I opened my mouth, but there was only air. I couldn’t. Not with Ethan just outside, and the truth so confusing. What could I say?
Oliver chuckled, as if he’d known I wouldn’t be able to manage the words. ‘I wonder . . . ’ He took a step closer, his expression suddenly serious. ‘Do you even know you’re lying to yourself? Or have you been pretending so long, you don’t even know the difference any more?’
I stared back, caught. There were a few feet of kitchen floor between us, but I could swear, I felt his hands on me again, the way they had been that night; the burn of his lips on mine.
More real and vivid than anything I’d felt before.
Oliver’s eyes seemed to look straight through me. ‘Don’t you see, Chloe? Life can be a whole lot more interesting, if you’d just be honest about what you want. Who you want,’ he added in a low voice, just as the door opened again and the kitchen was flooded with a blast of cold air.
‘All set.’ Ethan came in. ‘Wow, that smells amazing, babe. I can’t wait.’
I don’t speak for a moment, still caught in Oliver’s innocent smile and the slippery accusation hidden in his words.
Ethan looked between us. ‘What did I miss?’
‘Nothing much,’ Oliver answered smoothly. He grabbed a beer and sent it sliding down the kitchen island to Ethan, like a bartender in an old saloon. ‘Chloe here was just quizzing me about ideas for your birthday. It’s coming up pretty soon.’
‘Aww, you don’t have to make a big deal.’ Ethan looked bashful. ‘I don’t like to do anything.’
‘Everybody likes birthdays,’ Oliver protested. ‘Every year he’s the same,’ he added in my direction, with a theatrical roll of his eyes. ‘He refuses to do anything fun at all, takes all the joy out of it. Maybe between us, we can convince him this time around.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said hurriedly, still thrown by the sudden switch in mood. ‘If you don’t want to celebrate, you shouldn’t feel any pressure.’
Ethan shrugged. ‘I could do something. It would be fun, the three of us.’
‘See?’ Oliver raised his glass. ‘That’s more like it. Look at you, loosening up, baby brother. I can tell, this one’s a good influence.’
Ethan chuckled. ‘Yeah, she’s pretty great.’ He kissed the side of my head, hugging me against him. I felt the guilt burn, hot and accusing.
‘Too bad you already snapped her up,’ Oliver remarked. ‘Hey, Chloe, you got any friends you can set me up with?’
Slowly, he winked at me.
I stared back, my head spinning. What was he thinking, taunting me like this with Ethan standing right there? Didn’t he know what he was risking?
Didn’t he care?
Oliver sipped his wine, idly leaning back against the counter. He had a curious expression on his face and it took me a moment before I realized where I’d seen it before: Sheriff Weber, with his crossword puzzles. Studying the clues, figuring out the right word to fit – the brief smile of satisfaction as he wrote the letters into place.
He was enjoying this.
The realization hit me all at once, and with it, I finally understood. Oliver wanted me to be unsettled, he liked watching me flustered and unsure. Maybe that was what he’d planned all along: asking me out, kissing me, showing up here to disrupt our evening and make me uncomfortable in my own home . . . It was a game to him.
I should have been angry, and I was – furious – but more than that, I felt a hot rush of embarrassment flood through me. I’d been so stupid! Oliver had said I was better than this, better than the rest of them, but instead, I’d been reeling with panic all week, acting desperate and guilty and weak.
I met his eyes across the kitchen. He was watching me, smiling, but now I could see the challenge in his gaze.
This was a test. He wanted to know what I would do.
I would show him, I wasn’t so easily beaten.
This was all just a game. Well, I could play too.
I forced myself to take deep, even breaths. ‘Olly, can you pour me another glass of that wine?’ I asked casually. I opened the oven, and lifted out the lasagne dish. ‘And Ethan, maybe set the table? We’re nearly ready to eat.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ Oliver saluted me. He sauntered over, offering another drink, and this time I took the glass without flinching, meeting his stare dead on. I lifted it to my lips and took a long sip, tasting the dark, rich liquid, the slight bitterness and tang. ‘Well?’ he asked, waiting.
‘It’s OK.’ I shrugged. ‘Not my thing.’
I caught a flash of amusement on Oliver’s face. He raised his glass to mine in a toast. ‘To new experiences,’ he drawled.
I felt a thrill, unfamiliar in my veins. The crackle of challenge. ‘New experiences,’ I echoed, smiling. ‘And new friends.’