by Emily Childs
After a good shower, a change of clothes, and attempting to tame my hair, I stand in the hallway, nodding my thanks to a teacher who directed me to the right place. I smile at the paintings decorating the wall, all things the kids want to be when they grow up. Presidents, astronauts, doctors, one seems to like the idea of being a Tibetan Monk. To each their own.
Olive’s sweet voice trickles into the hallway. Ten minutes until the dismissal bell according to the schedule. I lean against the open door watching Olive at the front of the class. She lines up a few kids, each one wearing a paper headband with a cloud, raindrops, or a sun. Her back is to me, but I love the way she’s describing the water cycle like it is the single most exciting thing in nature. She snaps her fingers and the kids fall into character.
The clouds begin storming, rain tries to make splashing noises, a boy meant to be a puddle or a pond falls to the carpet, while the sun rocks back and forth.
“Miss Cutler,” a little girl squeaks, glancing at the door. “There’s a man here.”
The supervising teacher at the desk peers over her reading glasses at the same time Olive turns to me. There’s a definite flush in her cheeks when she meets my eyes.
I don’t know what to do, so I smile and wave awkwardly.
“Boys and girls,” Olive says, her smile back in place. “This is my friend, Mr. Whitfield. What perfect timing. We have time for one more cycle. I wonder if you ask extra polite, if we could convince Mr. Whitfield to play a part. What do you say?”
The class giggles and claps, twenty pairs of eyes reel back on me and in unison the class shouts, “Please, Mr. Whitfield!”
I scowl playfully at Olive. She simply laughs. “Uh, oh. I think Mr. Whitfield is a little shy. Should we try one more time?” Again, high-pitched pleas ring through the room. The teacher leans back in her chair, smiling and waiting.
I shove my hands into my pockets and step into the room. “Alright, what am I to do?”
“Be the sun!”
“The rain!”
“The cloud!”
Olive holds up a finger to get the class’s attention. “I think Mr. Whitfield would be best suited as the rain cloud since he’s so tall.”
It becomes an accepted consensus. I meet her sparkling gaze as she goes to her tippy-toes to place the too-small headband on my head. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”
Olive rolls her bottom lip between her teeth and nods. “Okay, one more time. I’m not going to help you, now.”
With a snap of her fingers the theatrics begin. A little buzz-cut boy tugs on my arm, pointing at the second storm cloud headband. “We crash together,” he says. “We’re the storm.”
I’m quick to get to my knees, and bump shoulders with him as the other kids in the audience clap and laugh throughout the show.
“Well done, Olive,” the teacher says once the bell rings and they have the kids lined up to go outside. “I’ll take them out to pick up.”
“Thank you, Ms. Fry,” Olive says.
Some kids jump up to give me high-fives on their way out, and when the room is empty, Olive is turned away.
“You’re good at this, Ollie.” I don’t know what else to say. This is new territory with Olive and she doesn’t even know it.
“Thanks. Bit of a surprise seeing you at the door. What brings you here?”
She tucks a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear. She’s stunning in pearls and dresses, but the way her eyes light teaching her kids, this is the real Olive. The woman in a T-shirt and jeans.
And I want to do this. I want to be here, with her. “I wondered if you’d let me take you out tonight.”
Olive furrows her brow. “Out, like a date?”
I hold my breath and stand next to her. “Yeah. I feel like we need to step away from things and be us for a night. Alone.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” I take her hand, realizing how much I missed her these last few weeks. “There’s been a bit of distance between us since the last time.”
The bridges of her cheeks go pink as she whispers, “True.”
“It’s not going to be fancy.”
She waves a hand over her outfit. “Do I look ready to do fancy?”
“Is that a yes?”
Olive smiles and curls her arm through mine. “Lead the way, Mr. Whitfield.”
Chapter 15
Olive
In my opinion, greasy, cheesy, sloppy burgers are classic and comforting. Rafe laughs across the filmy table and hands me a napkin as barbecue sauce drips over my lip.
“Are you impressed with my manners?” I ask, wiping my mouth.
Rafe bites into fried okra, the only thing that brings him pure joy, at least that’s what I say. “It’s a good thing I’ve seen you eat burgers before; I knew what to expect.”
I toss a fry at his face and it brings out one of his rumbling laughs. “Yes, well, don’t let my mother know.”
“My lips are sealed, Ol. Want to go for a walk?” He points with his chin toward the bustling sidewalk that led into the historical district of Charleston.
“Sure.”
He holds the door for me, but outside takes it a step further and curls his hand around mine.
“Is this okay?”
“Why do you want to hold my hand?” I mean to sound accusatory. I’m not a fool, I know what we’re here to talk about and I need to gauge what’s going on in his beautiful head.
His thumb runs over her knuckles. “Because I miss touching you.”
And with a single glance from him my insides melt. “What do you want, Rafe?”
He hesitates, maybe he’s thinking, but I’m grateful he takes a moment. It’s not a question to answer hastily.
“Ol,” he begins. “I want to make sure you didn’t misunderstand me at the creek.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s not easy to find the right way to say this, so if I sound like a fool, forgive me now, alright?”
“I always do.”
“You matter to me, Olive.” Blunt and to the point. I like it. “I hope you know that. I don’t think—more like a part of me doesn’t think acting on feelings is a good idea.”
“What feelings, Rafe?” I press him. A little pressure is good. Making him say the words out loud is important. Needed.
“You’re killing me,” he says with a grin. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Maybe I want to hear you say it, you big baby.”
“Fine, princess. Feelings like maybe . . . being friends isn’t enough. Happy now?”
My pulse is racing too fast in my head. I smile. “Yes, I am.”
“Sometimes I wish I had the last name Whitney,” Rafe admits, and I can hardly believe he says it. He hurries to continue. “Only because then there wouldn’t be a line drawn in the sand. With you.”
“I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap,” I whisper. “Being a Whitfield is you, Rafe. Why does there need to be a line at all?”
I stop walking, frustrated enough to scream.
He smiles and the heat inside turns into something calmer, but still as fierce. Rafe lifts his hand to the side of my face, his face riddled with a sort of torment. “You know that answer as much as me, Ollie.”
“But it doesn’t matter to me.”
I swallow a gasp when he rests his forehead against mine. I breathe in the clean, spice of his skin, live for the way he feels beneath my hands on his arms, then behind his neck. I close my eyes.
“If you’re honest with yourself, it does in a way,” he says. “For both of us. What would you do when your mama and daddy disapproved? Because you know they would.”
I check myself and am ashamed to admit their approval means something to me. But they know Rafe. They care about the Whitfields too.
When I’m quiet too long he barrels on. “I’d never want to put you in that position, you see that, right? I respect your family too much. I really believe you deserve the worl
d, Ollie.”
“But so do you, Rafe,” I say. “Why can’t you see that? Why, through all the years I’ve known you, why do you sell yourself short around me? You know what, sometimes I wish my name wasn’t Cutler. Sometimes I wish I could be braver and not fear disappointment. Sometimes I wish we’d met at public school. That I was the one you’d kiss under the bleachers. That we’d scrimp and save like August and Lily. But I can’t change where I come from, neither can you. Why do we let it matter if we both want something more?”
He rests his chin on top of my head. “Maybe it will take time, Ollie. It’s selfish of me not to think of what it would do to you.”
I start to pull back. “Rafe—”
He doesn’t allow it, even draws his face next to mine. His lips brush my cheek. “Ol, it’s not . . . easy to forget what you’ve been told your entire life. I’m not suited for you—over and over, pounded into my head. Each time broke me a little. From the day I started noticing girls, I noticed you, do you understand?”
“But you don’t want me enough to do anything about it.”
Rafe glares at me. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then do something about it, Rafe.”
“It’s not that easy, Ollie. You might have to turn your back on everything. I’m not ready to ask you to do that.”
I forgo distance and press a gentle kiss to his lips. “I’m not sure you’ll ever be, because I don’t think anything will ever change unless we dare change it.”
“Olive . . .”
I turn away, but keep my hand in his, pulling him toward a large park with towering oaks and blooming flowers. I find a seat on the steps of a monument at the far end. A bronze statue of George Washington meets the street, but for a moment we can be alone in the purple twilight.
“I think that’s a ghost tour,” I say, pointing toward a crowd scanning the park.
Rafe follows my glance. “I suppose.”
“I love this place. Those people, they’re learning all the mystery, magic, and history here.” I hang my head. “Sometimes I hate it too. The stubbornness, the unwillingness to change. I can’t pretend there’s hope anymore when it seems there’s not. I’m not ashamed to say I want you, Rafe Whitfield.”
He leans over his knees on his elbows as he sits beside me. “But?”
“But until you see it, I can’t keep hoping. I can be your friend, but the back and forth—I’m afraid—my heart can’t take it.”
We say nothing for a long moment, watching the tour guide explain the various sightings of spirits in the park. The tourists are wide-eyed, no one notices the solemn expressions on the two people sitting on the marble steps.
“Olive,” Rafe says softly. “I wish I could tell everyone to screw themselves. Hurting you would be the last thing I’d ever want. When your mother asked me to do this, I knew it would be a risk. I thought I could get through it without—”
“Without what?”
He looks at me, and I’m certain he sees straight through me. His eyes are hot coals. “The night we almost kissed in Minnesota.”
My tongue feels too big for my mouth as I remember the talks we had, the hotel room mix up, and the moment we admitted more than friendship was between us. We’d stopped. Tom’s ring had been on my finger, but it was the moment I knew marrying anyone but Rafe would be settling. Yet, I’d done just that.
Here I am now, on the brink. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t waste away waiting for Rafe to figure out his own heart. Mine knows what it wants, but I won’t let wanting ruin me in the process.
“I thought I checked those feelings from that trip,” he goes on.
I swallow hard. “What are you saying, Rafe?”
“I don’t expect you to wait, or anything, but I want you to know I’m trying, Ollie. I’m trying to change the way I think about all this. I’m not sure I’ll ever deserve you though, princess.”
I close my eyes, choking back the sting of tears. “The feeling is mutual, Rafe. I only wish you’d see what a wonderful man you are, no matter the name. Over everything, that is what I’d want.”
Inside my heart is glass, shattered along the sidewalk. How can anyone understand the predicament unless they’ve lived the way we have? Like a classic tragedy, life, expectations, opinions cloud the path to each other.
I understand where he’s coming from, truly. I’ve seen the cruelty leveled at him.
I disagree with the logic behind our upbringings. The fallout if I burst into the Big House, declaring my love for Rafe, well, I’m not sure what would happen. I’d like to think my family and friends wouldn’t mind, but Mama did change Rafe’s name for our fake engagement.
In the furrows of my soul, I believe Rafe is worth all of it.
It might be a simple choice for some. But again, unless someone walks a mile in my shoes, and Rafe’s, the struggle isn’t understood entirely. And it breaks my heart all over again.
***
The red heels are already hurting my arches and I’ve only been standing outside the art gallery for ten minutes. I don’t like the way the crimson dress fits my arms, but Mama insisted on red. Some sort of artsy theme where everyone is to wear red, black, or white.
“Why didn’t you drive together?” Dot asks, fanning her face. Dot opted for white and looks regal in the tight dress, classy pearls, and stilettos.
“He had a family meeting for his mama,” I say. “They’re discharging her next week.”
“This place seems about as exciting as a graveyard,” she says, glaring at the gallery. “Why is this one of the events for your fake set-up? I’d skip it myself if my mama weren’t here demanding I show my face.”
“It’s for a client of daddy’s,” I say. “He’s an artist on the side, but he’s a prominent client. Looks like we’re both at the whims of our mother’s, Dottie.”
“Probably until we die.” Dot glances at me. “How are you doing with all this, Ollie?”
“It’s fine.” I try to stay casual, when inside I have no idea how to reel in the intensity of my feelings anymore. Sometimes I’m so angry I feel like my head might explode, then next I’ll be daydreaming of kissing Rafe like we did at the creek. “I don’t like deceiving people, especially Millie. I’m afraid she’ll be torn up when she finds out.”
“Sawyer likes Rafe, you know.”
I smile. “Rafe likes Sawyer. I do too. You two make a great couple.”
“Yeah? I think so too. I see you, though, Ollie. I see the way you’ve been looking at Rafe.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry, I know how you feel about things.”
“I might have opinions, but then, opinions change.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dot flicks her brows and turns toward the front door. “Maybe it’s time you make something fake a little more real. But who knows what I mean? I’m going inside, so you two can make a grand entrance together. If you need me, I’ll be drinking wine and yearning for the day Sawyer comes back to town.”
“You’re hopeless.”
Dot nods. “I am, but then, I think you are too.”
It doesn’t matter if Dot’s opinion is changing, not if Rafe doesn’t change his thoughts too.
“Ollie.”
I startle, a hand going to my chest at the sound of his voice. I wheel around and nearly slam into his chest. “You scared me. Where’s your truck?”
“The lot was full. I’m up a bit. Ready to go inside?”
I straighten his red tie. “Yes. I should warn you, I think this will be a rather boring night.”
Rafe takes my hand, grinning. “We’ll make our own fun then.”
“How did the meeting go?”
“Pretty good,” he says enthusiastically. “She’s ready. I’ve got a therapist coming to my place next week to do a home evaluation and make sure I’ve got everything in order. They think it will be temporary. They told me she can live on her own once she’s stronger. Driving might be a different story, but I think the id
ea of being in her own space was appealing to her. I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to live with me the rest of her life.”
I laugh and nudge his shoulder with mine. “I can’t imagine in the least why a mother wouldn’t want to live with her bachelor son either.”
We make our way into the main gallery. Nothing seems to fit my artistic tastes, but I’m not that distinguished I suppose. It’s all about how art makes a person feel, anyway, right? Art is meant to bring feelings, bring thoughts, discussion.
Besides, there are drinks and food.
“There you are,” my mother says, and takes hold of my arm. “Come on, both of you. You’re to be introduced to the artist.” She flicks her gaze to Rafe as if sizing him up for presentation purposes.
Mama weaves us through the crowds to where Daddy is talking with a bulbous man with a single tuft of white hair in the center of his head.
“Mr. Barrett,” Mama says. “I’d like to introduce our daughter, Olive, and her fiancé, Mr. Rafe Whitney.”
Might be my imagination, but it sounded like my mother choked on the last name more than before. I don’t mistake the long drink Daddy takes as though he’s drowning out the lie with wine.
Mr. Barrett scans us, clutching his lapels arrogantly. He couldn’t be more self-important if he tried.
“I did hear of the engagement,” he said shaking my hand, then Rafe’s. “I told your daddy, Miss Cutler, nothing brings more pride to a father than the pairing of his girl with a man who will provide stability. Seems he took my advice.”
He sniffs and I can’t keep my expression neutral. What a terrible man. Talking about me like I’m Daddy’s property.
“Barrett, Olive has the brain and picked the man,” my father says. “Bernadette and I simply got lucky it was a man like Rafe. Now, come on and show me this piece you’ve been boasting over for weeks.”
Mr. Barrett gurgles a sound of pleasure and pride and soon forgets us as he drags Daddy down a narrow hallway.
“Mr. Barrett is a firm believer young ladies shouldn’t be single past twenty,” Mama blurts out. “Strange man, but respected. I appreciate your politeness—both of you.”
I try not to laugh. “Careful, Mama,” I say. “You almost sound like the man bothers you.”