Kaleidoscope Hearts (12 page)

“And?”

“And I miss you.”

My heart trips a little at his admission and the way he says it, all smooth and low. Then I remember Wyatt and his “I miss you’s,” which weren’t said often, only when he was away on one of his many trips, and only after it’d been a couple of days since we’d spoken. I never questioned him or what he was doing. I never wondered if he’d been with another woman, and even the times Mia planted that seed in my head, nothing grew from it, because for some reason, I didn’t care. I always wondered if there was something wrong with me for not caring.

“You don’t miss me, Oliver. Besides, aren’t you dating someone?” I remind him with a glare.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a thing, I wouldn’t call it dating.”

“Just fucking,” I say, sounding more bitter than I intended. “Not that I care,” I add quickly. Oliver smirks, and I feel my face growing hot. “I have shit to do,” I say, finally coming to my senses and stepping forward, but he doesn’t move away from the door.

“Are you having fun with him?” he asks, nodding his head toward the outside. Having fun with him. It’s funny how I can straight-out ask him if he’s fucking somebody, but when he asks me, he uses the term
having fun.
It reminds me of when we were teenagers, and Mia’s mom would call her boyfriends her
little friends.
“Or is it the guy with the long hair that you like? I know you have a thing for that.”

I take a step back. I do have a thing for guys with long hair, probably because of him. I should hate guys with long hair because of him. I should, but of course, I don’t. Oliver’s hair isn’t long anymore, but it’s still long enough to run your hands through and tug on if his head is between your legs. He has a sandy brown scruff going on over his jaw that isn’t just a five o’clock shadow anymore. It would probably feel delicious against the inside of my thighs.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, the huskiness in his voice snapping me out of my fantasy.

“Huh?”

He takes a step forward so he’s right in front of me, my eyes at the level of the Dr. Hart ID on the pocket of his left pec.

“Elle. Look at me,” he says. A slow, curling desire winds its way around my belly. I have two options: push past him and leave, or look into his eyes and acknowledge the desire that heats the air between us like a blowtorch. I choose the latter because I’m a moron, and because clearly, I like to have my heart shredded repeatedly. “You want me. After all this time, you still want me.”

“I don’t have time for this right now. They’re waiting for me,” I whisper, trying to pull away from the electrical current that is his gaze.

“One date, Elle. One date. I’m keeping my word and not touching you, I promise.”

“You’re already fucking someone. Do you really need another?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “For your information, I’m not. Do you really think this is about fucking you?”

I don’t know,
I want to say. History tends to repeat itself, but I hold my tongue on that part.

“I don’t know what it’s about,” I respond, dragging my eyes away. I feel like I’m suffocating in this tiny space with him. I try to brush past, but he grabs my arm.

“One date.”

I close my eyes and shake my head, regretting it when I feel tears start to prick them. “I’m not ready.”

He drops his hand, looking pained. He’ll live; he always finds things to fill his time with. As I open the door, I look at him over my shoulder.

“By the way, Dallas, the blow job guy, is gay. Micah, the guy with the hair, was one of Wyatt’s best friends, and he is
so
not my type.”

“He’s cute,” Dallas says later, while we’re priming the walls, and I know he’s talking about Oliver, so I make a grunting, annoyed sound that makes him laugh. My eyes sweep over to Micah, who doesn’t comment.

“I’m just saying, I would totally do him,” Dallas adds.

“He would probably do you too if he swung your way. You’re older, kind of good looking with your nerdy boy glasses and your bow tie . . . yeah, I think he would.” My words make him smile and roll his eyes.

“What did he want to talk about?” Micah asks, and my heart starts thumping in my ears. His tone is always nonchalant, so I can’t read him properly, and that kills me.

“Just stuff.”

“You dating him?” he asks. I suck in a breath. In a sense, I feel like Micah is the string telephone between Wyatt and me, and as soon as I feel like I’m cutting the string, he tightens the knot so I can’t.

“No, I’m not dating him! I’m not dating anybody.”

Micah sighs heavily and puts the roller down before turning to face me. “He’s not coming back, you know? He’s not on one of his trips around the world where he’ll be back next week. You have every right to move on.”

“I’m not ready,” I say, my voice cracking as I pick up a roller back and continue painting. I hear the metal roller handle he’s holding clatter to the floor, followed by approaching footsteps. I know he’s behind me, but I refuse to turn around. I know if I do, I’ll cry. I know if he keeps talking, I’ll cry. I don’t want to cry in here. I want this project to be about hope and life, not pain and loss.

“That wall,” Micah says, standing beside me as he points at the wall. “That wall is your life, Elle. The blue isn’t ugly, and it’s not sad, but we’re painting over it because its time is over. The nurses who walk in here won’t forget how it looked. The kids who stare at these walls all day won’t forget, and maybe they’ll miss it sometimes, but we have to give them something that makes them happy to look at. Life is short, and brutal, and painful, and it takes loved ones away from us as quickly as it brings them into our lives, but it’s also beautiful. Wyatt would want you to move on and be happy. Date, get married, have kids, travel . . . do whatever makes you feel alive. The longer you mourn, the less you live, and you know how short our time here can be.”

Imaginary fingers curl around my throat and squeeze so tightly that I can’t even respond. I don’t even realize I’m crying until Micah pulls me into his chest, and a loud, wet sob escapes me. I hear something drop on the other side of the room and feel Dallas’ arms wrap around us so that we’re standing there, all three of us crying for the missing pair of arms that would’ve covered us all. I call it a night shortly after that, because I can’t look at the wall without crying. As I head out, I see Oliver leaning his elbows on the counter with his face buried in his hands. I wonder if he’s tired or if one of his patients isn’t doing well.

I keep thinking about the damn blue wall, and even though I have reasons not to, I want to comfort him. Sorting through the negative memories in the past, I focus on the good ones and cling to those. Without further hesitation, I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his middle, laying my cheek over his back. His body stiffens.

“We go out as friends. No date,” I say against him, and feel him let out a long breath. I drop my hands when he straightens and turns to face me, his eyebrows furrowing as he scans my face. “Okay?” I ask in a whisper. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he brings one of his hands up to cup my cheek. I shiver, as he runs the pad of his thumb over it slowly.

“Okay. A friends date,” he responds. He holds my gaze as dips his head. I start to lose composure. Oliver knows my date rules include no kissing, and we’re not even on a date, friends or otherwise. But, when his breath falls over my lips, my eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t kiss me though. His lips land on the very corner of my mouth, like they did so many years ago on the roof of my parents’ house. You would think with the one-man band going on inside my chest, that he’d done something more risqué. My eyes open slowly as he backs away from me, his eyes examining me as if I’m some sort of ancient artifact.

“It’s still a yes, right? I didn’t break any rules.”

I nod slowly, enthralled by him, despite inner thoughts screaming
NO.
If that was his friendly kiss, I don’t think I would survive a real one from him, even now that I know better.

“You’ll send me the rest of the rules? Even if we are just going out as friends?” he asks, with a sparkle in his eyes that makes me nervous.

I nod again.

“At a loss for words?”

“You caught me off guard,” I whisper.

He tries to hide a smile, but I see the dimples deepen in his cheeks, so I know it’s there.

“You just made a really bad day a whole lot better for me,” he replies, cupping my face and running his thumb over my bottom lip.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask, leaning into his touch.

He shakes his head and smiles sadly. “This is enough.”

I can’t help it; I smile back. We stand like that for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, his finger on my mouth and my heart in his hands, until the hospital speaker calls out his name.

“I should go. You have work and, unlike some people, I need sleep.”

Oliver nods, drops his hand from my face, and steps toward the patient rooms.

“Good night, beautiful Elle.”

“Good night, handsome Oliver,” I say with a smile.

He grins as I turn to walk away.

“Text me when you get home,” he calls out. I leave the hospital feeling much lighter than I did when I walked in. When I get to my car and press a hand to the spot his lips touched, I swear I can feel it tingling. I close my eyes and try to remember if Wyatt ever made me feel that way. I loved him—I really did—but every time I’m around Oliver, it’s something I question. It makes me feel terrible for even comparing the two. Maybe I just loved them differently. Maybe Oliver has been more of a familiar, teenage-hormones kind of love and Wyatt was more of an adult, predictably stable kind of love. I can’t decide which is best, or if either of them are, really. Not that I have to. Wyatt is gone, and there’s nothing I can do about that. So why does going on a just friends date with Oliver make me feel like I’m making the ultimate betrayal to his memory?

I’M PACING THE gallery when a woman opens the door and makes me stop in my tracks. She smiles as she lifts her sunglasses into her hair. She’s older—probably the same age as my mom—and carries herself with the grace of a prima ballerina.

“Are you the owner?” she asks, looking around once before settling on me again.

“Yes,” I respond, and walk to her. “Estelle Reuben. Have you been here before?” I ask. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. In the past, Wyatt and I hosted painting reveals in our gallery, so I figure maybe she came to one of those.

“Actually, I haven’t. I think we may have met once in New York,” she says, tilting her face to examine mine. “You’re Wyatt’s . . .”

“Fiancé.” I fill in the blank. Fiancé, ex-fiancé, fiancé before death, I never really know what to say to a stranger who knew of me.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says, smiling sadly. Her face muscles don’t move much when she smiles, and it makes her look a little more grim than it does compassionate, but I return it nonetheless.

“Thank you. Do you collect?” I ask, figuring she must, if we met in New York.

“Yes. I’ve had my eyes on that one for a very long time.” She lifts a delicate hand and points at my main attraction, the eye that watches over the gallery.

“Oh,” I say in a whisper.

“How much for it?” she asks. “I’ve tried to buy it in the past to no avail.”

My eyes widen as realization washes through me. “Priscilla?” I say, turning to face her. Priscilla Woods has been calling—and has had her husband’s assistant call—for almost a year now. I keep turning down their offers, although they’re big sums, because she wants my two favorite paintings, and I haven’t been ready to give them up.

“You remember,” she says smiling. “I’m in town for a couple of days, so I figured I would stop by to see if you’re ready to sell these pieces to me.”

“That one isn’t for sale,” I say, clearing my throat to make sure I’m heard.

“And the other? The shattered hearts with wings?”

I look away from her, toward where the painting hangs on the opposite wall. “It’s called Winged Kaleidoscopes,” I reply, suddenly feeling a lump settle in my throat. Wyatt painted it shortly after we got engaged. He painted three, sold two, and kept one for the gallery. I was never sure if he would sell it, even though the meaning behind it always made me tear up and smile. Ultimately, it was his painting to do with what he pleased.