Olivia (6 page)

Dad still has issues with me riding the trains
alone, so he’d purchased a parking space near the Columbia
University station. It was more practical than thoughtful. After
parking, we get on the subway to go to dinner first.

This week is our splurge week, and even though I
spent way more money on the key, we’re still going to one of my
favorite secluded Italian restaurants. The owner knows Dad. Jon and
I have to be wary of our public displays of affection when we eat
here, but we are always tucked away from the other patrons in a
private area and served by the manager of the restaurant. We
normally use dinner time to catch up with one another, and movie
time to be affectionate.

Jon–without fail–orders the special. It started
because he didn’t like having to ask me what all the ingredients
were since the menu was in Italian. Now that he’s learned them,
though–quickly and with only one casual lesson–he says the
combination of ingredients never sounds appealing to him, so he
likes to be surprised, and the special has never let him down. The
manager has now learned to not even reveal to Jon what’s in the
dish until after dinner.

I normally get the same thing: spaghettini.

As we wait for our dinners to be served, Jon reaches
for my hand across the table. He adjusts my ring, and then latches
his fingers with mine. “How are you?” he asks.

“
I’m great!” I tell him, raising my
eyebrows, wondering why he’d think I’d be anything
but
great. I’m with
him
.

“
Good,” he says, smiling warmly.
“Tell me about today.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing much to tell that you
don’t already know. I hung out at the loft, got the key, and
confirmed that Francisco will be away next weekend.”

“
That’s good. I want to talk about
the painting.”

“
A specific one, or the act
of?”

“
Act of,” he confirms. I sigh.
“Olivia, I know it’s hard to stay motivated–”

“
It’s not a motivation thing. It’s
avoidance.”

“
Just put that one aside,” he says
softly, and I know he’s referring to Granna’s portrait.

“
I can’t just put it aside,” I
explain as I feel my throat tighten. “It’s not like I can just push
Granna aside.”

“
I’m not asking you to do that, and
you wouldn’t be.”

“
It feels exactly like I would
be.”

“
Listen, Liv,” he starts. “I know
what this feels like. When I stopped going to the Art Room, her
absence in my life was tangible. Donna was a driving force behind
my creativity. I remember not feeling truly confident in my ideas
until she agreed, and stepped back to watch me draw. And then I’d
wait in anticipation to discuss the finished product with her. I
looked forward to that.

“
Without her, I had to become more
self-motivated.”

“
Become?” I ask him. “When have you
not been self-motivated?”

“
When I didn’t have the confidence
I needed to get started on a project.”

“
Well, I don’t think I have a
problem with self-motivation.”

“
Your confidence is shaken.” He
says it with such assuredness. I stare at him, not knowing if he’s
right or wrong. “I’ll help you.”

“
It’s inspiration. I don’t feel
inspired anymore.”

“
I can help with that, too. I mean,
how do you feel when you finish a painting?”

“
I don’t even remember,” I tell
him, slouching toward the table. He lets go of my hand and reaches
across, tilting my head up so I look into his eyes.

“
I do. Accomplished. Satisfied.
Happy
.”

“
I’m perfectly happy with you,” I
explain. “You’re all I need to be happy...
and
satisfied.” I look up at him through my lashes,
hoping to change the subject. He’s unable to conceal the smirk, and
eventual smile.

“
But what inspires you? If not me,
who? Or what?”

“
I’ll know it when I see it, I
think,” I assure him, even though I’m not sure at all.

“
Maybe we could go to some
museums–”

“
We’ve been to them
all–”

“
What about Nate’s off-site
storage? I know his work inspires you.”

“
It reminds me of her,” I whisper,
feeling choked up. “Mom’s tried to take me there, too.”

“
Hey,” he says. “Don’t cry. I don’t
want to upset you. Let’s just try to think of some
possibilities.”

“
Next weekend.” I grin, and he
follows suit. “I’m excited about next weekend, and I bet I’ll be
inspired after that.”

“
You think?” he asks.

“
Maybe,” I offer. “But Jon, I need
to be the one to make this decision–to paint, I mean. It stresses
me out when you bring it up. I don’t need that kind of
pressure.”

“
Baby, I’d never pressure you. If
anyone understands, it’s me. I hope you know that. I just want to
help you. Just ask me to help, when you’re ready. I miss the
artist, though,” he says with a slight smile and a
shrug.

“
She’s still in here.”

“
I know she is. I just wish I knew
how to coax her out of there.”

“
Jon–”

“
Next weekend,” he says plainly,
putting both of his hands up in surrender. “Maybe next
weekend.”

The manager brings our food to us, setting it down
carefully. Jon squints, trying to figure out his dish, before
looking up for my response.

“
Maybe.”

“
Maybe.”

After dinner, we walk a few blocks to one of the
theaters we rotate through. I purchase the tickets, and Jon gets
our standard movie snack: Junior Mints and two waters.

When we get inside the empty theater, before going
to our seats, Jon quickly sets our drinks in two cup holders, hands
me the candy, and wraps his arms around me as his lips meet mine. I
feel faint, losing my breath and sensing the fluttering air escape
my lungs. It’s probably my favorite feeling. It’s my confirmation
of love. No one has ever made me feel that way before, and I doubt
anyone will ever make me feel it again–not that anyone else will
have the chance.

Jon only pulls away when he hears the tiny squeak of
the theater door behind him. We both put our heads down–guilty,
caught–as he grabs our drinks. We make our way up the stairs to the
back row.

After taking a seat, I drag my hand through my hair
as I look up, more to shield my face than anything else. Even
though the room is dark, the previews on the screen still
illuminate our features, and I’d been recognized before. Grateful,
I notice the person who entered is only there to clean the theater.
I glance at Jon, who’s staring right back at me, his smile matching
mine. He shrugs out of his blazer, handing it to me. I fold it
neatly and place it between my back and the arm rest on my left,
and then move the one on my right out of our way. When the janitor
leaves, Jon helps to move my legs into his lap, letting his fingers
trail across the smooth skin of my calves, then knees. He puts his
other arm across my shoulder, holding me close as I lean into him
to press soft kisses on his cheek, chin and neck.

We’re cautious through the previews, but as soon as
the movies starts, he nudges and nips urgently at my shoulder and
neck. With a sigh, he pulls back, fixing a few strands of my hair
as he looks at me sweetly. “Thank you for giving me next weekend to
look forward to,” he says, his voice low and quiet.

“
You’re welcome.” I feel my cheeks
heat in a quick blush. He touches one of them, obviously seeing the
enhanced color, then pulls my lips to his. The flutter rises again,
passing from me to him in a needful gasp. He groans softly, his
mouth vibrating against mine. His hand slips slowly up my skirt,
where his fingers meet the hem of my underwear. He tugs at the
garment playfully, eventually grasping the fabric in a fist that he
presses against my hip.

“
What color?” he whispers in my
ear.

“
Red,” I tell him proudly. He
closes his eyes in frustration and shakes his head before returning
to me with more kisses.

“
I wish I could see them,” he
says.

“
Next weekend. Maybe.”

“
Not maybe. Definitely,” he
suggests, searching my eyes and nodding his head. I bite my cheek,
flattered by his attraction and excited by the thoughts of what
we’ve already done, and what we’re going to do next
week.

“
Definitely,” I return.

“
Thank you, baby,” he sighs,
kissing my neck and angling my head back to have better access to
the pendant in the middle of my chest. He kisses it first, then
teases the skin on either side of it. I
ache
for him. Yet another feeling I’d never had before
I met him... and that ache is almost as wonderful as the infrequent
release I’d experienced with him only a handful of times. Since the
first time we’d made out like that last Christmas at his apartment,
it only had gotten better. I was well acquainted with the
feeling–wanted it and begged for it–and even when we found
ourselves alone in moments long enough to take our making out that
far, what I experience far surpasses what I remember it feeling
like. Every time is new, is perfect, and is all I need to know that
I would never want anyone other than him.

On my first day of school, most of the other
students have emptied out of the economics classroom before the
bell that releases us has even stopped ringing. Finn stands over my
desk, waiting for me to put my book away.

“
I don’t know why I bother teaching
this class,” Mr. Coleman murmurs. We both look up at him, curious.
“I mean, don’t most of you have accountants already? Or money
managers? People who tell you when to buy or sell? You don’t manage
your money, do you? Livvy?”

“
I mean,” I stutter, placing my
things in my bag, “I don’t yet. But it’s just because I don’t know
how. This is more than personal economics anyway,
right?”

“
I just wonder how many of you have
any idea what the GDP is.”

“
God damned... something,” Finn
says, looking at me. “Right?” I look at our teacher, wondering if
my friend will be reprimanded.

“
Parent?” I ask with a grin as I
watch Mr. Coleman put his head in his hands, laughing. His
reputation precedes him. He had been voted Best Teacher by students
for the past seven years.

“
That’s it,” Finn says, and I’m not
sure if he really thinks that’s right, or if he’s playing along. We
stand up and walk past our teacher’s desk.

“
Gross Domestic Product,” I say to
him on my way out the door.

“
There is hope!” I hear him yell
behind us.

“
What’s that mean?” my friend asks
me.

“
Hell if I know,” I admit.
Economics has never personally interested me, so I know I have a
lot to learn this year. “Isn’t that why we’re in the
class?”

“
I guess.”

“
Livvy?” I turn around to see who’s
called me.

“
Xandra?” The three of us had been
going to school here all our lives. She’s two years older than I
am, though, and is now in my grade because she failed most of her
courses last year. She blamed it on her parents’ divorce. Although
we know of one another, it’s rare that we ever speak.

“
I was wondering...” she says as
two of her friends sidle up behind her. “Can I have your
autograph?” The three girls start laughing immediately as Xandra
produces a copy of the tabloid magazine that prominently features
grainy photos of me in my bikini, sunbathing and playing in the
surf with my brother.

I roll my eyes and turn on my heels to walk
away.

“
I’ve got mine!” Finn says, waving
his copy in the air above my head. I snatch it from his grip
quickly and run away from him toward the cafeteria. He catches up
to me and tries to tug it away.

“
I’ll rip it up,” I threaten,
pulling hard against the paper. I hated the voyeurism of the
paparazzi, but in this instance, it seemed to quell any rumors of a
pregnancy.

“
No!” he yells. “We had a
deal.”

“
Yes, we did. The deal was I’d sign
it if you never showed it to me again.” I look down at the most
prominent picture, where I’d scrawled
“Screw you,
Finn! Love, Livvy”
in permanent marker.

“
No, you only asked me to keep it
out of your father’s sight. And last I checked, he didn’t go to our
school.”

“
Well, I never want to see it
again, either. And, ewww that you even carry that
around.”

“
I just did it for novelty... and
to prove that you prefer me to all the other jerks we go to school
with.”

“
In order, it goes Camille, you,
Mr. Coleman in there, and then the rest of them. You didn’t need
any proof to know that Xandra wasn’t high up on the
list.”

“
She’s just jealous.”

“
She’s just
rude
,” I correct him as we enter the cafeteria.
Camille stands from a table across the room, waving at us. “It was
hard enough making friends in my own grade,” I admit to Finn. “To
go and skip my sophomore year, that just made more of a target out
of me.”