Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time (25 page)

Chapter Eight

A few weeks later when I’m unpacking my clothes, I realize that community college is probably going to be a lot different than I thought—more grown up, maybe, than a big university. Maybe it’s the higher population of non-traditional students—older than the typical college age—that many times have kids and families and careers. Also, there’s no housing, so I had to look online for apartment listings and the only one I could afford with the job I recently acquired at Albertson’s was a kind of mother-in-law place off my landlord’s house.

It’s a bit awkward, like I moved out of my parents’ and into someone else’s parents’ house, but they leave me alone for the most part. I have a bedroom loft, a small kitchen, and a living room with an old TV that sometimes only shows gray tones instead of full color. The previous tenant left it, a ratty couch and some old pots and pans. I told the landlords—a youngish couple, cute and outdoorsy-looking—that I wanted to keep all of it when they offered to throw it out. I have plenty of room for my clothes—if I don’t need all of them hung up. It’s rough learning to not be so picky about stuff like that, but I remind myself that even though it’s not perfect, this place is mine and I earned it.

Chloe went back to L.A. and I miss her, but we agreed to take turns driving to see each other every weekend. It’s going to be odd not having her around all the time to cheer me up.

Someone knocks on my door. When I answer it, I see Wyatt is standing on my porch step in a white T-shirt, jeans and his worn Converse, awkwardly gripping a computer monitor like it might slip and land on his toe at any moment.

I open the door wide and let him in, even though I have no idea why he’s bringing a monitor into my apartment. “What’s...up?” I ask.

“Well, you’re going to need this,” he says, rolling it not so gracefully onto my couch, “if you’re going to keep up with your end of the contract.”

I’m getting ready to argue with him, about to say that he can keep his computer because I don’t do much more than tell Wyatt when he’s made a typo on the website, which is rare. Sometimes I think he makes one on purpose just to give me a reason to call him. But instead I ask a different question. “Why did you tell the Scouts that I was the brain behind the website when you did most of it?”

He sits next to the monitor and drapes an arm over it, like it’s his best bud. “The answer, I’m afraid, goes against your guidelines defined under ‘friends.’ I’m not allowed to say things that remind you of my feelings. Remember?”

A heat rises in my cheeks, but I press on. “I need a more detailed answer besides you love me. That doesn’t even make any sense.”

He sits up and gives me a look that could warm muffins. “I wanted to see you, first and foremost. I wanted you to see your parents and fix whatever it was between you. I wanted something to keep you around.” He hesitates and then adds, “The only reason I ever went to L.A. was on the off chance I’d see you. My friends up there aren’t super important to me. They’re nice, I guess, but they aren’t worth the two-hour drive. But possibly getting to see you? Definitely worth it.” He takes a breath, looking me over. I feel self-conscious for no reason and cross my arms in front of me. “That’s actually why I was up there the night of your accident. I’d heard around that everyone was going to be at Pink Dollars. I was hoping I’d get to see you.”

My insides squeeze. That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. I was hoping he’d say that I was the real creative genius for the website—even though I know I wasn’t—and that I earned the recognition. But we both know that he did all the work and I just plugged the Christakos Creatives info into the right places. Pushing away the butterflies that have exploded in my belly, an unwanted feeling of disgust comes over me. I’ve earned nothing on my own in my life up until now. If I’d done better in high school, I would’ve gotten a scholarship. If I had come up with the idea for the website on my own, I’d feel better about collecting the paycheck. I used to sign them over to Wyatt, but he never would take them. So I started giving them to my mom. She was hesitant about taking them too; she only wanted the money I earned with her to go towards the debt, not what I earned with the Scouts, but she gave up after I got a job at Albertson’s too.

I guess the only thing I have is my grocery store job and this apartment that I truly earned myself. They’re small things, but I earned them completely on my own. But now I have to figure out how to repay Wyatt for practically giving me that contract. I’m not sure what it will be yet, but I’ll make it great.

Wyatt falls back into the couch, more relaxed, replacing his unrequited love mood with his friendship one. “Getting settled in?” he asks, a weird smile on his face.

“Yeah, I think so.” It feels awkward slipping into regular conversation after his declaration, but I don’t know what to say. My feelings for Wyatt may be blossoming a little with how kind and cute he is, but even if I give a go with him, he’ll always be ten steps ahead. And that makes me nervous. What if I’m just beginning to fall for him when he decides to pop the question or something? I shake my head. I’m getting ahead of myself.

“You never told me why you chose to go to school down here instead of in L.A.” His weird smile goes crooked, like he knows something I don’t.

“Uh, yes I did. I believe I told you the credits were cheaper—that I could actually afford them—and that it was closer to my family.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I mean, I know at first I’d wanted to go away to college to get away from my family, but now things are different. They need me. And I need them. I’d miss Natalie and, well, you. You’ve become a good friend.”

His eyes smile. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Don’t give me that noise,” I say, fighting the smile that will give away my feelings. “I mean it. We’re just friends.”

He stands. “Yeah, but I get a feeling I’m wearing you down a little bit.” He walks outside without waiting on my response and I watch him at my curb, unloading a keyboard and mouse.

I allow myself a huge smile in the privacy of the living room and then put it away. “Let me help you,” I yell, going after him.

Chapter Nine

My parents’ new office-slash-workshop is barely bigger than my new apartment but it has a downtown location, which will bring in streams of customers. Natalie seems to love it though, because there’s a back room with a TV that she can watch while Mom and Dad are running the store.

I’ve had a few blossoming feelings for Wyatt in the last two weeks, but they grow even more when he offers to help out with the move and lifts office chairs or boxes of paint and sweats while doing it, looking oh-so-manly. I know, so feministic. But my hormones can’t help themselves. It’s not like I was very feministic when I was dating James. He was my lowest point, I realize now. He continually made me feel shitty about myself, but I kept going back to him. The person he once was had disappeared somewhere along the way and I was too blind to see that. Worse, I was too blind to see Wyatt.

Being on my own for a while has taught me what I want. I want someone who will love me no matter what, who will accept me for whatever choices I’ve made and lets me be who I want to be. So for now, I know that I can’t have a relationship with Wyatt until I tell him my secret. Truthfully, I don’t know if he has it in him to accept that about me. If he’ll still love me. Maybe hearing my secret will at least knock him down a peg or two and we’ll have to start over, on a level playing field.

Mom comes up behind me as I’m unpacking boxes of wooden plaques. “Do you have enough dishes at your place?” she asks, rubbing my arm.

I laugh. “Yes, Mom. I have everything I need over there.”

She leans against the counter, looking wistfully out of the front windows. “It’s going to be weird not working out of the house anymore.”

“I don’t think it’ll be much different,” I say, “Except hopefully with more customers.”

“Yeah, but any change for me is especially hard.”

“Whaaaaat?” I tease, thinking of how hard it’s been for her to move into a more modern business. But she’s taking large strides and so far doing just fine.

“Yeah, well, we all have our little idiosyncrasies.” She smiles at me.

I told Mom about my abortion last week. She cried, got mad, threw a heavy pot across the room, and told my dad. She was mostly ticked that I hadn’t told her, that I hadn’t offered up the baby for her to raise. Even if that thought had crossed my mind before I’d done it, I doubt I would have accepted that as a viable option. I would still be the one having the baby. It would have still affected my life in a way I wasn’t ready for. Then I would have to deal with the unbelievable feelings of loss when giving up my baby. To my mother. It would still be James’s baby, making him a constant in my life. The baby might have blue eyes like James, my brown hair...it’s too much to think about so I try not to.

I still think my decision was the best for me and, despite my mother’s reaction, that belief won’t change.

* * *

Later, I visit Natalie at my parents’ house and see she’s set up her room differently. Before, she had pinky-white walls and a flowery comforter. Mom let her repaint it in darker colors—purples, blues and blacks. I remember how her favorite color use to be pink and how, in recent weeks, black has shown up more frequently in her wardrobe.

She’s leaning over a cardboard box perched atop her bed when I come all the way into the room. When I push closer, I notice the box is full of her Barbies and other dolls, and Natalie’s expression is severe and determined.

“Whatcha doin’, Bug?” I ask and then laugh. “Sorry. I don’t know why I called you that. It just came out.”

She looks up at me. “You called me that when your memory disappeared,” she says, her voice contemplative and maybe a little sad. “I used to hate it, but when you got your memory back, I missed it. You can keep calling me that if you want.”

I sit down on the bed to see her face better. “Okay,” I say. “I will.” I glance from the box and then back to Natalie. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t decide.” She sits on the edge of her bed, her bottom lip barely poking out.

“You can’t decide what?”

“On the dolls. I can’t decide whether I should throw them away or keep them. I barely play with them and they probably get so lonely in a box all the time. I know that sounds dumb.”

This kind of conversation isn’t exactly my forte. Natalie hasn’t ever talked so seriously to me before and I wonder if her change of mood has to do with either a change in me recently or the fact that she’s growing up. Maybe both.

Wyatt comes to mind, how he would approach this with Charlotte. “No, it doesn’t sound dumb,” I say. “And you wouldn’t have to throw them away. We could donate them so other kids could play with them.”

Her lips purse, just on the edge of a pout. “I don’t want other kids playing with them. They’re mine.”

“You’d rather throw them away and have them get all broken and ruined at the dump?”

Her eyes grow wide. “Is that what happens?”

I nod.

“I didn’t know that.” She thinks a long moment and says something I don’t expect. “You broke your promise.”

“What promise, Bug?” The word feels natural coming off my tongue now.

“When you lost your memory, you promised you would stay up all night with me one day. I had it all planned out. We’d watch a movie, play card games, make mac and cheese...and maybe even dress the dolls.”

“Oh.” I think fast. “I’ll tell you what. Keep the dolls for one more weekend. On, like Saturday, when neither one us has school the next day, we’ll stay up all night and we’ll do whatever you want.”

“But we have church in the morning.”

“Friday then.”

Her face brightens. “Really?”

“Sure!” I say, picking up one of the dolls. “I have too much to do today, or else I’d say we could play right now. But these dolls deserve a kind of going away party. Don’t you think? We’ll donate them in style.”

Natalie laughs. “Okay!” She jumps up and down and then leans over to give me a little hug. I squeeze her tight, not able to remember the last time we shared one of these.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says. “It’s like two versions of you have mixed.”

I smile at her, wondering if I’ll ever know what she means.

Chapter Ten

Wyatt swings by the shop in the evening because we made a plan to get some dinner. I told him I needed to talk, but not about what. I plan to tell him my secret. I’ve held onto it for too long, letting him believe I’m someone I’m not.

After I climb into his truck, we debate places to eat. He wants to go to El Sombrero, the newish Mexican place, where they have no idea what green chili is and their sopapillas are so different from the ones I’ve grown up with. Instead of the puffy, hollow pastries that you drip honey into, they’re flat and crispy and topped with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Chloe loves them, but I don’t get it. I would rather eat at Primo Italiano, but am nervous to the point my stomach is cramping, so I say, “Sounds great,” and we head for El Sombrero.

After we park, Wyatt leads me into the restaurant with one hand on the small of my back. He opens doors for me, even when I try to get to them first, and doesn’t sit until I do. His politeness is going to make this conversation even harder.

The restaurant is nice—dimly lit with brown walls and wooden floors. The design is bare and minimal but clean and quiet. There are no signs it’s a Mexican restaurant, just glossy furniture and the soft murmuring of other patrons. After we both order sodas, Wyatt says, “I’ll have to take you out next month for your birthday, so you can order a real drink.”

I nod and think,
If you still want to hang out with me after what I’m about to tell you
. Wyatt’s smile falls when he sees what must be a pained expression on my face. “What is it?” he asks. “Oh, crap. Is this where you tell me that you’re giving James another chance? I don’t think I could stand that. I mean, I know it’s your life and you should do what you’re happy doing, but were you happy with him? Oh, shit. That’s not my business.” He looks up at the ceiling and takes in a deep breath.

I shake my head, clear my throat. I open my mouth several times, but the words just don’t come out. How do I say something like this? Do I hedge and or just go for it? If I avoid it all through dinner, I probably won’t be able to eat anything and it’ll worry Wyatt. If I just blurt it out, then at least it will be over with and if he hates me, I can just leave.

So I decided I’m just going to do it. I open my mouth but my lungs won’t give me the air I need to say the sentence. After I take a sip of water, I try again. Wyatt is just staring at me like I’m having a stroke or something and he’s gonna need to call an ambulance.

“Olivia, what—”

“I had an abortion,” I say, forcing the words out before I get too scared to say them. “In March.”

His face freezes, his expression unreadable, and at first I think he’s going to stand up and walk away. If I were him, I might. He helps people—children—all the time. There’s no way he doesn’t have some strong opinions about killing fetuses. “Say something,” I whisper, unable to look at him. I remind myself that I’m not ashamed of what I did and that I shouldn’t be so worried about what he thinks. But I am. I want him to like me, as a person.

He leans across the table and puts a hand over mine. His face grows concerned. “How are you feeling about that?” He asks, his eyes searching mine.

It takes me a minute to realize that he’s not taking for the hills, making a disgusted expression, or yelling at me. I’m not sure how to proceed. “It was the right thing to do for me. I don’t regret the actual decision or anything and I know you probably think it’s super immoral and my parents would agree with you but...” I take a breath. “It was the right thing to do for me,” I repeat.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to sell me on why you did it. I asked how you feel about it.”

I take another deep breath, try to focus on my feelings instead of being so defensive about the decision. “I’m a little sad, I guess.”

His expression is somber, but he doesn’t say anything.

I feel the need to continue. “It would have been kind of cool to see a miniature little me. It would have been nice to have family that loves me no matter what.”

“Your family
does
love you no matter what.” He whispers this, like if he delivers it to me gently it will be easier to swallow. “If you couldn’t tell by the way they’re always forgiving you.”

I sigh. “I think I know that, but sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

He’s silent for a long moment and then he asks, “Can I ask you something about the abortion? Or would that be too weird for you?”

“No. Go ahead,” I say, glad we’re able to have a conversation about it instead of a fight.

“Was it James’s baby?”

I nod.

“Did you tell him about it?”

“No. And I’m not going to. I didn’t want to tell anyone, but I ended up telling my mom. And you. You of all people should know. In case.”

His dark eyebrows try to touch themselves; he’s confused. “In case what?”

“In case what I did is your deal breaker.” I look away from him. I don’t want to see the possible confirmation on his face.

“My deal breaker?” he asks, pulling his hand away. My hand is cold without it.

“You know, something someone does that makes the way you see them irrevocably destroyed.” My voice is smaller than I want it to sound. I don’t want him to think I’m afraid of his reaction, but it’s hard to hide that feeling.

“Irrevocably?”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking of Chloe and her SAT words. “It means—”

“I know what it means, Olivia. I just...” he shakes his head. “You have no idea, do you?”

“About what?” I sip nervously on my water.

He leans over even farther—his face unsmiling and intense—and says, “I
love
you. Do you understand what that means?”

I shake my head. I mean, I know what it means, but I want to know what it means to him.

“It means that no matter what you do, I’ll be here for you. If you screw up, make a bad decision—”

I raise my eyebrows, which stops him. He sounds judgy.

“—or make a decision which some would deem bad but was good for you,” he corrects. “I’ll be here. I don’t know what my deal breaker is for you yet because there hasn’t been anything you’ve done that’s been able to keep me away. You weren’t exactly the nicest person to me growing up. It was like I was a small stain on your favorite shirt—ignore it and no one else will know it’s there. But I know you cared for me.”

I grimace. “It’s not like a meant to treat you like that, I—”

“I know. You were too busy being in your own life, with your friends and guys. I’m asking you to allow me in your circle. I want to be in your life too.”

“You are now,” I say, finally returning my gaze to his. There are tears in my eyes and I think they’re more for Wyatt than for me. I really was horrible to him. “And I hope you will continue to be.”

He nods. “Of course.” He gets up and slides next to me on my bench, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in. He smells of the earth and a little like dude deodorant. I lean my head on his shoulder, only a little aware that an older couple next to us is staring.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask into his neck.

“Yes.” He slides a hand over my hair.

The waiter stops by and Wyatt and I break apart. He drops a basket of chips and salsa on the tabletop. My fingers itch to grab one, but Wyatt doesn’t so I wait. “What is it, exactly, that you see in me?”

He grabs a chip, breaks it in half, and just stares at it. As if he’s trying to avoid the question. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer me.

“Wyatt?”

“I’m trying to make sure I word this correctly without sounding cliché or trite or too cheesy.” His look is desperate and somewhat familiar, as if I’ve seen that expression on him before. Maybe in that weird time when I couldn’t remember who I was. Did he act desperate then? He sighs. “You...bring out the best version of me.”

I feel my own expression warp into a Picasso of confusion. Then I giggle. “Are you trying to say that I make you want to be a better man?”

“See...” he says, his expression pained. “I said I didn’t want to sound cliché, and here you are, cliché-ing the hell out of my words.”

I bite back another laugh. “I’m sorry.”

He grunts. “But, yeah. Something like that, I guess. When we first met, I was this nerd who kept collectible cards in his back pocket, who was afraid of skateboards and...I don’t know...life. But then you came around, calling me a pussy and showing me how to skateboard like a boss, and it made me want to be better. Less afraid of everything. I mean, I know I’m not the manliest of guys. I can’t leap buildings in a single bound, but I’m
better
...than I was...because of you.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, just continues to stare at his broken chip. I grab him by the front of his shirt and lay one on him. He’s stiff at first and then he melts into it. My heart stampedes through my ribs. My lips on his feels somehow familiar.

James wanted so little from me, got so little from me, and here is a guy who has actually used part of my personality as inspiration for his. I pull away from him, embarrassed. “You, uh...” I begin, feeling just as awkward as he looks. “You do the same for me.”

He lifts his eyes. “I do?”

I nod. “I want to be a better sister because of how you are with Charlotte. I want to be a better daughter. A better person. I want to stop taking everything for granted and be grateful for the small things I have. Like you are. You are content with your life because you have family and friends and your skateboarding journalism.”

His face brightens. “You’ve been reading up on my blog.”

I shrug. “A little.”

He glances at me with hungry eyes and I think he wants to lean in for a kiss. I turn away. I really should have thought that kiss through. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry...about the lies. I don’t blame you if you never trust me again. I never should have gone along with it.”

I smile, wanting to lean into him, but deciding against it. I still don’t know exactly what I want and Wyatt deserves not to be jerked around. “I’m kind of glad you did.”

He leans down, kisses me on the nose, and my breath catches. When our food comes, we’re still looking at each other silently and the plates hitting the table startles us. We laugh. It’s then I know that something between us, something good, has
irrevocably
changed.