Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time (26 page)

Chapter Eleven

My classes on my first day of community college fly by. I took similar classes at UCLA, but I’d barely passed. This time, now that I’m paying for every credit myself, I have incentive to keep my grades up. If I fail, I’d have to pay for them again.

I ruled Intro to Marketing this morning. So many ideas came spouting from me when we were paired together to discuss some of our favorite commercials and why. I could feel myself light up when I talked about what worked and what didn’t and I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d finally picked something that I could stick to.

A marketing degree is only two years and I know I can do it. I can get an internship and move on from that. I do well in big cities, so maybe I could move to L.A. and get a fancy job that pay tons and I’d hire Christakos Creatives to do all the signs and maybe they’d grow into their own corporate—

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Right now I need to focus on the website with Wyatt doing all the SEO to get traffic, and we’ll deal with the small checks we’re getting. Later, we’ll take over the business world.

At the end of class, a girl comes up to me—short, redheaded and stocky—and says, “Oh my gosh I love your shoes.”

I glance down at whatever I put on my feet this morning, feeling both flattered and a little silly. They’re these gorgeous blue heels that I’d bought with the stolen money from my parents. What I should do is put them on eBay and get their money back, but I was rough on this pair. They’re the same ones I wore the day I was hit by that truck, the heel still broken and re-glued.

“Thanks,” I say, and compliment her on her bright-orange Converse she’s sporting. “My boyfriend—” I add, then cover my mouth.

“Your boyfriend what?” she asks. “He wears these? Yeah, I kind of have a tomboy streak in me.”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I mean, I like your style and everything, I...that’s just the first time I called him my boyfriend.” And where it came from, I have no idea. It’s like someone else entirely was using me to talk with my mouth. Maybe the version of myself that was present in the few weeks that I wasn’t.

The girl’s face cracks into a huge smile. She has a crooked tooth near the front, which gives her a mischievous look. “Does he know he’s your boyfriend?”

I laugh. “No! I didn’t even know he was until those words rolled from my mouth. I guess my subconscious knew what I wanted before I did.” I wonder if there’s some way I can recall some of that missing memory, like drunk memory or something. You know, when you get super drunk one night and blackout, and in the morning you try to remember and you can’t? But the next time you get drunk, you remember everything. Maybe I just need to endure another brain injury.

The girl and I walk out of the class together, into the hall and out onto the grass outside of the college campus. “What’s your name?” she asks finally, breaking the silence.

My mouth opens and, for a minute, I’m stumped. Do I give Olivia? Or Liv?

She notices my hesitation and adds, “I’m Scarlet. Well, that’s my middle name, because I was born with red hair. But my grandma has called me that since I was born and it stuck. My first name is Andrea, but that sounds too formal or something. It doesn’t seem to fit who I am.”

I like how she rambles. “Uh, I’m kind of the same way. My name is Olivia, but some people call me
Liv.
But I’m not sure if I want to go by that anymore.”

“Well, what does the guy who doesn’t know he’s your boyfriend call you?”

“Olivia.”

“And is he someone you trust? Love?”

I hesitate. Something deep inside of me says yes. I nod.

“Then maybe he knows you best.”

I’ve trusted Wyatt since the time he fixed my hair after that game of Red Rover, I realize, and I may have loved him since then too and just not known it. “Then call me Olivia.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Olivia. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other this semester.” She takes off toward the College Center and gives me a little wave.

I wave back, in a fog of confusion. I don’t know my own name and apparently I love Wyatt. So much has changed and I feel completely out of control in the decision process.

* * *

When I get back to my apartment, I try to do my homework before I need to be at work. I can’t concentrate, though, even though I try my damnedest. It seems the more I try, the less concentration I have. Like I’m focused too hard on concentrating and I don’t have any more focus for the actual thing I need to focus on. The hour flies by and I’m nearly late to work because I’m not paying attention.

At work, I’m culling and filling oranges when Wyatt comes in. My heart flutters as I think about the revelation I had in front of Scarlet and I hide behind the banana display. He knows I work in produce and that I’m actually supposed to be at work this very minute, but he might think I could be on break or working in the back.

He passes the apple and pear section, his eyes sweeping the floor, but he doesn’t spot me. Every time he moves, I move, so I stay hidden. He walks over to the bagged salad section and picks up some romaine, taking the longest time to read the back of it. I nearly laugh. My coworker Celeste is also looking for me as she’s stacking pints of berries, probably wondering if I’m slacking off. But I can’t come out of hiding. I can’t let Wyatt spot me with love inevitably etched all over my face. I’m so not ready to deal with the repercussions of letting him know how I feel because I was so shitty to him growing up.

I slink toward the back when Wyatt has his back turned toward me and close myself in the large refrigerator. If Celeste asks, I’ll tell her I had some stomach cramps and leave it at that. Celeste and I are not good friends and if someone tells you they have stomach cramps when you aren’t good friends, the conversation tends to end there.

I stay at least ten minutes, beginning to shiver, then let myself out. Before I go back out onto the floor, I take time to wash my hands even though I don’t need to, and hesitantly step out of the back room, sweeping the area with my eyes. He’s gone.

I sidle up to Celeste, making a mental note of things I need to bring out to the floor: ginger root, green onions, cucumbers. Thankfully, she doesn’t ask where I disappeared to, but I can tell she’s ready for her break. She starts pushing her cart toward the back, then stops. “Oh!” she says. “Some guy dropped this off for you.” She pulls out a little white note from her apron pocket, handing it to me and waggling her eyebrows. “I totally read it,” she adds, closing the distance between her and the back room.

I give her a
what the fuck
look, even though she doesn’t see it, and unfold the paper.

OTHER THINGS I SEE IN OLIVIA ACHILLA CHRISTAKOS:

She tells me how things really are, she’s honest to a fault.

She wants to be a better person even though she doesn’t need any improvements.

She waits for me to begin eating first so she can start, even though it should be the other way around.

She loves her family even when she thinks she doesn’t. Because when she’s in a fight with them, she gets depressed and angry.

She’s...hot, even though that shouldn’t be on the list. A person can’t love someone because she’s hot. I should say she’s beautiful, because of course she is, but she’s more than that and she knows it. There’s nothing more annoying than a gorgeous girl who pretends to think she isn’t.

She comes from a religious background and respects that, but also has the mind to think about things for herself.

She asks me what I see in her and lets me talk about her as much as I want.

She loves me back, even though she won’t admit it.

Then below that, in a different color pen as if he just added it:

I love her because she hides from me when she finally figures it out.

I crumple the paper, embarrassed and feeling an intense heat in my face, and push it into my pocket. I stare at the green bell peppers.

When Celeste comes back, sans apron and grasping a soda, she’s laughing. “Earth to Olivia...why the hell are you smiling like that? And have you gotten anything done since I’ve been gone?”

Chapter Twelve

After work, I know I should be doing my homework or my reading for the next day, but I can’t sit still and I don’t know why. I walk through my apartment, touching things, cleaning things, picking things up, but soon the small place is spotless and there’s nothing left to do. I turn on the radio, then turn it off. I turn on my TV, try to sit down in front of it and relax, but end up turning it off as well. I stare out the window and think maybe I just need to go for a walk.

It’s a warm evening, pouring rain, and instinct tells me I need to stick close to my house. Going for a walk in an as-of-yet unfamiliar neighborhood wouldn’t be the smartest thing this late at night, so I sit on my porch step and watch as a few cars drive past. It’s moments like this I wish I had a cigarette. I usually only smoke with Chloe after we’ve had a couple of drinks and I don’t want to get into becoming a regular smoker. But I could use one; it might calm my restlessness. I think about getting into my car and driving down to the convenience store to get a pack. Maybe even a coffee if they have any out. Or a soda. There isn’t much food in the house. Maybe I should go to the grocery store and get a few things, even though I’ll be right back there at work tomorrow and could get stuff then.

But my feet don’t move. They know just as well as I do that what I need isn’t in a cigarette or something to eat.

I play around on my phone for a while, thinking maybe I’ll call my parents or Natalie and see what they’re up to, but it’s late enough that Mom will probably chastise me for not being in bed myself. It might make her worry for me and I don’t need to worry about her worrying about me.

You
up?
I text Chloe and wait for an answer. There isn’t one, not even after several minutes.

I’m trying not to think about the one person I’m thinking about. He’s probably sleeping, too. He didn’t text me his usual
what are you doing tonight?
So maybe he got busy or maybe he’s sick of playing the role of the boyfriend but not getting anywhere with me.

It would be unfair of me to text him so late. It would mean that I expect him to answer or something. And I am pretty sure that he would answer. I shouldn’t text him or call him. I shouldn’t. I make up my mind not to.

But my fingers betray me.

Come over.

This desperation feeling for him is so alien, it shakes in my veins. I remember this shaking feeling, I have it in my dreams when I’m naked with Wyatt. Is this a memory?

I sit on the bed and stare into space, a huge smile creeping on my face. I’m going to do this. I’m going to have this relationship with Wyatt and it’s going to be amazing. I’m not going to get ahead of myself. I’ll take it slow—one day at a time—and I won’t put any unreal expectations on it.

Wyatt is here in less than ten minutes. The fact that he came so quickly sets my heart aflutter. It’s pouring outside and Wyatt is soaked clean through from the walk from his car, which is less than twenty feet away. His hair is disheveled and stuck up in places, like he ran a hand through it to keep the rain from dripping on his face. He’s sporting his Cub Scouts uniform, which is dark and wet, and he’s dripping everywhere. His neckerchief is askew and it makes me smile.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, breathing roughly, like he’d run the entire way.

Guilt sweeps through me. “I didn’t mean to come over if you were busy! Were you in a meeting or something?”

He shrugs, trying to look casual. “We were about finished anyway.”

“That’s a really late meeting.”

“It started early, but some of us got to chatting and it went a lot longer. Can I uh, come in?” The rain is still streaming down his face.

“Oh, crap. I’m sorry!” I step inside, letting him in. I wonder if he was with a girl. Like a girl volunteer and if he lost track of time with her because she gives him more attention than I do. “If you had something to do, you should have told me. I didn’t mean—”

He grabs my arm gently. “It’s fine, really. Gave me an excuse to get out of there.”

My eyes fall to his wet knee-high socks and I have this irresistible need to peel them off. They have to be itchy on his hairy legs. “Sit down,” I say confidently, trying to do this sexy thing with my eyes. I don’t know if the sexiness comes through because he looks scared like I’m going to bite him. I’ll try not to.

He sits without question, though, making a wet spot on my comforter. He cocks a questioning eyebrow at me.

I kneel and pop off each of his dress shoes, taking my time to peel off each wooly sock inch by inch. The skin underneath his socks is damp, tacky and pale compared to the rest of his olive skin.

He’s chuckling as I peel off the other one. “Don’t like my socks?”

“I like them better crumpled up on the floor. Take off that neckerchief.”

Instantly his hands fly to his neck. His fingers shake so badly that he can’t get a hold of the thing and I have to help him when I’m done with the socks. I untie it and fling it to the floor.

“Better?” he asks, his eyes twinkling. Drops of rain dot his eyelashes and brows.

Butterflies are doing kamikaze dives in my guts when I wrinkle up my mouth and say, “Almost. Take off that belt.”

He stands slowly, but doesn’t move his hands to his buckle. He’s studying me seriously now.

I stare back, my hands having a mind of their own as they latch on to his belt. Oh, so slowly, I pull it from his pants loops. He groans so low I almost don’t hear it. He tries to cover it by clearing his throat.

“I really hate this uniform,” I say, unbuttoning his shirt. He has a white undershirt underneath it and it shows his lean muscles. I nearly groan myself.

I can’t help myself any longer; I lean in and kiss him. His lips are wet and his hair drips onto my face. He tastes familiar again, like heat and warmth. His tongue meets mine and his hands wrap behind my head as he dips into the kiss. I can tell he’s trying to go slow. But I can feel an undercurrent inside him, like there is in me. We both want to cling and maul each other.

After a minute, he pulls away. His wet hair is still drips onto his face.

“We’ve done this a few times before, haven’t we? More than just in the restaurant?” I ask, breathless.

He nods. “Does it feel like the first time?”

I shake my head. “My lips remember yours.” And then he’s back to kissing me. He wraps his arms around my waist and I don’t know what he’s talking about not being a manly man, because I can feel his muscles and strength beneath his shirt. It makes me feel womanly and small.

It’s odd that I can feel small and taken care of at the same time I feel like taking charge. I pull off his overshirt and pull up his undershirt and look at him, throwing the clothes to the floor. He’s looking at me too, but he doesn’t have as much to look at as I do, so I peel off my own clothes, my weak arm that was recently cut from the cast sore from being underworked. I’m now wearing only a bra and underwear—my granny panty pair. I haven’t done laundry in a few days and now I wish I had. It’s not like I planned for him to come over, but I needed him here.

He doesn’t seem to care about the panties because he’s peeling them off and I’m shaking.

I pop off my bra and I’m shaking. He’s shaking with me too as I take off his wet pants and underwear. This shaking sensation feels familiar, as if it’s happened with him before. We lie together on the bed and I stare at his brown wet skin. I want to lick all the rain off him.

“I’m on something, you know, so you don’t have to worry,” I tell him, meaning I got on the pill a couple of weeks ago.

He nods into my hair as he kisses me up my neck and nibbles on my ear. “And I also brought something.”

I laugh. “Did you know this would happen or what?”

He kisses me and presses me into the bed, climbing on top of me. He’s dripping on me like I’m in my own personal rainstorm. I rub my hands over his wet stomach muscles. He quivers. “I knew this would happen since I saw you punch Jackson Parrish.”

“Ew!” I hiss. “In third grade? That’s kind of pervy.”

He laughs. “That’s a boy’s mind for you. But hey, you’re on something, so you knew it too.”

I open my mouth to argue but he silences it with a kiss. I forget what it was I was going to say anyway.

“Oh. And also?” He’s not looking at me when he says this. “This is kind of my first time.”

I twist his face back to face mine. “Then it’ll be mine, too.”

He relaxes and dives back in.

His naked skin is all over my naked skin. His hands and mouth and eyes are all over me and I give it all right back to him. I’m shuddering, he’s shuddering. We’re being so messy and clumsy and it’s so fun that it makes me feel like it really is my first time.

I decide right then to erase the past. Just for a moment. I will forget everything that has happened with James and with Wyatt in the past and live in this moment. I will pretend that I am a virgin and that I’m giving myself to this guy for the very first time. Because it feels that way.

I smile at Wyatt once more as he leans into me and I click off the lamp at my bedside. We are cloaked in darkness.

Seconds later, he’s pulling away from me and clicking the light back on. His eyes rake over every inch of me and he doesn’t match my smile. “I know you love me,” he says.

I swallow, fighting to deny it. My smile drops and I kiss him. “Good,” I say, pushing him onto the bed.

Inexplicably, a word surfaces in my mind.
Pull...

* * *

That night, when I dream, there’s only Wyatt. And it’s a movie replaying all of my favorite times with him tonight. The kissing, the rubbing, the moaning. I tell him I love him in my dream, but the words actually coming out of my mouth wake me up.

He’s awake and he’s smiling at me, but doesn’t say anything in return. Part of me wants to ask him if he heard me, but I don’t want to break the moment. I’m already broken enough, but it’s okay. Everyone’s broken in some way and I know what to do to make me whole again. I have my own life now and I know I can make my own choices and feel good about them, no matter what anyone else thinks.

I curl into Wyatt, glad to have him in my life. Glad he was patient enough to wait for me.

I don’t know if I could’ve done the same thing. But maybe, now that I know what it feels like when someone else is so patient, I can try to be the same for him. For my family.

After kissing Wyatt’s earlobe, I climb back onto him. But he shakes his head. “You’re going to have to wait a bit longer,” he says sleepily. But that’s not what I’m after.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?” he whispers, folding his arms behind his head so he can see me better.

“For being you.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” he jokes. “I’m myself all the time. It’s easy.”

As I stare into his brown eyes, I think,
not for me.

But I’m starting learn what it means to be myself and that’s a good start.

* * * * *

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