by Mj Fields
“Oliver,” I whisper as I near his bed. A bed that seems to be a source of all the pain and conflict in his life. When he doesn’t wake as easily as he did the other times, I pat his shoulder. “Oliver.”
He sits straight up and begins to throw his pillows, then his blankets, onto the floor.
“Oliver, it’s okay.”
“Can’t find it,” he begins to panic.
“Oliver, it’s okay.”
“Get fucking down!” he whispers hisses a command.
“Oliver, it’s me.”
He begins to stand, slowly. Through the light of the moon streaming through his window, I see his chest heaving rapidly and he turns away from me.
“Oliver–”
“I told you no,” he says, trying to catch his ragged breath.
“And I told you to sleep well. Guess we both–”
“It wasn’t up for debate, Natasha.” He shakes his head, then looks over his shoulder at me and sighs, “It wasn’t up for debate.”
After his shoulders begin to relax, I sit in the chair next to his bed and he glances over, “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to teach me how to ride a bike, and I’m going to teach you how to go to sleep.”
I reach to the large cherrywood nightstand and grab his phone off the charging station. “What music apps do you use?”
He sighs, “Spotify, why?”
I look down at his phone. “What’s your password?”
“My password?”
He reacts as I’m sure I would at such a request.
I hold the phone up to him. “Type it in.”
“This is–”
I interrupt him, “Called friendship. I’m going to trust you tomorrow, trust me tonight.”
“Natasha–”
I use the same words he used on me, “This isn’t up for debate.” Then I shrug, hold out my hand and wiggle my grabby fingers.
He punches in his code and huffs as he hands me his phone.
I open Spotify and make a new playlist called Ollie’s Lullabies.
I add one song, hit repeat, and set it in the speaker cradle.
“What the hell is this song?” he asks as he sits on the side of his bed.
“O-oh Child. Mom used to hum it, sing it, and play it on repeat whenever I was having a hard time.”
“How the fuck are you even sane?” he whispers still looking around the room as if he’s searching for something.
“That’s the beauty of a catchy tune like this.”
“Catchy, like an infectious disease maybe,” he huffs.
I stand, grab the pillow closest to me, set it on the bed and fluff it. “Lie down, Oliver, and let the first family of soul take all your worries away.”
“The who?”
“Trust me, Oliver?”
“If this shit works,” he lies back, “Forever.”
“Then I better make sure of it.” I take the heavy down comforter I picked up and shake it. “Arms up, Oliver Josephs.”
He lets out a heavy sigh with my name encased in it, “Natasha.”
“Trust is important to me, now arms up.”
Once his arms are up, I shake the comforter in the air and it falls on him. I walk around the bed, like my mom used to, and push it under his body, tucking him in. At first, he seems uncomfortable, but I don’t stop and by the time I push the last of it under his side, he no longer looks anxious, he looks relaxed.
When the song begins again, I sit in the chair beside him, and he sighs, “Again?”
I laugh softly, “Until you believe it or you fall asleep.”
“Christ, Little Warrior, you sure you wanna stick with design? The CIA could use you to interrogate terrorists.”
Oliver
After last weekend’s standoff between her and I, I had a feeling we could battle forever and I quickly decided it would be best to avoid World War Three and make peace, for all concerned.
Yeah, I know the entire weekend was like whiplash and that’s because I couldn’t see past Grace and truly see her.
Now that I’ve seen her, the little warrior, for who she is, I like her.
I like the way she looks when I call her that name.
I like the way she touches her scar like it’s an annoyance, not something that defines her.
I like that she isn’t intimidated at-fucking-all by me.
I like that she spars with me and doesn’t just nod her head and smile.
I like that she is so comfortable when she sits with Maisie and hangs with Bass.
I like that she looks like Grace, but is nothing like her, nothing at all.
I like that she could see past my battle scars all covered by ink but didn’t look at me like I was a fucking ASPCA commercial.
I really fucking like her in my room, and I really fucking liked her touching me.
I also hated that I liked all that.
I also hate this fucking song, because things never got easier as a child.
The small smile on her face as she dozes off, well, that’s comforting.
I wake hearing that song, the sun on my face, a slight hangover because I sipped whiskey all fucking day to take the edge off, and an unusual feeling, I’m rested.
“I’m also a damn burrito,” I grumble as I kick and push the blanket still pushed tightly under me.
Once unwrapped, I roll to my side and grab my phone, it’s fucking nine in the morning.
I jump off the bed and rush to my bag, grab a pair of dark grey sweats and push my legs into them, grab the black sweatshirt and throw it on.
I hurry to the bathroom, piss, wash my hands and brush my teeth.
When I get down the stairs, I stand torn between heading back to see Maisie and tearing around the house to find Natasha.
Sense takes over.
I walk in and see Natasha beside Maisie’s chair in front of the television with credits rolling from what I assume is the end of one of those chick flick’s girls like to watch.
Natasha stands and as per her norm, she looks absolutely beautiful. She’s in thick charcoal tights, a thin knit shadow gray dress that hits above her knees, and a slightly lighter gray, smoke gray, chenille cardigan that’s longer than the dress, and on her feet are boots that look similar to the material of her sweater, with charcoal fur lining them.
The fact that I just instinctually rattled off fabrics and styles, and colors with names not simply black or gray, makes me wonder where the fuck I left my balls. I laugh inside, oh yeah, on a desk in New York City while finding suppliers who sold fabrics better than those Jean used, because I need Bass to produce better quality, I need to make damn sure Maisie’s last days are as perfect as she is, and I need Natasha to have every tool possible to make all the beautiful images in her head come to life.
Maisie holds Natasha’s hand and pats it with her other. “You have the time of your life playing with all that fabric.”
“You know where I’ll be, come in anytime and imagine with me.” Natasha leans down and kisses the top of her head.
When she turns and sees me, she fucking beams like I’m a welcome sight and not someone who broke a promise. As she gets closer, the smell of her calms me.
God help her, and God help me.
She walks to me quickly and puts her hand on my stomach, pushing against me, moving me back from entering the room. The connection nearly drops me, sears me, awakens something I buried so long ago and never wanted to unearth again, just like last night when she tucked me in, like I was a fucking child.
Once in the hallway she asks, “Did you sleep well?”
The sweetness in her voice, the kindness in her eyes, causes a sharp pain in my chest. “I broke a–”
She interrupts with a lighthearted demand for an answer to her question, “Did you sleep well?”
“It’s nine in the morning, I slept like a baby.”
Her eyes light up and widen slightly. “You do know what a ridiculous analogy that is, right?”
I o
nly know one thing. I don’t deserve those aspen eyes to light up for me.
She smiles, and I have no idea how she sees that miniscule scar on her lip past the brilliant beam that’s nearly blinding.
She mistakes my awe for confusion and explains, “From the research I’ve done trying to prepare for the little ‘Bange’ baby coming, sleeping like a baby would mean you’re waking every two hours because you messed your pants and are hungry.”
“Bange?”
She smiles, “I’ve shipped their names. Cute, right?”
What the fuck? I shake my head and refocus the conversation.
“I promised you I’d teach you to ride a bike this morning.”
She shrugs as she walks past me. “And I may have implied I wouldn’t come in your room.”
Sitting with Maisie and drinking a cup of coffee, our typical routine, she restarted the movie that she and Natasha watched, Dirty Dancing, saying I needed to see it. Twenty minutes in and she’s asleep.
Feeling eyes on the back of my head, I turn around and see Bass leaning against the door.
I stand quietly and fix the fallen blanket so it’s covering Maisie before walking to him.
“I can’t get over how good she looks; believe how good she looks.” He smiles.
“Paris has been good to her.”
His hand clasps my shoulder as we walk out into the hallway. “And you’ve done one hell of a job with finding new suppliers, even Angela is in awe of you.”
“Is she now?” I joke as we walk down the hall toward the conservatory where I know Natasha is doing whatever it is she does. Draws, dreams, imagines.
“She’s just a bit concerned that you may piss off some of de la Porte’s longtime suppliers,” he adds.
“It was a shame that Jean didn’t use any US suppliers. Everything that was delivered this morning is from the US. Unlike the suppliers Jean used, they’ll take returns if de la Porte chooses not to use them.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m impressed.”
“If Angela’s not–”
“No, no, no, she just wants to see that Natasha’s talent and name doesn’t get soiled. With competitors and a board frothing at the bit for me to fuck up, we need to make this transition go as smoothly as possible.”
“I agree, but Angela owns shares that could–”
“We haven’t exposed our hand to anyone. Yes, we have a majority together and yes, it’s powerful, but it’s not necessary to divulge–”
“I get it.”
Bass pauses in front of the doorway and I look inside.
It’s certainly changed from last week’s appearance.
It is still the two-story room with floor to ceiling bookshelves on one side, the other side all glass, including the ceiling, but the once scarcely decorated room is now full of mannequins, fabric and people, all seeming to circle around her.
Natasha stands in the center of the room, aspen eyes full of wonder as she spins in a circle, not unlike the way I saw her on the plane after almost a week of trying to figure out a way to fix the fragile ties we’d begun to weave between us. It’s slower, but no less inspiring. She’s looking at her mother, and what I assume are seamstresses from de la Porte Paris.
“You see her?” Bass whispers and I know he’s talking about Angela who is looking at her daughter lovingly, as I’m watching Natasha. He continues, “Look at the way she looks at Natasha, like she’d do anything to make her smile, like she’d do anything to protect her, like she is the center of her world.”
I nod.
“Inside her, is another child she will no doubt feel the same way about. I planted that child inside her. I planted love that will grow and breed generation after generation of love. I am blessed with the honor of protecting and ensuring that love is allowed to grow.” He chuckles. “And you know what I did to ensure I didn’t have kids, yet still,” he pauses and thinks of what he will say, I already know what he’s thinking.
“You got your balls snipped and yet,” I shrug.
“All the things Maisie has always said,” he points out. “We end up where we are supposed to be.”
I look away, not wanting to piss on his happiness. Nor do I wish it away. Bastien was once loved, he was born to someone who knew love. Although I believe in a higher power, I don’t believe the all-powerful looks out for all of us the same.
Maisie calls life our journey, I call it a fucking joke.
But still, there is no denying something more powerful when you witness joy.
Bass nods to Natasha and when I look at her, she glances up and sees me. She stops and smiles briefly before another woman brings an armful of fabric for her to look at.
“And I need to protect all of it.” I look back at him now. “You know what that need feels like. You know what it feels like to need to protect others.”
I nod.
Bass pats my back. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
The entire day is busy, but I make sure to excuse myself and sit with Maisie when I can, after all that’s why I’m here.
I’m not here to be tended to or comforted, nor to see aspen eyes sparkling whenever they fall upon me. I’m not here to witness the strength found within to dance in circle in the light or watch childhood dreams become reality. I’m not here for her, I’m here for them.
But fuck if she isn’t something to behold.
“Shall we?” Bass nods and we enter the room.
I begin to gather the packing lists and make note of the inventory the best I can since more than half of the crates have been unpacked. It would normally grate on my nerves, but something about the excitement in the room lessens the need for order…or is it someone.
At lunchtime, I help Pierre, the chef who apparently came willed with the house, set up the buffet in the main hallway of the house. The amount of food set up for a lunchtime meal is almost baffling. Chicken, salmon, salad, several different vegetable dishes, and of course bread and pastries. In a thick French accent, Pierre told me, “Americans eat all wrong. Big midday meal to relax and enjoy refuels the body and soul. Smaller dinners keep the waistline smaller, and the evening activity level hungrier.”
I stand at the back of the line making a plate for Maisie and consider doing the same for Natasha, like she did for me last weekend, as she and Angela walk out of the conservatory.
“Hey,” she smiles at me. “The fabric? I just found out who ordered it. Thank you, Oliver.”
“Part of my job, Natasha,”
I glance out of the corner of my eye and see Angela looking at me. I know I made a shitty first impression when I met her briefly while working at the restaurant, and I’m sure she is questioning my every move, but it’s not something I care to address. If she has an issue, I’m sure she will talk to Bass.
“Not trying to step on toes, so let me know if–”
Angela interrupts, “They’re beautiful fabrics, Oliver.”
I hurry and fix Maisie’s and my plates before heading down the hall, away from the crowd, toward her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Oliver
At midnight, I still can’t sleep, and it may have something to do with the fact I heard someone walking down the hall and down the stairs an hour ago, that someone being Natasha, and she’s yet to return.
After another fifteen minutes, I can’t help my form of wondering, worrying, to stop. I get up and toss on my sweats and head downstairs.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, I see light from the conservatory and hear Natasha.
“I wish I could be there for her.”
“You are, Fancy Face, she knows you are, so don’t beat yourself up over it. I just thought you should know there’s no way he’ll make it through the holidays.”
“It’s just not fair, Aaron,” she whispers.
“Clearly,” he chuckles.
“I think I need to come for a visit,” she sighs.
“With school, visiting your mom’s new place of employment in Paris every week
end, you sure you have time?”
“I’ll make time,” she says with conviction.
“Well, let me know if I can help make arrangements once you get into New York. You can stay with me and my grandmother.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” The way she giggles afterward rubs me the wrong way.
“I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He pauses and begins again. “Fancy Face, let me know what you decide, and I’ll get the gang together.”
“Thank you, Aaron, I’ll be in touch.”
As I’m about to walk away, I hear a small squeak that turns to near silent sobs and then the sound of something hitting the floor.
My reaction is instantaneous as I hurry in the room knowing I’ll find her on the floor. Her small frame is curled into itself as she shakes with silent sobs, her hands covering her mouth.
When I close in on her, her aspen eyes lift and meet mine.
I drop to my knees and pull her head to my chest. She buries her face against it and her shaking intensifies.
I say nothing because there are no words to comfort her. I just hold my hand to the back of her head and let her cry.
When she begins to calm, so do I. In doing so, I realize I’m stroking her hair, and her hair feels like silk.
It occurs to me that while she was crying, the only need I felt coursing through my veins was to comfort. But now, her skin against mine, her scent, and the comfort level I feel with her causes unwelcome thoughts.
As naturally as I can, I start to move away, which takes restraint, but not the need I feared.
She’s not Grace.
“You’re going to be fine,” I tell her, sitting back, furthering the distance.
She nods as she wipes away her remaining tears. “I’m so sorry.”
“For whatever reason you’re hurting, so am I.”
She looks up and sighs. “Just overwhelmed.”
“Sometimes it helps to talk it through,” I suggest.
“Are you going to fake a sympathetic ear?” Her sincere smile is surrounded by tear stains.
