by Lori L. Otto
livvy | choisie book 4
by Lori L. Otto
LIVVY
Copyright 2014 © Lori L. Otto
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Lori L. Otto Publications
Visit our website at: www.loriotto.com
First Edition: December 2014
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Printed in the United States of America
dedicated to my parents
CHAPTER 1
When we walked into this restaurant, he was the only other person to recognize Livvy Holland. The short haircut was supposed to be a disguise and give me a little more privacy. Within three minutes, five other people knew my identity, the daughter of Jackson Holland II. Since we sat down ten minutes ago, four more people were informed. I hadn’t even had time to enjoy the brief anonymity, and I resent him for it. I decide to set a limit of fifteen people. After the fifteenth person, I’m getting a cab back to my dorm. I don’t care if it is a forty-five minute ride to campus.
“Sir, would you like another drink?”
“Yeah, make it a Dewar’s on the rocks,” Wayne says. “You sure you don’t want anything, Livvy?” He hands me the wine list, but my eyes never leave his as I shake my head in the negative. The waiter walks quickly to the bar as I take a sip of my water.
“You kind of ruined it for me,” I explain. “Now that they know who I am, they know I’m not old enough to drink.” Not that I want to, anyway, but it’s the principle of the matter.
“Sure you can. That’s what money’s for,” he says with a laugh.
“Oh, am I picking up the bar tab tonight?” I ask brightly, blinking innocently.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, reaching across the table to put his hand on mine. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure they gave us good service.”
I smile at him, trying not to be so shrill, but he’s making it impossible for me to have a good time. “Well, this place is known for its good service. I don’t think we had to worry about that.”
“I just want the best for you, Livvy.”
“I understand,” I say with a nod. “Thank you.”
“Do you know what you’re going to get?”
“The vegetable risotto,” I tell him.
“That’s the cheapest entrée here! You can get anything you want.”
“I would like the vegetable risotto.”
“Are you going to get a salad?”
I glance over the menu, seeing something that makes me smile. “Yes, this peekytoe crab one, because the name’s too good not to try it.” I giggle to myself before looking up at him. His brows are furrowed and he looks too serious. “Peekytoe crab?”
“Livvy, those are throw-away fish,” he says. “You don’t want that.”
Fish? I look at him in disbelief and sigh. “Just order for me, please,” I tell him. “Whatever you think I’d like. I’m going to the ladies room.” Before he has time to try to stop me, I grab my bag and go to the hostess station to find out where the restroom is. I consider leaving now, but I promised my roommates I’d give him a chance.
He’s cute, yes, but he spent the entire car ride here trying to impress me with useless facts–and some tidbits that he believed to be facts, but weren’t. I’d learned a lot from dating the smartest guy I’d ever met. It’s quite possible he’s ruined all other men for me.
In the bathroom, I pull out my powder and touch up my makeup. I stare at my reflection, still wondering when I’ll start feeling like myself again. I haven’t felt real happiness in months.
As I put away my compact, I glance at my cell phone, checking for messages or texts. I’d stopped feeling disappointment at the lack of communication some time ago. It’s just normal now. I expect nothing, and get nothing.
Wayne stands when I return to the table, helping me with my chair. “Thank you,” I tell him politely.
He takes a drink before sitting back down across from me. “Vegetable risotto and the crab salad you wanted–”
“Peekytoe,” I clarify, wishing he would just lighten up and say it. The name makes me smile again. If I just keep thinking of this crab, he may actually think I’m having a good time. Peekytoe. Peekytoe. Peekytoe.
“Yes. That.” I look down at the wooden table so I can roll my eyes without him noticing. I wonder if I’ll be like him–lacking proper manners and a sense of humor–when I’m twenty-four.
I’d met Wayne on my first day of orientation. He’s a grad student, but had signed up to help introduce Freshman to the Yale campus. A native of Manhattan, he recognized me by my name, but not by my looks. The pixie haircut had been a surprise to everyone–even my parents. I got it the day before I left for college. Mom cried. Dad was shocked, but impressed that it had grown long enough for me to donate the tresses.
“Some little girl’s going to be very happy,” he’d said. I was sure he was right, but I had selfishly cut it in hopes of it making me happy. I wanted a fresh start. I needed one. I’d been sad for too long.
The new hairstyle didn’t make me any happier. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I cry a couple times a week, now for a different reason; a silly one, I admit, when I’m thinking rationally: I miss my long hair. My roommates keep telling me that the cut is very flattering. I think they’re just trying to be nice. We’re still in the ‘honeymoon’ phase, doing anything we can to not get on one another’s nerves in our small living quarters.
“Tell me about your summer,” he says as we wait for our salad course.
“I painted a lot,” I tell him. “That’s really all I did this past summer. I have nothing interesting to report,” I explain with a shrug.
“Well, what did you paint? Like, a house? A room?”
“No. It’s fine art. This series about... um,” I start. “Well, it chronicled a relationship, from its inception to its demise.” I swallow hard and look away from him, hoping he doesn’t see the pain I feel.
“What kind of relationship?” he asks.
I don’t understand his question. “A romantic one?” I ask, unsure.
“That sounds pretty grown-up for a seventeen-year-old,” he says.
“I’m pretty grown-up for a seventeen-year-old,” I affirm. “Does my age bother you?”
“Not one bit,” he says. “I prefer a younger woman. But you’ll be eighteen... when?”
“A few weeks.”
“Then you’ll be an adult,” he says raising his eyebrows suggestively.
“Mm-hmm,” I respond, wondering what he’s insinuating but not caring enough to ask.
“Your peekytoe crab salad, Miss Holland,” our waiter says with a grin.
“Do you laugh every time you say it?” I ask him casually.
He chuckles easily. “I do. I love when people order it,” he says. “How can you not smile?”
“My thoughts exactly. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Miss Holland. And your foie gras, sir.” I look away from his dish quickly. Had I known he was going to order that, I would have voiced my disapproval. I suddenly lose my giddy smile and my appetite.
“Have you had foie gras before?”
“No,” I tell him, crinkling my nose as I shake my head. Although my dad used to enjoy it, my mother had convinced him to never eat it again. Once I heard the reasons, I never even considered it.
“It’s delectable.” He scoops some on his fork and holds it over the table. “Try it.”
“No, thank you.
”
“You’re not one of those people, are you?”
“No,” I say, not wanting to get into a debate over fatty duck liver. I realize quickly my disapproval wouldn’t have convinced him to choose another starter, anyway. How am I going to get through this dinner?
Peekytoe. Peekytoe.
I smile as I take a bite of my salad, repeating the phrase in my head.
“You have a beautiful smile,” Wayne says.
“Thank you.”
As we eat dinner, things become a little less awkward. Despite our differences, he knows everything there is to know about Yale, and I’m grateful for the tips he offers. He seems to relax more, too, when he’s finally being himself and not just trying to impress me. By the end of the meal, I feel okay with our evening together. He suggested that I choose a dessert for us, and after tasting the delicious lemon treat and voicing my love for it, he let me finish it by myself.
On the ride back to New Haven, he tells me about his thesis. I’m sure I could understand what he was talking about if it interested me at all, but I find myself daydreaming, seeing a color in my mind and wondering how I can mix paints to make it. I check the time, realizing it’s too late to go over to the studio tonight. They’re open all night, but I don’t feel comfortable enough around campus yet to wander around in the middle of the night.
Wayne walks me up to the door, holding my hand in his. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with dread, realizing his friendly gesture is probably his way of warming me up for something more. I have no desire to kiss him. I still see the foie gras–and even if he hadn’t eaten that, I still wouldn’t want to kiss him. I’ve only ever wanted to kiss one man. Unfortunately, I’d kissed one man too many already, and that was apparently the kiss of death in my first real relationship.
“I had a nice time, Livvy,” he says in front of L-Dub, the building that houses my dorm.
“Yeah, me, too. Thank you.” He takes a step closer to me. My instinct is to take a step back, but I don’t want to be rude. I look around the courtyard in hopes of finding something that will distract us both. I barely catch his movement out of the corner of my eye, but manage to turn my head to the side just in time to feel his lips on my cheek. He was going for the lips, and although I feel my skin heat up with embarrassment, I’m glad that I stopped him.
When he pulls back, he acts unfazed by my denial. “Can I call you sometime?”
I shift on my legs and look away from him briefly. “I think foie gras is bad.” It’s the least personal rejection I can think of in the moment, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He was nice enough, but isn’t anywhere near the person I want to be with.
He looks at me curiously. “Does that mean I can’t call you?”
“It’s... you know,” I stutter. “It’s morally wrong.”
“Gotcha,” he says as he moves away from me. His hand finally lets go of mine. “Good night, Livvy.”
“Goodbye, Wayne.” My eyes follow him as he makes his way across the yard, eventually disappearing behind the large building. Drawn to an empty bench nearby, I take a seat, pulling my jacket tighter. The wind on my neck still feels foreign to me. I reach back, kneading my fingers into tense muscles at the nape. I’d been so nervous about this date all day. Now that it’s over, my earlier worrying seems pointless. I wonder if I would feel differently if Wayne had been someone I liked; someone I cared to see again. Had it been Jon...
Standing up quickly, I decide to walk the well-lit block around L-Dub. I bite the inside of my lip–hard–until it hurts. I’d hoped to distract myself from thoughts of him, and the pain makes my eyes water. I’m not crying because of him. I’m crying from the pain.
I stopped crying for him weeks ago. Breathe, Livvy.
“Breathe, Olivia.” I hear his voice in my head. I lean against the brick wall and bask in the memory of Mykonos. On our first night together, I held my breath in nervous anticipation as he settled his body against mine. I hadn’t noticed how still I’d become, but he had. How could we share what we did, Jon? How could you walk away from us?
I force myself to continue walking, coaching myself to inhale and exhale as if I’m learning how to do it for the first time. On the backside of the building, a street lamp shines on a set of steps in between flower beds. I sit down and take my phone out of my purse, wanting to talk to someone.
“Little Liv?” my uncle answers.
“Hey, Matty,” I say, attempting to sound chipper.
“How was it? Is it over already?”
“It was fine,” I answer him.
“Fine? Not good enough,” he says quickly. “Next!”
“Matty,” I laugh.
“Move on. Don’t waste your time.”
“I’m not!” I say, still smiling.
“It wasn’t horrible, was it?”
“No. It wasn’t. He was nice. I just didn’t feel anything for him.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No.” I sigh in frustration. “Matty, what if I never feel anything for anyone else again?” I tuck my head into my knees, trying to hide my emotions from anyone who passes by.
“Livvy, sweetie, you will.”
“Because you were able to?”
“Exactly,” he says.
“How is Nolan?”
“He’s hot, Livvy.” I can tell that his new boyfriend is with him by the way he says it. I’ve seen pictures of them together, and he is definitely attractive. “He’s good,” he says more seriously.
“You still like him?”
“I do,” he says quickly. “We’ll have to take you out next time you’re in Manhattan. We’ll show you a good time. We’ll find you a guy.”
“One that likes girls, though, right?”
“One that likes one special young woman,” he corrects me. “I’m on the lookout. I don’t see you with some letter-sweater collegian, Liv. Your guy’s in Manhattan.”
“I know he is,” I tell him definitively, referring to Jon. He catches on immediately.
“Livvy...” I can hear his pity, but I decide to stay quiet and not address it. “I’m proud of you. Going on these dates... it’s a good first step, even if you’re still in the crawling phase.”
“Thanks, Matty. Call my dad and tell him I made it home safely, okay?”
“You don’t want to talk to him?”
“Not really. I just want to scream and rant and hit things right now, and I know Dad wants me to move on more quickly than I’m ready to.”
“He just hates to know you’re hurting.”
“I’m not hurting anymore,” I tell him. “I’m mad as hell. I’m mad that he could just forge ahead and pretend like we were never anything more than acquaintances. How could he not even call me?” I stand up and start to head back around the building, waiting for my uncle to answer me but also anticipating his silence. How could he answer that, anyway? “I’m gonna let you go. I have roommates who will want all the details.”
“Have a good night, Little Liv. I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there.”
“Love you, Matty.” I tuck my phone away as I enter the building, waving hello to my resident advisor, Tim, as I pass by his room.
“Livvy!” he calls out to me. I turn around and walk back to his open door. He’s still seated on his bed, but moves his laptop to the side. “I haven’t seen any of your work in the basement gallery.”
“I know, I know–”
“You said you’d help brighten up the place. I’m counting on you.”
“I’ll bring something from home this weekend, I promise.”
“Excellent.” I smile as I back away. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great,” I lie. “I just got back from a date.”
“Good or bad?”
“It was... neither. And for the record, I’d prefer either over neither.”
“You like a little drama, huh?”
“I do.” I nod my head. “I’ve got an early class.”
“Go get some sleep.”
“Thanks, Tim.” As I walk away, I listen as his door closes softly. I can hear Rachelle and Katrina laughing at something on TV from the hallway. Rachelle was the first roommate I met. We both moved in the same day, and figured that Yale had strategically put us together. She’s nineteen and comes from a wealthy family, too, from upstate New York. When we met Katrina the next day, though, we were surprised to hear about her high school years, where she and her mother spent a lot of time in and out of shelters in Oklahoma. Like me, Katrina had skipped her sophomore year. She’s only two months older than I am, but has experienced more than most people I know that are much older.
Katrina was fascinated by stories that Rachelle and I traded, but I was equally enthralled in learning more about her. So far, the three of us get along quite well.
They’ve left the door unlocked for me. “Hey!” I say, feeling an immediate blush as their eyes shift to me expectantly.
“Well?” Rachelle asks.
“It was... it was fine, I don’t know.”
“Better than your date with Heath?” she follows up.
“Marginally, I guess. Wayne didn’t spill a milkshake on me, so...”
“But just fine?” Katrina asks.
“Yeah,” I tell them both, shrugging my shoulders. “I don’t think I’ll go out with him again.”
“Not everything can hinge on one date,” Rachelle says. “Sometimes you need to get past the awkward first to really get to know someone.” Am I writing them off too quickly? How many dates are guys supposed to get? Suddenly, I start to question my method. Maybe I’m doing this wrong.
“But there was no spark,” I explain meekly.
“I hate that,” Katrina says. “Meeting a guy, thinking he might be someone special, and then you kiss him and there’s nothing there–”
“I didn’t kiss him,” I clarify. “I had no desire to kiss him.”
“Really?” Rachelle asks. “How can you have no desire to kiss a guy that hot?”
“He ate foie gras,” I tell them, giving them the same excuse I gave to Wayne.
“Disgusting,” Katrina says.
