“Hm? What?” Oliver asks, his head popping up over the foot of the mattress. “You all right?”
“Will you sleep in the bed with me?” I ask.
He hops up. “Yeah, sure. I was just trying to be a gentleman.” He climbs into the bed next to me and turns on his side so he can look at me.
I turn to face him. “You can still be a gentleman while sharing the bed.” I draw an invisible line with my finger down the center of the mattress, my knuckle grazing his chest. I clear my throat. “Stay on your own side, mister, or you’ll get a knee to the balls.”
Oliver clips the tip of my nose with his finger and chuckles. “Stay on your own side, lollipop kid, or you might get smothered by the big, sleeping bear.”
My mouth spreads into a smile and my eyes close, but when Oliver’s breathing deepens to a consistent hum, I open them to find him sleeping soundly beside me. I watch him, the way the curve of his collarbone rises and falls with each breath. There was once a time where his face was soft, baby in features and skin so delicate it was a shame to be wasted on a boy. Now, the corners of his eyes are creased, his skin aged and his features hidden behind a close, well-kept beard. His disheveled hair was long and stringy, a carbon copy of his idol rock band. He’s matured, cutting the sides close while the top is left long and slicked back. He has changed so much, yet so little.
Sadness washes over me to think of the life he’s lived. And how I was oblivious to it back then, when we were kids, and since he’s been in the public eye. Seeing him on TV, reading about him in magazines, his life always seemed so glamourous. I suppose we only see what we want to. I guess he only ever showed the side he needed to. Oliver isn’t old enough to have experienced as much as he has, yet he’s earned the lines around his eyes. Knowing now how much he’s internalized, how much pain he’s carried…it breaks my heart. How alone he must’ve felt. The need to cover it all up with drugs. I should have been there for him. But I wasn’t. And I can’t help but think about how his life would have been had he stayed. How both our lives would have been had he followed through with his promises.
I wonder, if the Oliver who’s sleeping beside me was the one I grew up with, would the status of our relationship be different? Would we have shared the same path with no other lovers in between? Would he have stayed clean? Would we have done any of the things we talked about…marriage, kids? Maybe our souls have always been destined to be connected but our physical forms never together. Or, perhaps, no matter what different roads we take, we will always end up meeting at the end. I’m not sure if our stars will ever align, but if they are in the same solar system, then that is fine by me. Because even when we are butting heads and I’d like nothing more for him to jump onto the burning sun, I still like sharing the galaxy with him.
Seven
Oliver
I could watch Piper sleep every day for the rest of my life. She’s porcelain, smooth and fragile. The sprinkle of freckles pepper over her cheeks and nose. Her red hair, perfectly copper, with kissed by the sun lush gold streaks, frames her face and fans over her shoulders. Much like her eyes, I swear the color changes with the seasons. I remember when the air cools, her mood sullens and her hair turns to a rich auburn. During the brightest and warmest part of the year, her hair matches the darkest embers of fire. I want to watch her hair change with the seasons. I want to see every color come to life in bursts of light.
Piper has always been a fireball. It seems nothing much has changed, but there is a softness, a ripple around the edges of her usually ridged exterior.
The bed dips and creaks when I stand, but it doesn’t wake Piper. The smell of blueberry pancakes and bacon doesn’t wake her either. But when I start a pot of coffee and the first drip of freshly ground beans hits the carafe, the aroma pulls her from her slumber and she blesses me with her presence.
“Well good morning there, li’l miss sunshine. By the looks of it, you slept well.”
Piper moans and tries to tame the hair on the side of her head she was sleeping on. The heels of her palms rub against her eyes as she plops down onto a barstool at the kitchen island.
I laugh. “That good, eh?”
She grunts.
I set a plate in front of Piper and fill a cup with coffee, setting it down in front of her with sugar and creamer for her liking. After preparing my plate and pouring my coffee, I take the seat beside her and stab my pancake with my fork, vigorously cutting it with a knife then piling it into my mouth.
After a few drags of coffee, Piper sighs into her cup. Her eyes brighten, her torso straightens, and her voice finds its way out of her mouth. “For as much money as you make, you could have a better mattress.”
“Oh?” I chuckle. I swallow my mouthful of food before sarcastically apologizing. “I’m so sorry my bed isn’t to your liking. Perhaps next time, you’d fancy the floor.”
“I’m sure the floor is far more comfortable than that sad excuse of a mattress.” She props her hands on her hips and arches her back, popping her vertebra.
My focus isn’t on the cracking of bones but on Piper’s perky breasts pressing against my t-shirt. Lucky sonofabitch, how’d I love nothing more than to be that damn t-shirt molding around her cleavage.
“Stop gawking, Mr. Leif. It’s not attractive or becoming to have bug-eyes or your mouth hanging down to your plate.”
I relax my face, close my mouth, but I don’t stop gawking. Her beauty is as pure as the first time I saw her. It has never faded, only getting better with age. I was mesmerized by her then and I am mesmerized by her now. And I find her spunk infectious. I crave it. I want more of it.
Piper turns her head and raises one brow, her eyes sharp and daring.
“Ohmygod,” Piper rambles. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.”
“What?” I ask trying to look around her head that is blocking the screen. When she pushes the iPad toward me, I see the headliner and the picture of her and I kissing at the carnival. I’m not quite sure what the fuss is all about, but Piper is surely distraught over the article. My hand finds the lower part of her back to offer some comfort, but she pushes my hand aside and leaps off the barstool.
“I gotta go home,” she snaps, running to my room.
I glance down at my pancake, torn. It tastes too good to leave on the plate to get cold. It should be in my belly—should being the key word. As much as I want to devour the delectable sponge of flavor in front of me, I must attempt to calm down a spazzing redhead.
“Pipe, let’s finish eating and then I’ll take you home,” I suggest as I walk into the room.
“No, I need to go now!” Piper hollers from under the shirt she’s wiggling into. She struggles to get her pants up and begins jumping up and down, cursing. “For fuck’s sake!”
I refrain from laughing; it would only awaken the already stirring dragon, so I calmly walk over to her and kneel. For a second, the emotion in her eyes makes me think she might slap me, but she closes her eyes and takes in a breath to compose herself. Piper settles her hands on my shoulders while I pull her pants up, letting her finish off the zipper herself.
“Let’s use our words, Piper, and talk about this. Running home isn’t going to change the fact our picture is front page news.”
Piper’s bottom lip quivers and I think she might cry, but she blinks her eyes a few times to keep the tears at bay. “Don’t talk to me like a child, Oliver. There is nothing to talk about.”
“All I’m saying is, running home just because our picture is on the Internet doesn’t mean it’s going to change anything. What does going home right this very second accomplish?”
“Damage control,” she fires, shaking my hands free from rubbing her arms.
I step back and stuff my hands in my pockets. If I keep them there, I won’t feel the need to touch her, to try and comfort her. “The damage is already done, little bird. Nothing much else you can do.”
“I don’t expect for you to understand, Oliver. Now please, take me home.”
&nb
sp; When Piper makes up her mind, there is not much else to do but what she wants. There is no changing her mind, no talking some sense into her. Her pig-head is stubborn as shit.
I slip my shirt over my head and grab my keys. “Let’s get you home."
I should have stayed and finished my pancakes.
Eight
Piper
My phone is full of text and voice messages, all from Fletcher. Some are calm, some frantic. He asks repeatedly for me to call him, his voice panicked. I’m sure he’s receiving calls about why his fiancée is kissing another man. I’m sure he’s doing his own damage control, trying to explain my actions to the media, actions I so selfishly flashed without much thought of anyone other than myself.
It was wrong for me to leave Fletcher the way I did, with no resolution of any kind. I left him to clean up the mess we created together during a time that is crucial for him to be flawless. No matter how unhappy I’d been, how miserable our relationship became, the way I left was not the respectable way to end our relationship, our engagement. I left out of resentment, consumed by anger and never really saying why. Never giving Fletcher a chance to rebuttal his side. And now, weeks before the election, Fletcher is the one having to save face for my poor judgements. His bad, drunken choice does not cancel out my bad, sober one.
Another text comes through my phone, it buzzes in my lap. Fletcher has resulted to begging, groveling for me to call.
*I will do whatever you want, Piper. Please, for the love of all things, if you ever loved me at all, please call me back.
If it wasn’t for me feeling guilty about the onslaught of shit Fletcher is trying to pick up, my stubborn streak would ignore him for his if you ever loved me at all bullcrap. But, the weaker side of me caves and sends him a text back.
*I’ll call you in a few minutes.
I shove my phone in my back pocket and disregard the next three messages that have my phone vibrating against my bottom.
When we get inside the apartment, I’m ever so thankful for Luna and Nash to block Oliver, keeping him talking while I lock myself in my room. Pulling out my phone, I tap Fletcher’s name on my screen.
“For fuck’s sake, Piper, what the hell?” Fletcher barks in my ear. “I’m woken up in the middle of the night by some news reporter asking questions about you, me, and some mystery guy otherwise known as Milo Creed. How long has this been going on?”
Fletcher can’t see me roll my eyes or scrunch my face. Typical Fletcher, the first to cast stones but never the one to catch one. “It hasn’t been going on at all. I’ve known Milo Creed all my life. His real name is Oliver Leif and we met in preschool. We have history is all. We’re friends and nothing more. And even if we were, it’s no one’s business. You and I aren’t together anymore.”
“If he’s a childhood friend, how come I have never heard you speak of him before? And if you are only friends, why were you two photographed attached at the lips? Seems to me friends don’t kiss like that.”
“Fletcher,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “We are no longer together. I do not owe you an explanation, but let’s be real for a second. You know me, and you know I would never cheat on you. Ever. Unlike you, who’s spent the last year or so messing around with other women. Don’t think you can sit here and accuse me of something you know damn well I didn’t do and pretend you’re squeaky-clean. It doesn’t work that way.”
There’s silence followed by, “I’m not denying anything, Piper. I haven’t been a good fiancé. I haven’t treated you with the utmost respect you deserve. But we both have made mistakes, and this one that has landed you on the front of every news outlet has my chances at being elected looking grim.”
I chuckle in spite of myself. “If the mass of people will vote for a pussy-grabbing orangesicle, I think you’re okay. In today’s fucked-up world, negative news is good for your image.”
“This isn’t a joke, Piper,” Fletcher fires back.
I tuck my chin into my chest. “I’m sorry.” Sarcasm only works on those who have a sense of humor and Fletcher is not one of them. Always uptight, a steel rod of emotions. As much as it pains me to ask, I did have a hand at causing this debacle, so I clench my teeth together and ask, “What can I do to help the situation?”
Air deflates from Fletcher’s chest, relief, and the sound whooshes through the phone and into my ear. “I have a press conference at three. Will you come, please? I can have my driver there in ten minutes.”
My skin crawls, anxiety seeping into my pores. “Fletcher.”
“I will mention we are not together, but we are still friends and will always have love and respect for each other. With you being there, it will show you support me and—”
I cut him off. “I’ll be there.” Saying those three words is like ripping a bandage from a bloody wound. Sharp and painful, but I suppose necessary.
Oliver is pacing outside my door. Avoiding eye contact, I push by him and go into the bathroom, ignoring him when he calls my name.
Back in my room, Oliver is sitting on the edge of my bed. He’s slouched over, elbows resting on his knees with his hands hanging loosely between his legs. His head is bowed and he doesn’t look up at me when I walk by him to get to my clothes in my closet. He leaves the room without a word, closing the door behind him.
A press conference means conservative attire, so I dress in a simple white button-up blouse and a black pencil skirt, slipping on black tights and a pair of black, low-heeled pumps. Opening the door to see Oliver propped against the wall drives a wedge in my chest, especially when his eyes travel up my body and settles on my face. He’s concerned, questioning.
But he’s not the one who asks questions first.
“You guys going somewhere fancy?” Luna asks as she makes herself a mimosa.
I shake my head, eyes glued to Oliver. “No.”
From my peripheral, I can see Luna’s head turn to Oliver then to me, back to Oliver. “Then where are you going?”
“Yeah, where is it you are going?” Oliver questions.
“Fletcher asked me to be present for a press conference. He’s going to make it known we are no longer together.”
Luna’s champagne flute tings against the counter and her feet stomp along the floor. She pushes her way between Oliver and me so she can get in my face. “Excuse me? You don’t owe that asshat anything. You go to that press conference and I’m gonna kick your motherfucking ass.”
I straighten my posture and lift my chin so I can look her square in the eyes. “I don’t expect for you, for any of you,” I say with a wave of my finger to each of their faces, “to understand. It will take two hours tops and then I can be finished with all of this and move on with my life.”
Oliver walks with me to the awaiting limo. He doesn’t say anything until he steps in front of the opened car door. His eyes pleading, he says, “Don’t do this, Piper. Just forget it and come hang out with me today. Whatever you want to do, let’s do it.”
Even as tall as Oliver is, he can’t block the sun from beating my face. The days are ungodly hot for this time of year, and I have to lift my hand up to shield my face so I can see him. “We can hang out when I get back. Two hours, Oliver. I’ll be gone for two hours.”
He shakes his head like it’s not good enough. Because to him, it’s not. “Sorry, little bird. I’m not the wait around kinda guy.” Oliver steps to the side, ushering me in the car with a wave of his hand. “Catchya around, kid.”
Nine
Piper
Fletcher rushes toward me when he sees me walk through the door. He gives me a friendly hug and whispers a thank you in my ear. “You have two hours tops,” I whisper back. His head nods, his cheek rubbing against mine, then he takes my hand and leads me into the conference room. I’m blinded by the flashing lights of cameras coming at me from every which direction, but I don’t shy away from them. Instead, I force a tight smile and stand with what dignity I have left next to Fletcher, who greets the room with a warm we
lcome.
I tune out Fletcher’s rambling, letting my eyes roam the crowd, not focusing on any one thing. I keep my face passive but soft like I’m happy to be here standing next to Fletcher, supporting his efforts to win this election. He carries on about whatever promises he plans to keep and how he expects to execute his commitments. After feeding the crowd his bullshit for an hour, he takes the time to answer all the questions being shouted at him while I stand tall like a trophy next to him.
I’m so much in my own little world I almost miss the question. The one asking about my relationship with Milo Creed. Fletcher’s hand reaches for mine and I let him take it, pulling me closer to his side. He tucks me under his arm and kisses my cheek, a move he’s done a dozen of times while doing a press conference. But today, our bodies are stiff, and I don’t mold into Fletcher as I typically do. An expert at body language would read the clues well, but to the crowd, Fletcher is sincere and loving, and I am receptive to his touch.
My smile is present even though I am not, but it fades to a grimace when Fletcher answers the question with, “Ms. Posey and Mr. Creed are childhood friends, so yes, they appear close because they are.”
“How do you explain the photo of Ms. Posey and Mr. Creed?” a reporter hollers from the crowd.
Fletcher kisses me again; this time his lips leave their mark on the corner of my mouth. I turn to him, smile wide…eyes questioning. He looks back to the reporter and simply says, “They had a friendly exchange. No harm, no foul.”
“Ms. Posey, are you having an affair?” another reporter shouts.
My shoulders slump as I sink into myself. I’ve never had to answer questions before, but I haven’t made myself open to the public to be questioned. Thankfully, Fletcher answers for me. “No, Ms. Posey is not having an affair, and you will show my fiancée the respect she deserves.”
Carnival Page 5
