Kaleidoscope Hearts

by Claire Contreras

  The loud sounds of the party died down with each step I took toward the side of the house—the direction she’d gone. I stopped when I found her. She was bent over, looking at the plant on the ground, and I took a couple of seconds to admire how good she looked in that position.

  “When did you get into gardening?” I asked, walking closer.

  Her head snapped up, and she straightened with a shrug and a smile. “It’s new. I’m trying to eat healthy. I want to plant my own crops, but it’s kind of impossible in my dorm.”

  I stood beside her and faced the plant. “It looks good.”

  “Yeah, it smells good, too,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice, and it made me smile.

  “So, how has your first semester been?”

  “It’s been . . . good, actually. Fun.”

  I turned my body to face her, tucking my thumbs in the front pockets of my jeans. “It sounds like you’re having too much fun.”

  Elle tilted her head to look at me, wearing that tiny frown she got when she was trying to figure something out.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know. Adam . . . you dancing . . . Vic saying you’re not into relationships . . .” I shrugged.

  She laughed, her eyes lit in amusement. “That’s something, coming from you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve never been into relationships. You have all the fun in the world.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Different how? Is it because I’m a girl?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “No,” I said quickly. “It’s not that.” It wasn’t. The women I fucked were all single and not into relationships—it was what we had most in common. But this was Elle. This was . . . Elle.

  “So what is it?” she challenged.

  I groaned, running my hand over my hair and leaving it there. “I don’t know. I . . . don’t know. You’re right. You should do whatever you want.”

  “Your hair’s gotten longer,” she said, her eyes trailing from mine, to my bicep, and then my head. I smiled.

  “You can braid it better now.”

  She smiled. “Turn around.”

  I did. My shoulders stiffened when I felt her hands on them.

  “I can’t reach. You’re going to have to kneel down,” she whispered against my neck. My eyes fell closed as I tried to contain the fire beginning to blaze through me. I turned and walked to a bench at the side of the house. It was gross, and Vic had been trying to get rid of it for years, but right now, I was glad it was there.

  Elle sat beside me, and I turned my back so she could let my hair down. I cringed when she pulled on the rubber band.

  “I told you to stop using these,” she said, sighing heavily as she ran her fingers through my hair. She massaged my scalp as if she was washing it. I resisted the urge to moan at how good it felt. Women loved to pull on my hair, and I never complained about that, but there was something about the way Elle touched it that made a tingling sensation run through me. When she was finished combing it through, she dropped her hands. The pause was long enough for me to turn my body and face her.

  “You’re not going to braid it?” I asked, frowning as I took in the faraway expression on her face.

  She shook her head, her eyes dropping to my chest. I moved closer, until our faces were inches apart, but she still didn’t look at me.

  “Elle?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

  Her eyes snapped to mine and for a beat, I got lost in the way the different colors in them swirled. They always reminded me of a marble. My favorite marble—blue, green, and brown. The way she looked at me made my heart pound. It was like a world of wonder lived in those eyes. I wished I could see myself the way she saw me. Maybe I would be a different person if I could. Maybe I would be a one-woman man—a man who wanted to go visit her parents for the weekend and get serious right now. Looking at Elle—right there at that moment—made me want to be that guy.

  “I was, but it brings back memories,” she whispered. “Braiding your hair, I mean.”

  I nodded and swallowed, pushing my hands down over my thighs so I wouldn’t touch her.

  “Do you remember when I asked you if you would kiss me when I was eighteen?” she asked in a whisper. She reached out and tapped the tips of her fingers over my knuckles as if they were piano keys. It made my heart beat faster.

  “Yeah,” I matched her whisper, but mine sounded hoarse.

  “Would you?” Her eyes bounced to each of mine, her hands stilling over mine. “Would you kiss me, Oliver?”

  My heart was beating so fast, I couldn’t think. My lips parted slightly, and I nodded. I was always the chaser—the one sweet-talking girls—but this girl always seemed to have me at a loss for words. She threw me off balance. We moved toward one another until the tips of our noses touched. We held each other’s gaze and, a millisecond apart, we closed our eyes. Our mouths touched . . . my lips slid between hers . . . her tongue slipped into my mouth . . . and as soon as it touched mine, I felt the fire ignited earlier, roll through me at full blaze.

  Kissing Estelle felt like what I could only imagine kissing a cloud was like—light and sweet, and all consuming. Our mouths moved together in sync, as if we’d been kissing since we were born. Our hands framed each other’s faces, like we were scared to pull away because the moment would be over. I’d never wanted to melt and disappear into a girl’s mouth as much as I wanted to right then. When I finally broke the kiss—because my hands were developing a mind of their own and I didn’t want to do something I would regret tomorrow—her eyes popped open. She looked at me like she was just seeing me for the first time—or maybe that’s just how I felt because I wanted her to look at me like that. I kissed her again, this time more urgently, and groaned into her mouth when her hands pulled my hair. We pulled apart one last time, our chests heaving, when we heard someone calling out her name.

  “That’s Adam. He probably wants to leave,” she said, panting.

  “Are you going to go have fun with him?” I asked, dipping my head and taking her bottom lip between my teeth. She moaned and pulled on my hair, readjusting so she could straddle my hips. My hands moved to her thighs of their own accord. Everything in me wanted her so bad—all of her. And for so much more than just a make-out session.

  “I’m having fun with you,” she said against my lips, grinding down on me.

  “Fuck, yes,” I said in a moan, when she did it again.

  Our tongues met and, as Estelle moved, I guided her hips to meet my thrusts. It was crazy. We were crazy. Anybody from the party could turn the corner and find us there, dry humping on that dirty bench, but we didn’t care. We weren’t really having sex, anyway, even though I wanted to. I wanted to pull my dick out of my pants and slip inside her more than anything, but this was Estelle, she didn’t deserve a quick fuck at a frat party. Her name got louder, and we tore away from each other quickly. She sat back beside me as we caught our breaths, and finally a figure appeared in the corner.

  “Elle, I’ve been looking everywhere. You’re still looking at that damn plant?” Vic said, walking over to us.

  “Yeah, well, we were talking,” she said, standing up and straightening her dress.

  “Adam is throwing up everywhere. You might want to take him home,” he said.

  She sighed heavily. “Are you serious? I don’t bring a girl with me because I don’t want to babysit, and then the guy I bring acts like a drunk sorority girl?”

  I chuckled. “You want help?”

  She shrugged. “I guess. If you don’t mind.”

  I stood and followed to where the guy was. We waited for him to finish puking and I helped him get to the car—a shiny black BMW, which apparently he owned. It happened to be parked beside my beat-up Maxima and, for some reason, this drunk little shit having this car and trying to make a move on Elle bothered me. She’d never been a materialistic girl. I knew she didn’t need much, but
it made me feel a little inadequate and reminded me why I was waiting to settle down. I wanted to be at a secure place in my life when I settled down. I wanted the car, the house—and anything else my mind could conjure up as a necessity—out of the way before that happened, and I knew it wouldn’t happen any time soon.

  When she got into the driver’s seat and started the car, I walked to her window. We looked at each other for a long moment, and then she smiled shyly.

  “I always wondered what it would feel like to kiss you,” she whispered. I grinned and looked around the driveway. Everybody was inside the party, so I dipped my head into the window and kissed her again, not caring that Adam was sitting there. He was passed out anyway.

  “And?” I asked when I backed away.

  “It was . . . everything.” Her face lit up when she said it. “But don’t worry; I know it was a one-time thing.”

  My smile vanished. I wanted to tell her it could be more. We went to nearby schools. It could be more. Then I remembered who she was and that her brother would never approve of me dating his sister. With my track record, I wouldn’t approve of me either. And she was only eighteen. It was her first semester of college, and I was about to graduate and go to medical school.

  “You’re the one who wants to have fun now that you’re a college girl,” I said jokingly, kind of hoping she’d say otherwise. Instead, she smiled brighter.

  “That, I do. See you next time, Bean.”

  Adam groaned beside her, and we both froze and glanced his way. He stayed put.

  “Yeah, next time,” I said, as she drove away. I sighed. My heart felt heavy as the taillights disappeared around the bend. I wondered if it would ever again stagger and skyrocket the way it just had.

  Present

  I HATE FIGHTING.

  I hate being wrong, but I hate fighting more than I hate being wrong. I’m just not good at the grudge-holding thing. I get mad, scream about it and let go. Mia, on the other hand, gets mad, screams about it, and clings on to her anger like a leech. Needless to say, we haven’t spoken in a couple of days. I’d managed to avoid Oliver the past few days at the hospital, while I painted vinyl records and surfboards with the kids. I saw him a couple of times by the nurses’ station, though, and once leaving Jen’s office. I caught glimpses of what his life must be like—the flirting, the multitude of sexual partners, the late night rendezvous he probably has in the hospital during the night shift. They aren’t things I necessarily want to imagine, but that’s just where my mind automatically goes when it comes to Oliver.

  Two of my friends, Micah and Dallas, are standing in the middle of the hallway of the pediatrics floor, both with the same disgusted looks on their faces that I had when I saw the walls. I could tell from the way Micah keeps running his hands through his long blonde hair that he’s nervous about taking this project on. Dallas is just full-on gaping, as if the walls are taunting him. Micah turns first and shoots me a what the fuck did you get us into look that I have to laugh at.

  “But for real,” he says when I reach them. My arms swing around his middle, and I squeeze.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say against his back and then do the same to Dallas.

  “Honey, this thank you better come with a blow job,” Dallas says as I pull away, laughing loudly until I hear a throat clearing behind me. I turn to find Oliver standing there with a strange look on his face. That makes me laugh harder, because clearly, he’d heard Dallas.

  “Hey,” I say. “This is Micah and Dallas. Guys, this is Oliver, my brother’s friend—the one who got me into this whole thing.”

  As they nod at each other, Dallas, who’s just slightly taller than me, gives Oliver a quick onceover, and Micah throws out a “hey man” that makes him sound like a stoner straight out of Woodstock. Oliver returns their greetings politely before his eyes return to mine.

  “May I speak to you for a moment?” he asks, the intensity in his eyes making my stomach twist.

  “Sure. Guys, the paint is in there. I think we should start with the room on the far left first. I’ll be right back,” I say, pointing to the room before turning to follow Oliver with a frown. “Where are we going?”

  He opens a door and signals for me to go inside, but I stand rooted in place. This side of the hospital is vacant because of the paint project, but I don’t want somebody to see us and get the wrong idea.

  “Come in.”

  “We can talk here.”

  Oliver closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as if he’s trying to calm himself down. When he opens them, they look more tired than before, if possible. “Please, Elle. Just humor me.”

  I shake my head, but do as he says, because I don’t want to leave the guys alone for too long. He’s invited me into some sort of storage room, with a bunch of filing cabinets lined up along the walls.

  “So?” I ask, turning to face him. He’s leaning against the door with his hands in the pockets of his white coat, just staring at me. “What?”

  “I haven’t heard from you. I haven’t seen you, and then when I finally do, some guy is talking about you giving him a blow job?” He doesn’t sound upset, just confused and maybe a little hurt, I think, which is ridiculous and impossible—because this is Oliver we’re talking about.

  “And?”

  “And I miss you.”

  My heart trips a little at his admission and the way he says it, all smooth and low. Then I remember Wyatt and his “I miss you’s,” which weren’t said often, only when he was away on one of his many trips, and only after it’d been a couple of days since we’d spoken. I never questioned him or what he was doing. I never wondered if he’d been with another woman, and even the times Mia planted that seed in my head, nothing grew from it, because for some reason, I didn’t care. I always wondered if there was something wrong with me for not caring.

  “You don’t miss me, Oliver. Besides, aren’t you dating someone?” I remind him with a glare.

  He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a thing, I wouldn’t call it dating.”

  “Just fucking,” I say, sounding more bitter than I intended. “Not that I care,” I add quickly. Oliver smirks, and I feel my face growing hot. “I have shit to do,” I say, finally coming to my senses and stepping forward, but he doesn’t move away from the door.

  “Are you having fun with him?” he asks, nodding his head toward the outside. Having fun with him. It’s funny how I can straight-out ask him if he’s fucking somebody, but when he asks me, he uses the term having fun. It reminds me of when we were teenagers, and Mia’s mom would call her boyfriends her little friends. “Or is it the guy with the long hair that you like? I know you have a thing for that.”

  I take a step back. I do have a thing for guys with long hair, probably because of him. I should hate guys with long hair because of him. I should, but of course, I don’t. Oliver’s hair isn’t long anymore, but it’s still long enough to run your hands through and tug on if his head is between your legs. He has a sandy brown scruff going on over his jaw that isn’t just a five o’clock shadow anymore. It would probably feel delicious against the inside of my thighs.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, the huskiness in his voice snapping me out of my fantasy.

  “Huh?”

  He takes a step forward so he’s right in front of me, my eyes at the level of the Dr. Hart ID on the pocket of his left pec.

  “Elle. Look at me,” he says. A slow, curling desire winds its way around my belly. I have two options: push past him and leave, or look into his eyes and acknowledge the desire that heats the air between us like a blowtorch. I choose the latter because I’m a moron, and because clearly, I like to have my heart shredded repeatedly. “You want me. After all this time, you still want me.”

  “I don’t have time for this right now. They’re waiting for me,” I whisper, trying to pull away from the electrical current that is his gaze.

  “One date, Elle. One date. I’m keeping my word and not touching y
ou, I promise.”

  “You’re already fucking someone. Do you really need another?”

  His eyes narrow slightly. “For your information, I’m not. Do you really think this is about fucking you?”

  I don’t know, I want to say. History tends to repeat itself, but I hold my tongue on that part.

  “I don’t know what it’s about,” I respond, dragging my eyes away. I feel like I’m suffocating in this tiny space with him. I try to brush past, but he grabs my arm.

  “One date.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, regretting it when I feel tears start to prick them. “I’m not ready.”

  He drops his hand, looking pained. He’ll live; he always finds things to fill his time with. As I open the door, I look at him over my shoulder.

  “By the way, Dallas, the blow job guy, is gay. Micah, the guy with the hair, was one of Wyatt’s best friends, and he is so not my type.”

  “He’s cute,” Dallas says later, while we’re priming the walls, and I know he’s talking about Oliver, so I make a grunting, annoyed sound that makes him laugh. My eyes sweep over to Micah, who doesn’t comment.

  “I’m just saying, I would totally do him,” Dallas adds.

  “He would probably do you too if he swung your way. You’re older, kind of good looking with your nerdy boy glasses and your bow tie . . . yeah, I think he would.” My words make him smile and roll his eyes.

  “What did he want to talk about?” Micah asks, and my heart starts thumping in my ears. His tone is always nonchalant, so I can’t read him properly, and that kills me.

  “Just stuff.”

  “You dating him?” he asks. I suck in a breath. In a sense, I feel like Micah is the string telephone between Wyatt and me, and as soon as I feel like I’m cutting the string, he tightens the knot so I can’t.

  “No, I’m not dating him! I’m not dating anybody.”

  Micah sighs heavily and puts the roller down before turning to face me. “He’s not coming back, you know? He’s not on one of his trips around the world where he’ll be back next week. You have every right to move on.”