by Lori L. Otto
“I’ve got a little extra,” Jon says. “I’m not missing movie night.”
“I’ll just use my check card, don’t worry about it. It seems dumb for Dad to give me that cash in the first place. Anyway, I was afraid you’d cancel, today being move-in day and all.”
“Again, I’m not missing a night with you.” This makes me smile.
“What are your roommates like?”
“I’ll tell you about them tonight. We’re going to go get some stuff for the dorm. See you at five?”
“I’ll be there.”
My mom hasn’t moved when I return to the loft.
“No tea?”
“I drank it already. I got it on the way out.”
“How was your walk?”
“Good. But I think I’m ready to go when you are.”
She frowns a little, and I see her eyes wander briefly to the spare bedroom. “You don’t want to stay a little longer?”
“No. I can’t,” I tell her. She nods in understanding and closes her computer, getting up to put it in her bag.
“Let me run to the ladies room,” she says, heading to the restroom just off the kitchen. She always makes a stop before we leave the apartment. As I’d planned, I take the opportunity to return the old key to her keyring.
On our way out, I tell Mom about the lady in the park.
“Some people just have nothing better to do than pry and gossip!” she says in the elevator.
“What’s worse, is... who says that to a kid!?”
“Honey,” she says softly, holding the elevator door open as we make our way into the lobby. “I don’t think people consider you a kid anymore after this summer.”
“I meant I’m your kid,” I mumble, not wanting to talk about the media circus I’d lived through over the summer.
“Oh. Yes, who would bring that up with someone’s kid? You’re right. I’m just glad it’s not true.”
“She wanted it to be,” I tell her.
“I hate to disappoint her,” she laughs. “Jack Holland is all mine. For all the days of our lives,” she adds the words from her wedding vows dreamily.
“Will we still be seeing you on Saturdays?” Francisco interrupts, nodding apologetically for doing so. “I know Livvy starts school again on Monday. I wasn’t sure if the pleasure of your company was just a summer thing...” It’s true that we’d only been coming here since the beginning of the summer. I had set up a studio shortly after school let out last year, but I’d actually only used it to paint twice before the trip to Europe.
“Of course we’ll be back,” Mom says with a smile. “Have a good week, Francisco.” She squeezes his arm warmly on our way out. Thanks to the excellent service of our concierge, a taxi is already waiting for us at the curb. As mom settles inside, I gesture for her to wait just a second, and I run back inside to the lobby.
“Aren’t you leaving for Argentina on Friday?” I ask our doorman, having planned on his absence next week.
“I am, to visit my parents,” he says.
“Well, I hope you have a wonderful time,” I tell him, “and a safe trip.” I genuinely do hope that, but only I know I’m asking for purely selfish reasons.
“Thank you for remembering, Miss Holland. I will see you in two weeks.”
“Goodbye, Francisco!”
Now taking a seat next to my mom, I realize everything is working out as planned. Mom won’t be able to come to the loft because Dad has a surprise for her, a weekend getaway to our lake house with my brother. He’d wanted me to go, but I didn’t want to be faced with visiting the place that used to inspire me the most, creatively, only to have the same mental block there that I have here. And I didn’t want the plethora of questions I knew my dad would ask because of that. After I told him my friend Camille invited me to stay with her next Saturday night, he finally accepted that I wouldn’t be joining them.
Mom takes me to the loft every week with the hopes that I will paint there. I have every intention to, too. I psych myself up every Saturday morning over breakfast while Mom opens the Art Room and gets the instructor settled in for the day. That used to be Granna’s job. Mom had taken on most of her work, in light of what had happened. She always had a plethora of energy, but these days, I can tell that her impossible schedule is wearing her out. I know she likes our Saturdays at the loft because it gives her some quiet time to work, or read, or do whatever she wants to do.
Later in the day, Jon’s waiting at the curb for me when I pull up. I’m thankful he is, too. The written instructions to his dorm were confusing, but the drawing he’d emailed to me somehow led me right to him–which doesn’t surprise me, with his meticulous illustration that has Jon written all over it. Seeing me dangling the loft key with a wide grin, he opens my door after I put the car in park and leave it idling.
I get out and try to hug him, but his squeeze is quick. “Let’s get out of here,” he says as he holds my hand and leads me to the passenger side of the car. I glance around cautiously after I sit down and buckle up, seeing two guys pointing their phones in our direction.
“Do you know them?” I ask Jon when he gets behind the wheel.
“Ben Shuman and Trek Hollis... two of my roommates.”
“How many do you have?” I ask.
“Three.”
“Wait–Trek as in Star?”
He chuckles. “Yes.”
“Who’s the third roommate?”
“Fred Wharrington. He seems normal, and although he knows who you are, he didn’t seem to care. The other two, though... I kind of wish I hadn’t stuck your picture by my bed.”
“Awww,” I say. “You hung up my picture?”
“I did,” he says as he pulls into the street. “Hollis and Shu didn’t realize we were dating at first. They just thought I had a picture of Jack Holland’s jailbait daughter hanging for... well, for purposes I’d rather not say.”
“And so you told them?”
“They’re my roommates,” he says, glancing at me, looking unsure. “I just assumed they’d find out sooner or later.”
“No, it’s fine,” I assure him. “What will they do with the pictures they just took?”
At a red light, he narrows his eyes and crinkles his nose. “I’ll ask them to delete them when I get home tonight. Yeah, I don’t know what the purpose of that was. But that’s why I wanted to hurry and leave.”
“You were in a hurry,” I say, leaning over the console and putting my hand on his thigh. Taking both hands off the wheel, he puts them on my cheeks and kisses me. “That’s better,” I tell him with a smile.
“What movie did you find?” he asks when the light changes.
“Framed by the Night,” I tell him.
“Good one. It had the worst opening all year.”
“So I read.”
“You did your homework!”
“I know the requirements! We’ve been doing this all summer.”
Our routine is simple. The first decision is to pick the movie least likely to have a crowd. Once we get to the theater, we scan the room to make sure there is privacy on the back row and no more than ten other people. We’d only had to pick another movie three times all summer, and only once did we have to scout for a new theater entirely.
Dad still has issues with me riding the trains alone, so he’d purchased a parking space near the Columbia University station. It was more practical than thoughtful. After parking, we get on the subway to go to dinner first.
This week is our splurge week, and even though I spent way more money on the key, we’re still going to one of my favorite secluded Italian restaurants. The owner knows Dad. Jon and I have to be wary of our public displays of affection when we eat here, but we are always tucked away from the other patrons in a private area and served by the manager of the restaurant. We normally use dinner time to catch up with one another, and movie time to be affectionate.
Jon–without fail–orders the special. It started because he didn’t like having to ask me wha
t all the ingredients were since the menu was in Italian. Now that he’s learned them, though–quickly and with only one casual lesson–he says the combination of ingredients never sounds appealing to him, so he likes to be surprised, and the special has never let him down. The manager has now learned to not even reveal to Jon what’s in the dish until after dinner.
I normally get the same thing: spaghettini.
As we wait for our dinners to be served, Jon reaches for my hand across the table. He adjusts my ring, and then latches his fingers with mine. “How are you?” he asks.
“I’m great!” I tell him, raising my eyebrows, wondering why he’d think I’d be anything but great. I’m with him.
“Good,” he says, smiling warmly. “Tell me about today.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing much to tell that you don’t already know. I hung out at the loft, got the key, and confirmed that Francisco will be away next weekend.”
“That’s good. I want to talk about the painting.”
“A specific one, or the act of?”
“Act of,” he confirms. I sigh. “Olivia, I know it’s hard to stay motivated–”
“It’s not a motivation thing. It’s avoidance.”
“Just put that one aside,” he says softly, and I know he’s referring to Granna’s portrait.
“I can’t just put it aside,” I explain as I feel my throat tighten. “It’s not like I can just push Granna aside.”
“I’m not asking you to do that, and you wouldn’t be.”
“It feels exactly like I would be.”
“Listen, Liv,” he starts. “I know what this feels like. When I stopped going to the Art Room, her absence in my life was tangible. Donna was a driving force behind my creativity. I remember not feeling truly confident in my ideas until she agreed, and stepped back to watch me draw. And then I’d wait in anticipation to discuss the finished product with her. I looked forward to that.
“Without her, I had to become more self-motivated.”
“Become?” I ask him. “When have you not been self-motivated?”
“When I didn’t have the confidence I needed to get started on a project.”
“Well, I don’t think I have a problem with self-motivation.”
“Your confidence is shaken.” He says it with such assuredness. I stare at him, not knowing if he’s right or wrong. “I’ll help you.”
“It’s inspiration. I don’t feel inspired anymore.”
“I can help with that, too. I mean, how do you feel when you finish a painting?”
“I don’t even remember,” I tell him, slouching toward the table. He lets go of my hand and reaches across, tilting my head up so I look into his eyes.
“I do. Accomplished. Satisfied. Happy.”
“I’m perfectly happy with you,” I explain. “You’re all I need to be happy... and satisfied.” I look up at him through my lashes, hoping to change the subject. He’s unable to conceal the smirk, and eventual smile.
“But what inspires you? If not me, who? Or what?”
“I’ll know it when I see it, I think,” I assure him, even though I’m not sure at all.
“Maybe we could go to some museums–”
“We’ve been to them all–”
“What about Nate’s off-site storage? I know his work inspires you.”
“It reminds me of her,” I whisper, feeling choked up. “Mom’s tried to take me there, too.”
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t cry. I don’t want to upset you. Let’s just try to think of some possibilities.”
“Next weekend.” I grin, and he follows suit. “I’m excited about next weekend, and I bet I’ll be inspired after that.”
“You think?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I offer. “But Jon, I need to be the one to make this decision–to paint, I mean. It stresses me out when you bring it up. I don’t need that kind of pressure.”
“Baby, I’d never pressure you. If anyone understands, it’s me. I hope you know that. I just want to help you. Just ask me to help, when you’re ready. I miss the artist, though,” he says with a slight smile and a shrug.
“She’s still in here.”
“I know she is. I just wish I knew how to coax her out of there.”
“Jon–”
“Next weekend,” he says plainly, putting both of his hands up in surrender. “Maybe next weekend.”
The manager brings our food to us, setting it down carefully. Jon squints, trying to figure out his dish, before looking up for my response.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe.”
After dinner, we walk a few blocks to one of the theaters we rotate through. I purchase the tickets, and Jon gets our standard movie snack: Junior Mints and two waters.
When we get inside the empty theater, before going to our seats, Jon quickly sets our drinks in two cup holders, hands me the candy, and wraps his arms around me as his lips meet mine. I feel faint, losing my breath and sensing the fluttering air escape my lungs. It’s probably my favorite feeling. It’s my confirmation of love. No one has ever made me feel that way before, and I doubt anyone will ever make me feel it again–not that anyone else will have the chance.
Jon only pulls away when he hears the tiny squeak of the theater door behind him. We both put our heads down–guilty, caught–as he grabs our drinks. We make our way up the stairs to the back row.
After taking a seat, I drag my hand through my hair as I look up, more to shield my face than anything else. Even though the room is dark, the previews on the screen still illuminate our features, and I’d been recognized before. Grateful, I notice the person who entered is only there to clean the theater. I glance at Jon, who’s staring right back at me, his smile matching mine. He shrugs out of his blazer, handing it to me. I fold it neatly and place it between my back and the arm rest on my left, and then move the one on my right out of our way. When the janitor leaves, Jon helps to move my legs into his lap, letting his fingers trail across the smooth skin of my calves, then knees. He puts his other arm across my shoulder, holding me close as I lean into him to press soft kisses on his cheek, chin and neck.
We’re cautious through the previews, but as soon as the movies starts, he nudges and nips urgently at my shoulder and neck. With a sigh, he pulls back, fixing a few strands of my hair as he looks at me sweetly. “Thank you for giving me next weekend to look forward to,” he says, his voice low and quiet.
“You’re welcome.” I feel my cheeks heat in a quick blush. He touches one of them, obviously seeing the enhanced color, then pulls my lips to his. The flutter rises again, passing from me to him in a needful gasp. He groans softly, his mouth vibrating against mine. His hand slips slowly up my skirt, where his fingers meet the hem of my underwear. He tugs at the garment playfully, eventually grasping the fabric in a fist that he presses against my hip.
“What color?” he whispers in my ear.
“Red,” I tell him proudly. He closes his eyes in frustration and shakes his head before returning to me with more kisses.
“I wish I could see them,” he says.
“Next weekend. Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely,” he suggests, searching my eyes and nodding his head. I bite my cheek, flattered by his attraction and excited by the thoughts of what we’ve already done, and what we’re going to do next week.
“Definitely,” I return.
“Thank you, baby,” he sighs, kissing my neck and angling my head back to have better access to the pendant in the middle of my chest. He kisses it first, then teases the skin on either side of it. I ache for him. Yet another feeling I’d never had before I met him... and that ache is almost as wonderful as the infrequent release I’d experienced with him only a handful of times. Since the first time we’d made out like that last Christmas at his apartment, it only had gotten better. I was well acquainted with the feeling–wanted it and begged for it–and even when we found ourselves alone in moments long enough to take our making out that far, what I
experience far surpasses what I remember it feeling like. Every time is new, is perfect, and is all I need to know that I would never want anyone other than him.
CHAPTER 5
On my first day of school, most of the other students have emptied out of the economics classroom before the bell that releases us has even stopped ringing. Finn stands over my desk, waiting for me to put my book away.
“I don’t know why I bother teaching this class,” Mr. Coleman murmurs. We both look up at him, curious. “I mean, don’t most of you have accountants already? Or money managers? People who tell you when to buy or sell? You don’t manage your money, do you? Livvy?”
“I mean,” I stutter, placing my things in my bag, “I don’t yet. But it’s just because I don’t know how. This is more than personal economics anyway, right?”
“I just wonder how many of you have any idea what the GDP is.”
“God damned... something,” Finn says, looking at me. “Right?” I look at our teacher, wondering if my friend will be reprimanded.
“Parent?” I ask with a grin as I watch Mr. Coleman put his head in his hands, laughing. His reputation precedes him. He had been voted Best Teacher by students for the past seven years.
“That’s it,” Finn says, and I’m not sure if he really thinks that’s right, or if he’s playing along. We stand up and walk past our teacher’s desk.
“Gross Domestic Product,” I say to him on my way out the door.
“There is hope!” I hear him yell behind us.
“What’s that mean?” my friend asks me.
“Hell if I know,” I admit. Economics has never personally interested me, so I know I have a lot to learn this year. “Isn’t that why we’re in the class?”
“I guess.”
“Livvy?” I turn around to see who’s called me.
“Xandra?” The three of us had been going to school here all our lives. She’s two years older than I am, though, and is now in my grade because she failed most of her courses last year. She blamed it on her parents’ divorce. Although we know of one another, it’s rare that we ever speak.
