My competitive nature kicks in like an energetic football player. “Great. Let’s play. Oliver and Relationships for five hundred.”
He rolls over on the sofa and turns down the volume on the screen. When he faces me, his eyes are the color of sin—if sin has any color. “You want to play?”
“I thought we already were,” I reply, astounded by my own admission. “Now go on, hit me with a clue.”
“A clue?”
“Yeah. For example: This is the neighborhood where you would find my apartment. And then you would say—”
“What is Tribeca?”
“See, that’s pretty easy. Now you go.”
“Let’s see.” He thinks about it for a second. “New Jersey born fashion model. She appeared in the 2009 edition of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.”
Easy. “Who is Sophie Cavall?”
“Wrong.” He declares it like he’s a real game show host. “You could’ve phrased it anyway you wanted it. But the answer is, ‘Who is Oliver Black’s girlfriend?’ Let me remind the contestant this is the Oliver and Relationships category and that any answer must be related to such.”
I roll my eyes, fussing over my downfall. “Okay, okay, fine.”
He observes me, really observes me, and a compelling rush of delight shocks through my bones. “What is it?”
“Remember the first time I saw you?” he asks.
“How could I forget? I was almost kidnapped.”
“When I saw you fighting that man, something came over me. It stuck on my mind. I don’t know what it was, but you really defended yourself. You didn’t cry for help, not once. It made me think of what it could possibly take to get you down.”
I give myself a second to answer, then I say, “A low battery sign.”
“Stop joking,” he says edgily. “You do it all the time.”
“No, I don’t. I joke when I’m vulnerable. It’s easier for me to do that than admit that my life is failing and I’m absolutely terrified. Oliver, if I didn’t joke, I’d probably cry. And I don’t want people to see me cry. It makes me feel weak and exposed and like a failure. Like I suck at life.”
“I’ve never seen you cry...” he says. “It looked like you were going to cry the day I walked in on you having a nightmare. But you didn’t.”
“What can I say? I hold it in.” I slurp on my soda. I put it down and Oliver is looking at me very fixedly.
“I’ve seen your eyes swell and turn red. I’ve seen you clench your teeth, press your lips together, and your nose scrunch up. You roar and fight. You outdare and defy. But you don’t cry. Sophie, you don’t have to do that with me. You don’t have to act fearless.”
“Fearless?” A corner of my mouth turns up. “Ha! The problem is I’m not fearless. I’m scared of everything. You’re the real shark here.”
“Tell me one thing that scares you.”
“Well, I once saw a centipede the size of my hand in the shower,” I disclose, a hint of comicalness in my voice. “A demon bug, I guess. Extremely terrifying.”
“How about jokes aside?”
“It’s not a joke! I really did see one. I hate bugs.”
“A real answer, Sophia.”
A groan breaks out of my lungs. I straighten myself, aware of the verbal massacre that is about to take place. “I used to be afraid of the dark when I was a little girl, of the monster hiding inside the closet. But after awhile, I figured out what it really was.”
“What was it?”
“Me.” I say it like it doesn’t affect me and throw another French fry into my mouth to prove my point.
His eyebrows come together. “I don’t understand.”
“A part of me,” I continue. “Some dark part of me. Being just a little kid, the darkness was so small back then. I was sweet and naïve. But I knew something was there, hiding, building up, and waiting to be released.”
He listens attentively.
“Every night, I’d tell my aunt there were monsters in the closet. She would open the closet door, turn on a light, and tell me, ‘There are no monsters in here, sweetheart. They’re all in your head.’”
Telling this to Oliver is like tearing off a scab when it is not quite ready to come off, causing the wound to reopen. “I think my aunt was trying to comfort me...but she didn’t really know how right she was. The monsters, they’re really in my head.”
“What are you saying? You’re afraid of your own mind?”
“No.” I almost feel the thick words in my mouth. “I’m afraid of what else is in there.”
Oliver looks troubled, even disturbed, like all the knowledge in his brain cannot comprehend the extent of what just unfolded.
My face softens from the grimace it was in. “You really deviated from the game. Let’s get back to it. I’m switching categories,” I announce. “Oliver and Life for six hundred.”
“Sophie.”
“What? I thought you said I could handle anything. Let’s make it for one thousand.”
He gives out his next clue. “An herbaceous plant whose pods contain legumes. They are also known as groundnuts.”
“This is so hard.” I puff out my cheeks, feeding the little rodent in my mind that runs on the thinking wheel. “I have no idea. What are peanuts?”
“Incorrect. The correct response would be, ‘What is Oliver allergic to?’”
“You’re allergic to peanuts?”
“It’s what I just said.”
I have to admit this game is rather thought provoking, not on its own, but what it means to our relationship. My interests are unveiled. I want to know everything there is to know about Oliver. On top of that, I need to score some fake money.
“All right,” I say. “Same category for eighteen hundred.”
“Sophie, there is no category for eighteen hundred dollars.”
I feel like the larger my bet—the better the question—the more I will get to know him. “Oh, yeah. But then again, we’re playing imaginary Jeopardy. Come on. Give me another clue. I’m waiting...”
“A hybrid vehicle constructed by Oliver Black and the EcoMites for MIT School of Engineering and Applied Sciences.”
“Okay, I think I can answer this. Why did you win the Sustainable Design Competition?”
His eyes fly open. “What do you know of it?”
“I know there’s a big, shiny trophy with your name on it. I saw it in your office in your apartment. I assumed this was why you’d won. Tell me I was right!”
“No. I’m sorry. You are incorrect.”
“What? Now why?”
“I did win the competition. I did win the award. But my hybrid vehicle project for MIT is the accomplishment I’m most fond of. That is the correct answer.”
“Okay. You have to give me that one, I was partially correct!”
A smile hedges on his lips. “Baby, I’ll give you anything you want.”
Only he has the power to stimulate me in the middle of a made-up game. “Why is this accomplishment so special to you?”
“Because I designed the prototype when I was five,” he answers. “I was on an airplane with my parents for the holidays, on our way to Colorado. I had a box of crayons and a stack of scribble paper. It was the first design I ever drew. I didn’t make much of it back then, not until it occurred to me what I could do with it.”
“Oliver, you are the weirdest, most interesting person I know. Can we do one last clue?”
“You want more?”
“Of course I want more.”
“All right. This is it, win or lose,” he says warningly. “I used to have a push toy with rattles, when I was a little over a year. My energy knew no end. Day and night I would move it forward and the rattles would rumble along as I went.” He looks particularly amused. “One day, my father threw it away, said he’d get me a silent toy.”
“Oh, baby.” I coo. It comes to mind that Oliver can travel far back down memory lane. But how far is the question to be answered. “Is it your oldest
memory?” My voice is almost a low whisper.
“Congratulations, Miss Cavall. You’ve won the game.”
***
THAT NIGHT, I make love to him. I forget who I am, what my troubles are, and where I am. I feel everything, every tingle, every sensation, every touch, every uncontrollable spasm jolting through my body.
My brain starts working again somewhere around four in the morning when I wake from deep sleep and Oliver is nowhere nearby.
I slide out of bed and into some baggy clothes. I venture throughout the apartment, wondering why I found myself minus one upon waking. In the living room, I find Oliver sleeping on the sofa, almost as peaceful as heaven itself. I’m lost in him immediately. His features are outlined by the TV’s lively glow. On the lowest volume, Dr. Oz is going on about fat burners.
I come out from the shadows. “Oliver...”
“Hmm,” he mumbles.
“What are you doing out here?”
“You were snoring.”
Seeing him there, managing to sleep on the uncomfortable sofa, I am overcome by a rush of something intense and unexpected. His words bring a feeling from deep within me. A feeling I don’t usually feel and have no real concept of. A feeling I can’t exactly describe, but it makes me go weak at the knees.
With eyes half shut, he scoots farther back into the sofa and pats the cushion for me to laze next to him. I lie down on my side and he puts his long arms around my waist, wrapping me securely. A shiver runs down my spine as I feel his warm breath reach the back of my neck.
I smile wide; the coziness is so inviting. My back to his chest, he slides his other arm under my head and I use his bicep as a pillow. A hard pillow. I brush my fingers through his arm hair. He pulls me closer to him. Twice he moves his nose past my neck, inhaling my hair.
From the way he’s holding me, as if he’s never letting go, I can hardly breathe. From the way he’s breathing, heavy and deep, I know he’s asleep. My skin prickles up. I can’t quite get used to his touch. A single tear slides down to my cheek, then another one, and another one. They are tears of hope, but most of all, tears of feeling wanted, feeling safe, feeling like no matter how horrible life is going, no matter how scary the world can be at times, or how many people have done me wrong in the past—I will be okay. It’s like there’s a violent windstorm ripping trees and houses out of the ground, but the thickest armor protects my house, and it’s surrounded by the most bulletproof of windows.
SEVENTEEN
COME MORNING, I am squiggling on the sofa like a worm, my hair in my face, my mouth slightly dribbling. I sweep my hands across my face and bare my skin to the strong heat of the sun. I can hear the blender going on nonstop, crushing and grinding, as the kitchen is just a few feet away. The blades whir like they are out of control. Something, ice maybe, is clanking against the metal, and my ears are almost gushing out blood.
“Turn that off!”
Oliver, on the other hand, is resting like a gorilla in hibernation, oblivious to the atomic bomb exploding in the kitchenette. How is it that he can’t stand my snoring, but can easily sleep through all this hullaballoo?
I keep wriggling around until I fall off. I stand up, fix my hair like nothing has happened, and see Eric standing behind the kitchen breakfast bar.
“Eric, what the hell are you doing? Cut that out!” I shout through the rooftops. “Eric!”
He switches the blasting mixer off and makes a face like he is an inoffensive rabbit. “You said something?”
“Yes, I said something. Damn it, Eric, what’s your problem? We’re sleeping over here.”
“Early bird catches the worm, I say.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
Jess strides out of her room, piling her dark hair high into a ponytail. “Good morning!” She looks at Oliver and me. “You slept on the sofa? Why?” she says, making a kind of horror-struck face. She’s probably already worrying about dead skin cells oozed out from our bodies, and germs, and potential illnesses.
“We fell asleep, Jess. I’ll clean up.”
She clears her throat. “So, Eric was kind enough to buy us a new blender, seeing as you broke the last one. Wasn’t that nice of him?”
“Yes, so nice,” I say sardonically.
Oliver’s hand is leaning lightly above his head and his other hand is relaxing over his unbuttoned shirt. He’s still beautiful, even though his shut eyelids have chained his vigor. He is unprotected, exposed, and vulnerable.
I sit back on the sofa, on what little space is left after Oliver took most of it. “Oliver,” I whisper and button up his shirt. “Wake up already.” I can’t help the small quirk at the corner of my mouth as I massage his cheeks and pucker his lips into a fish-mouth.
I’m about to get up, thinking he didn’t hear me, when he yanks my wrist and drags me back to lay flat over him. I laugh, trying to twist myself loose.
“You think I couldn’t feel your hands trying to deform my face?” he asks over my half breaths, half giggles. He dodges my movements and pins me down to his torso. “I don’t think I can trust you, Amelia Sophia.”
“Oh, stop overreacting. I wasn’t trying to deform your face. I was trying to get you to wake up.”
He releases me. “I’m awake now.”
“I could’ve drawn silly things on you while you were sleeping. But I didn’t.”
“I would’ve liked to see you try.”
Jess and Eric sit down on the sofa opposite us, forcing Oliver and I to sit upright. “You guys want some coffee?” She holds her mug in the air.
Oliver says yes as he stands to reach his ringing phone. I make no move whatsoever. All I do is look straight ahead, and there, an awful thing strikes. I catch sight of myself in the living room mirror, and my hair is in a state of disaster, like I’ve just taken a ride in a car with its top off.
I make my way to the bathroom and hop inside the tub. The cold rushing water splashes on my face and down to my body. I try to get it over with quickly, but once I feel completely at ease, once I get used to the cold splish-splashing, I refuse to leave. Unfortunately, there is a banging on the door.
I suppose Oliver is growing impatient. But when I open the door, Eric is lurking right outside. He has one hand on the wall, his head leaning on it, and the other on his hip.
“Sophie, I have to—” His eyes begin drifting to the wet, bare skin at my neck and arms.
“Whatever, Eric. I don’t need to know.” I feel awkward about the wrapped towel around my body so I hang on to it tightly and make my way around him.
“Come on.” He grabs my arm. “Don’t be like that. I’m trying to be your friend.”
“Is there a problem?” Oliver walks up to us like it is business. His business.
Eric and I look at each other. I most certainly don’t have a problem, but I’m sure he does. I take a step back and create some space between us. “No,” I answer, frowning a little. “No problem at all. I’m going to put some clothes on.”
***
“WHERE ARE YOU going? It’s Sunday.” Jess asks as I come around the kitchen. Oliver is leaned back against the countertop, drinking coffee and moving his fingers around on his cellphone. Eric is sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar, eating a plate of something deep-fried. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Jess teases, pouring Eric a glass of orange juice.
“People actually do things on Sunday, Jess,” I retort playfully. “I’m going to see Aunt Peg.”
“People do things like go to church,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “It is a day of complete rest.”
Oliver chimes in. “Sunday is not a day of rest. Just because people follow this, doesn’t make it so.” The man cannot pass up an opportunity to share a bit of his knowledge.
Jess crosses her arms. “Well, maybe not in your book.”
“It’s definitely not my book,” he answers. “From a biblical perspective, Saturday is the seventh day of the week, and therefore, the true Sabbath.”
I look
at him in disbelief as I can’t quite imagine Oliver having any biblical expertise.
“News flash. Catholics don’t worship on the Sabbath,” Jess enlightens. “Sunday is the holy day to be kept.”
“I did not oppose that. I said the seventh day is a Sabbath of solemn rest. It’s all in the scriptures.”
“Why are we talking about this?” Eric says with a smug little grin. “Who cares?”
Another thing I can’t imagine is ever agreeing with Eric on something. “Yes, why are we talking about this? Let it go, Oliver. It’s way too early.”
“Okay,” he says as if he couldn’t care less.
I ask him if he wants breakfast, but he’ll do with his coffee. I glance away from the three for a moment and hear a shrilly voice say, “Oliver, I think I know my own religion, thank you very much.” Jess ignores our say in the matter. “I’ve been teaching religion at a private school for four years.”
Unfortunately for us, once Jess gets an idea in her head, not to mention, a Christ-like idea, she doesn’t know how to let it go. Now she won’t relent until we’ve reached some sort of peace, or a point where she’s said so much we have no clue what we’re discussing anymore.
“You’re a competent teacher, Jess,” Oliver says, setting his coffee down. “That doesn’t mean you’re right.”
“For the love of God, Oliver!” Jess explodes. “Nothing is open on Sundays, except for church and McDonalds. People are sitting around watching football all day. How is it not a day to rest?”
Oliver props his arms on the breakfast bar, looking at her dead in the eye. “According to the Book of Revelation, the Lord does have a day of rest. It was yesterday. You missed it. Saturday was originally the Sabbath, God’s law, but man changed it. Man’s law.”
Jess meets Eric’s eyes and I can see she’s exasperated. “Well, aren’t you going to say something?”
“Don’t look at me,” he replies. “You’re the one who got into this.”
“Hey, here’s an idea,” I cut right in. “Why don’t we change the subject?”
Everybody goes back to doing his or her thing. “I have another idea.” When Oliver starts speaking, I immediately perk up my ears and look at him. “Come live with me.”
A Diamond in the Rough Page 21
