Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time

by Dani Irons

  He straightens his spine, suddenly surprisingly confident with his body. He should be, I think, and then feel myself starting to blush.

  “Always. Gives my elderly neighbor across the street something nice to look at instead of her roses.”

  I glance across the street, to the woman sweeping her back porch. “Well, that’s generous of you,” I say with a smirk, but unable to keep my eyes off his muscles myself.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Are you busy?”

  “No...why?” His eyes narrow at me like I’m about to ask him to go streaking.

  “You’re going to help me with something,” I step over the threshold. If he isn’t going to invite me in, I’ll take it upon myself.

  “I am?” After he closes the door, he rubs a hand down his chest absentmindedly. I can’t help but watch.

  “You wanna go take care of that?” I gesture toward his chest.

  He smirks. “Am I making you uncomfortable? Maybe in a good way?” His eyebrows bounce up and down, making me laugh. If I laugh, he won’t notice how red my face must be turning.

  He disappears down the hall and I’m left in his silent living room. Everything smells like dust and knitting or like a secondhand store, which would make sense seeing as half of the stuff in the house seems to have been bought in one. The house is brown, brown, brown and old looking, like a grandparents’ house. It’s comforting, though.

  “What did you need help with?” his voice echoes deep within the house.

  I walk toward the sound. “Do you have a computer?”

  “Um...yeah.”

  “Oh, yeah, skateboarding journalism blogging. That would be hard to do without a computer.” I peer into rooms as I pass. Brown and white bathroom, brown and yellow guest room.

  “Well, that and my mom works in computer repair.” His voice is coming from the last room to my right.

  Before I enter it, I glance to the left. A brown room with a wooden bed covered in a brown duvet edged in lace sits in a bath of sunlight. The plastic blinds are open and bits of dust dance around in light. His parents’ room?

  In his room, Wyatt’s back is to me as he digs through his closet. I can’t ignore the way his back muscles move or the soft-looking skin. I look away, trying to focus my attention to his room, which is mostly blue. I shouldn’t feel bad for looking. He is, after all, my boyfriend. I’m allowed to look at him. So I do. I imagine the way those muscles would feel under my fingertips. He tugs a shirt over his head and it snaps me back to reality.

  When he turns around, he starts.

  I laugh at him. “Sorry.”

  “You’re like a ninja.” He shifts his weight nervously, which makes me nervous.

  I survey the room. It’s very lived in. “Are you planning on moving out any time soon?” I ask. “I mean, you are twenty.”

  “Twenty-one,” he corrects. “I’m three months older than you.”

  “I’ll be twenty-one in three months?” I ask, surprised.

  He nods. “We’ll go out for a drink.”

  “Okay,” I say with a smile. “So, if you’re twenty-one, why do you still live at home?”

  He sits on his bed and tugs some socks on. “I could move out, I make plenty of money through advertisements on the blog, but Dad has some mobility issues because of his gout. He used to work when I was younger, but he has too much pain now. So I help him while I keep saving.”

  “No college for you?”

  “I’m getting an online degree for computer technology.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Sounds pretty cushy. Nothing better than being able to work and go to school in your pj’s.”

  “Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “Can’t get much better than that.” He points to the computer across the room. “Well, there it is.”

  Instead of moving to sit in front of it, I hesitate, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I guess I should have called first. Were you busy?”

  “Not really. I hadn’t even gotten dressed yet, obviously.” He pulls the chair out and gestures for me to sit. I walk over and do that.

  I smile at him. “Thanks.”

  He smiles back and I grow even more nervous. Like I’ve suddenly realized we were alone. “I’ll be right back,” he says and disappears from the room. I’m left in the quiet, feeling like maybe I shouldn’t have come. It’s going to be awkward, us alone together. We’re dating but I don’t remember. I think about what it had felt like to kiss him or the feel of his hand in mine. I wish I could remember any lingering gazes and if he’s bought me flowers. Has he seen me cry and wiped away the tears? Does he know my deepest secrets—ones I don’t even know right now? My chest starts to hurt. A stereo stands nearby on a shelf and I flick it on, hoping some music or noise will help me relax. Smooth jazz rolls out.

  “Ew. Ick.” I turn the knob, finding a more acceptable radio station. I’m not sure what music I like, or what Old Liv liked, but I’m fairly certain it isn’t jazz.

  At the computer, I move the mouse and the monitor wakes up. I probably should have waited for Wyatt to return—what if he had something weird on the screen?—but that idea comes too late. The wallpaper is a still photograph of a waterfall, so I’m safe there. I click the little “e” on the taskbar and a search engine pops up. Build your own website, I type, and click on the first link that isn’t an advertisement.

  A crinkling noise tells me Wyatt’s making the return trip down the hall. “Snacks!” he trills as he pops in, setting a family-size bag of lime tortilla chips on a nearby table. He blinks at the screen. “You want to build your own website?” He’s pretending the awkwardness isn’t in the room with us. But it’s the proverbial elephant and I can feel it standing right behind me. Maybe he doesn’t feel it at all. Maybe it’s just me.

  “Not for me,” I say, playing the ignore-the-elephant game. “For Christakos Creatives.”

  “I’ve been hoping your parents would do that for years. What got them to change their mind?”

  “I don’t exactly know if they have. I’m just doing them a favor.”

  “Uh...” He shifts in his chair. “Don’t you think you should ask them if that’s even something they want?”

  “I wanted to make it a surprise. I’m trying to help out more. Chloe says I was kind of a selfish daughter and I want to make it up to them.”

  “You could still make it up to them by asking what you can do to help,” he points out, opening the bag of chips and grabbing one. “Change is scary. They might not be ready.” He pops the chip in his mouth, swallows and adds, “Maybe they can’t handle a lot of new customers. They might not have the resources.”

  Possibly, but they could hire out if they get more than they can handle, couldn’t they? I roll the thought over and over and over some more. Stepping on my parents’ toes is definitely not something I want, but I have to do something. I could get a job, I guess, but any money I would make would only bide time until the business goes down. No, I would have to do something bigger to make up the difference.

  “I think I should do it,” I say. “If they choose to not use it, it’s up to them.”

  Wyatt is silent for a moment. Then he says, “Yeah, but their reputation would turn to crap. If the customers contact them from the website and your mom or dad have to turn business down, word will get around that they’re impossible to work with.”

  “But I’m betting on them not turning work down.”

  He shrugs, “All right. Whatever you think.”

  “Would you help me? I could really use your tech know-how. Dion and Cora don’t have a computer. I mean, I get the keyboard and mouse and internet...but setting up a website? I got nothing.”

  “I don’t exactly agree with your doing it without their permission. Your mom’s always wanted to keep the business in the family.”
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  “But Christakos Creatives is on the brink of failure. They need help. If I ask Cora, she’ll tell me she doesn’t want my help because I should be letting my brain heal. I really want to do something for her. For them. I feel like I owe them something. I feel like I was maybe a bad daughter to them. Do you know if I was?”

  He looks at me, his eyes going soft. “There was some...fighting. But nothing you guys can’t get past.” He worries the inside of his lip between his teeth and then sighs. “Fine. If you want to do this. If you really think it’ll help, I’ll help you do it.”

  “Yay!” I clap my hands together. “Thank you!”

  He smiles at me until my insides turn to goo.

  I grab the bag of chips from him to distract me and reach in for a handful. I chew on them and think. A moment later, after I swallow, I say, “Okay. So. We design this awesome website, get it out into cyberspace, and then show it to my parents. If they like it, we advertise. If they don’t, we’ll take it down. I doubt anyone will find the site if no one knows about it yet. Let’s start by you showing me your blog. Is it just, like, generic or—”

  “I do not have a generic blog,” he interrupts, annoyed. “I learned code. I made a custom website.”

  I want to laugh at him because him being serious is so friggin’ cute. I want to reach over and feel the stubble on his cheek. “Oh yeah?” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  He reaches over me instead of asking me to get up and his arm grazes my boob. I pull back, so embarrassed that I might shrink into nothingness. But he doesn’t notice. He leaves it there. Even though I’ve pulled away, his arm is still on my body. I lean back as far as I can in the chair, but can’t completely get away from his touch.

  As I’m about to say something or push the chair away from the table, his arm is gone. I gaze up at the screen. He’s already typed in his URL and it takes a few moments to load because his computer is several years old.

  The static page is a black and white photo done in an antique-looking filter of him on a skateboard with his camera. Board Photos runs across the top. At first, I want to giggle because skateboarding journalism is kind of funny, really. But the picture is obviously quality. “That’s nice, Wyatt.”

  “My friend took it. She’s a Cub Scout volunteer. We hang out sometimes.”

  An unfamiliar feeling crawls up my spine and rolls around in my stomach acid. “She?” I ask before I know it’s out.

  He laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous. She’s just a friend.”

  “I’m not jealous. I just thought that only men could be in the Cub Scouts.”

  “Time’s are a-changin’,” he says with a wink, like he knows I’m so full of crap. It’s obvious what I’m feeling. But why am I feeling like this? I have no reason to be jealous, do I? Plus, I’d pretty much asked him to back off—whether he’s taking that as a completely break up or not—so I have no ground to stand on even if I was jealous. If I’m completely honest, it’s not like I don’t feel anything for him. I feel something but I don’t know if it’s enough to say that I like him. Definitely not enough to say I love him. I’m so confused. I’m not ready to dive into anything with him yet, but don’t want anyone else to have him, either.

  I don’t want to think about any of this, so I focus on the screen again. Below the picture, categories are written in a graffiti-style font. Home, About, Portfolio, etc.

  Reaching over to the mouse, I click on Portfolio. His most recent photos are at the top, some of which I recognize: my house, the sky, a close-up of the grass (possibly in front of my house), the shoes he was wearing that day, and my neighborhood street in like this weird stretched-out frame. My mind itches as I try to recall of the style of this filter, but I hit a wall. None of the pictures are of anything particularly unique, but the cropping and filters and everything he uses make each photograph its own.

  “These are neat,” I say, scrolling through them.

  “Neat?” he asks.

  “Yeah, they’re really cool.”

  “Cool. Hmm.” He narrows his eyes. “Either you don’t like the pictures or your entire memory of how to comment on art has been destroyed.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Yeah, probably that last one. I’m not sure what to say.” I keep scrolling down, looking at some of his other stuff.

  I come upon the picture I took of him. It’s a gorgeous shot, but not because I was the one to take it. He’s deepened the shadows on his face and made the sun and his eyes the focal point. The sun baked the brown color into a melty-looking caramel. I want to say how amazing this photograph is, but I know it won’t come out right. It’ll sound like I made it look the way it does, which is totally not it at all. “You did a wonderful job on this photo,” I say, pointing. “The shadows over here. The sun. Your eyes. Whatever you did is amazing.”

  “You took it.”

  “I did, but I didn’t make it look this good. You did all the work. You could probably make a child’s picture of the carpet turn out special.”

  He laughs. “I have a whole section on that.” He leans over again, taking control of the mouse. His arm lands on my good arm this time instead of my chest and I don’t pull away. “Look.”

  He’s clicked on a sub-menu in his Portfolio tab named, Charlotte’s Treasures. It’s filled with photographs that his “Little Buddy” has taken—a selfie, a neighborhood dog pooping, a ladybug, and her shoes.

  Cute.

  And then I remember how amazing it is that Wyatt hangs out with her and seems to really enjoy it and I know I’m warming to him even more.

  After looking through those, I browse the rest of his website, testing all the links, and then write him a fake email on his form to see how things work. “I like this layout,” I tell him. “It’s personalized, but still simple. Cora and Dion would like it.”

  His mouth twists up in confusion.

  “What?”

  “Why do you call them that?”

  “I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t. It just feels awkward to call them Mom and Dad. I guess somewhere deep inside I know they’re my parents, but that doesn’t mean I remember my mom cleaning my cuts or dad teaching me to ride a bicycle. I just woke up and the doctor was like, these strangers are your parents. It’s just weird.”

  “I guess I get that,” he says sweetly.

  I click on his dashboard and then stats. “Holy shit. Wyatt!”

  “What?” he leans over to look. Our shoulders touch.

  “You have millions of page views!” I give him this look like I have no idea who he is, which, technically, is true. “What the hell?”

  He shrugs. “There are a lot of us nerds out there.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you have to kind of know what you’re doing to get this many people interested?”

  “I learned SEO in my class.”

  With my mouth hanging open, I make a little sound. I don’t even know what SEO means. There is something about a guy who can do something well and Wyatt knowing this stuff is super sexy.

  Pull...

  For a very odd, very frustrating moment, I want to kiss Wyatt. He looks at my eyes for a long moment, cocking his head, like what? Then he looks at my lips and I know he’s going to go for it.

  I lick my lips, lean in the tiniest of bits.

  But instead of him leaning in too, he stands and disappears from the room again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Summer After Twelfth Grade

  James and I weren’t the same after the night he hit me. He’d woken up, snuck inside Chloe’s house and found me crashed out on her bedroom floor. He cuddled up to me and I found him nestled into my armpit the next morning. My arm was dead from his heavy head.

  I sat up after pushing him off me and noticed Chloe was already out of the room. My movement stirred James awa
ke and after he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, I said, “You slapped me across the face last night.” I stared at him, daring him to deny it, wanting him to fix it.

  At first he laughed and then said, “Are you serious?”

  I nodded and started to cry. He wrapped me in his arms, pushing my face into his chest. “I’m so sorry. I don’t even remember that.”

  I would have forgiven him and just moved on because he’d been seriously messed up and promised never to do coke again, but a week after that night, sex with him was too rough. He liked doing it doggie style and tried to slip it in my behind even though I told him no and he left hickeys all over me that were hard to cover up. A few nights after that, he got even rougher. He kept throwing me on the bed and pinning my arms down until my muscles screamed. I yelled at him to stop, and he did, but there was a constant fire behind his eyes.

  After that, rough sex became our new normal. Sometimes I could get him to slow down, touch me softly, but most of the time he seemed distant and angry, like he was in a fistfight.

  Despite all of that, I still loved him. Even though he wasn’t acting like it, I knew he was still the same guy that treated me like a princess on every date, that danced with me and made me laugh, and wanted to wait until we were both sober to lose our virginity. He was still my James. He was just going through this angry phase or something.

  But some time later, I found more coke in his room when I was searching for a condom. I’d sat up. “What’s this?” even though I knew. And he knew I knew.

  He got defensive and asked me to leave. I did because I was pissed that he’d broken his promise.

  We didn’t call each other for two weeks. I didn’t know if we were broken up or what. I missed him and wanted to reconnect before we started school the next month. We’d all planned—him and Chloe and I—to go to UCLA together and if James and I were no longer dating, it wouldn’t feel right. What if he met someone new and I had to watch them kissing before class?

  I wanted him back; I thought I could fix whatever he was going through. I could get him help.