Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time

by Dani Irons

  Punish him for what, I don’t know. For hurting my feelings when he rejected me? For lying to me? Probably. And apparently I thought sleeping next to him drunk and fully clothed would be punishment to him.

  I have the entire other side of the truck to myself on the way home, so there is no awkward accidental touching. I’m trying to stay awake for solidarity while Wyatt drives, but it’s difficult. Even though my mood is set to simmering, it’s because of me we went up to L.A. in the first place. My eyelids are heavy and the dregs of last night’s alcohol are kicking my ass. I keep closing my eyes and jolting awake seconds later.

  “Why don’t you just go to sleep?” Wyatt asks. “You were on a bender last night. I’m sure you don’t feel very well.”

  I don’t know why he’s pretending that last night didn’t happen. There was a lot of shitty stuff that went down, like the huge lie he told me. I should call him on it, but I know he will get all weird and shut down on me. What I would like is for everything between us to work well, like a well-oiled and intelligent robot or something, but everything about being with Wyatt is so hard. Push...Pull...

  If we manage to stay together, it’ll be hard every single day. Even though I could lay my head on the door, I lean on Wyatt’s shoulder. I’ll let myself enjoy at least half of this trip in soft silence before I confront him about the lie, about James. I don’t have the energy for an argument of that magnitude right now. I feel like I’ve been thrown from the tallest skyscraper in L.A, so I let his warmth lull me into a halfway sleep.

  Wyatt pulls me to him, not exactly hugging, but close. I want to wrap my arms around him and bury my face into his neck, but I don’t want him to pull away and disappear like he does. So I let him do the most of the cuddling.

  He cares about me, I know this. He was there at the hospital. He’s been there while I healed. He’s trying to help me remember who I am. He even gets me water when I have a headache, like he did last night.

  Wait. When did he go get me water? That was after I was dancing with Chloe. I had a headache, he sat me down next to those dudes who were making out, and left me. Someone came up to me. Told me everything I knew about Wyatt was a lie or something. No, that our relationship was a lie.

  I try to focus on this muddled memory, but instead my brain lets go and I feel myself falling asleep.

  * * *

  When my eyes next open, I’m in bed at Cora’s and barely remember getting there. I’d woken up only for a moment to walk from Wyatt’s truck and stumble into bed to go back to sleep. Note to self: head injuries do not do well after a night of partying.

  I sit up, banging a hand against my temple, wishing it would help to clear up what happened last night. Steve-O said something about him giving it to me straight. That I was horrible to Wyatt growing up. That we were never really together.

  What. The. Fuck.

  I pull myself to the edge of the bed, thinking. What do I do? Call Wyatt to ask if he knows a Steve-O and why he would comment on our relationship? Do I call Chloe and ask her opinion? My head starts to spin, and I doubt it has everything to do with all my confusion. Ignoring it, I pace the room. Pull my lip. Suspicion claws at my brain.

  Chloe was also acting weird at the bar. She lied about how I ended up in the street. Lies, dreams about other guys, suspicious comments about me not being a virgin...nothing fits. I mean, I know I have this weird amnesia, but shouldn’t my life start to fit like a comfortable old pair of jeans instead of brand new ones that are a size too small?

  My head spins again. What I need is to lie down some more, sleep today off and start fresh in the morning. Maybe everything will make more sense then. While I lay down, I can read Wyatt’s note, to double check if there’s anything in them that contradicts what Steve-O said—or helps confirm it.

  When I grab the note from under the lamp, the receipt I found in my jeans after my first shower comes with them and falls into my lap. I peer down to it, trying to read deeper into its meaning. $500 would be a lot for me to spend, being in school with a family business going down the drain. It had to be for something important. SANTA BARBARA FAMILY PL...

  It might mean nothing. It might mean everything. Google would help me uncover this bit of information in a second. All I would have to do is type that in and the search engine would prefill in the rest. But I don’t have a computer here—I don’t know if I left one at school or not—and I am certainly not going to Wyatt’s any time soon.

  But there are a couple of leftover phone books in the garage. Despite my needing rest, I stand up, the movement my head making me dizzy. Curiosity has won over.

  I tiptoe through the house, hoping Cora and Dion are in the office working. I don’t want either one of them asking questions about what I need in the garage. I don’t know if it’s a secret, but I’m not going to narc on Old Liv.

  The phone books are stacked on a shelf next to a wall of tools. They still have plastic bags on them, so when I take a book off the shelf, I unbag it and flip through it. It takes me several minutes and a few times of saying the alphabet to myself, but I find the Fa—for-Family page. In between Fabric Shops and Farm Equip I read Family Counselors and Family Planning Information Centers. Could the PL word on the receipt mean family planning?

  Under that heading: See Birth Control & Family Planning Ctrs; Pregnancy Counseling & Info.

  It suddenly feels like I’ve swallowed a boulder as I turn to Birth Control & Family Planning Ctrs. I’m hoping I just had some birth control put in.

  Three businesses are listed. I say the now familiar one aloud, “Santa Barbara Family Planning Center.” There’s a number and address.

  I rip out the page of the book and pocket it a second before Cora bursts through the garage door. It makes me start so hard, I drop the phone book on my foot.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she says, her face flushed. “What are you doing in here?”

  I pick up the phone book and show it to her. “Looking up a number.”

  There’s this moment where I know she’s going to ask what number or ask if I’d ripped out a page and put it into my pocket, but she doesn’t. She’s fuming, I can see now, and she has bigger things on her mind.

  “Do you have any idea how Christakos Creatives got a website?”

  I bite my lip. Uh-oh. “How did you know about it?”

  She steps into the garage, crossing her arms. “A customer called today, praising my website. After what must have been an entire minute of arguing, he tells me to look it up myself. Since I can’t, I called a friend. That friend said it’s true—that it’s definitely our Christakos Creatives—and, get this. The bottom of the website says Designed by Rosen.”

  I swallow but say nothing.

  “The only Rosen I know is Wyatt. But I figured, it couldn’t be him. Why would he design a website for us without our knowledge? It only took me a second to figure out that it had to be you. Olivia, did you rope him into creating this website for us?”

  My grimace is as good as any confession.

  “Why would do you do this to us? You remember—well, maybe you don’t remember. It was important to your grandpa that we keep his business small and family-oriented, only working within the community. He didn’t want it coming into the modern age and focused on making money. I am trying—have been trying—to honor this wish. We don’t even own a computer to keep up with the website. I—”

  “We’ll help you,” I interrupt. “Wyatt and me. We’ll do all the website work. You guys won’t have to do a thing. I wanted to help out, to do you a favor. This is so much better than phone books and meet-and-greets and flyers. You’ll get calls from all over Santa Barbara and maybe even in the towns over.”

  “That’s not what my dad wanted!” Her hands are flying around and her face turns red.

  “I didn’t know about that. I’m sorry. But wouldn
’t he want you to change things? If he knew you were struggling?”

  “This is a family business, Olivia. Meaning only the family works here. It’s what he wanted. I won’t change things now.”

  “You should reconsider some other options, for the good of the family. I bet if he was here, seeing you struggle, he would want you to modernize it. A bit, anyway.”

  She’s standing there, strong and straight as a statue and staring me down. I hold my ground, don’t cower. “Besides,” I add. “You obviously changed the business’ name already. It wouldn’t be Christakos Creatives if it was in your dad’s name.”

  She pulls in a sharp breath and tucks her bottom lip into her mouth, like she wants to say something but stops herself. After she lets her breath out, she says, “I want you to stop meddling,” turning away from me and letting herself back into the house.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Junior Year at UCLA, January

  I stood in the most embarrassing aisle in the store, biting my nails. Feminine washes. Magnum condoms. Tampons. Home pregnancy tests. I needed someone to call or to help me decide which brand to get, but Chloe was mad at me for ditching her for the millionth time to go stalk James and Megan.

  At Blue Coins last weekend, I’d watched them under this big, floppy hat of Mia’s and they never saw me. I watched him kiss her so gently—his beefy hand in her blond hair—and noticed how she rubbed her perfectly manicured fingers all over his thigh. I watched them dance. I watched them laugh, knowing that he would show up at my room later, blue balls in tow. Saturday had been our night for three months now.

  And I’d only had one period—at the end of October—that had interfered with that plan. That had been a deliciously good night despite the natural roadblock. A night where I’d been able to get James off with my mouth and he’d gotten it up for a second round in the shower.

  I grabbed the most expensive test, you get what you pay for in my dad’s voice echoing in my mind. I didn’t look up once at the zit-faced cashier who rang me up. I didn’t want a baby—even James’s baby. It would wreck my body, my life and probably my delicate relationship with James. I simply wasn’t ready. I also picked out a Red Bull and chocolate from a stand nearby, but then switched the Red Bull to water before the kid could scan it. I didn’t know the rules about caffeine and unborn babies, but I didn’t think they meshed well. The thought that I might be thinking for two tore into my brain.

  After I paid and the kid bagged my items, I stepped out of the store and vomited next to my car.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Now

  I’m sitting in my car outside of the family planning center. After I’d convinced Cora a million times that I was okay to drive, I came here. That was fifteen minutes ago. The place closes for the day at five. It’s 4:50.

  I want to know Old Liv better, and maybe after this place and then the boxes, I’d know more. She’d rescued a boy, which is good. She might have hurt Wyatt before the accident, which is bad. She was a decent enough person to keep one good friend around, but not her family. She’s smack dab in the middle of the morality scale. Whatever lay beyond the threshold to this family planning place could tip those scales, however, and I’m scared to find out what that something might be.

  4:55.

  I don’t even know if the people here will talk to me. They might be busy and I’ll have to make an appointment just to ask a question. Aren’t there privacy laws? But I doubt they pertain to me wanting to know information about myself. I could probably go in there and ask for a copy of my file. For, you know, my regular doctor. I wouldn’t look like such a fool asking questions like, “What was I seen here for? I don’t remember.”

  4:56.

  I turn off the car.

  I’m an adult, I remind myself. I can stroll right in there and get my records. So why am I having such a hard time doing it?

  But I know. It’s not the act of asking, it’s the act of finding out.

  With another deep breath, I glance at the clock a final time. 4:58. They probably can’t even get the records to me today. Probably tomorrow. I might have to wait an entire day to find out something that could be so inconsequential. It’s probably just birth control, but something in the back of my brain tells me that most birth control doesn’t cost five hundred dollars. Maybe I got one of the more expensive kinds, though.

  After pushing myself out of the car and forcing myself up the walkway, I open the door with a shaky hand. A rosy-faced boy greets me cheerily. “Welcome. How can I help you today?”

  I didn’t know they let boys work in a place like this, but I guess that’s sexist. “Hi,” I say, coming up to the counter. “I need a copy of my records here. I know it’s late and you probably don’t have any time, but just, you know, whenever you—”

  “Sure!” he says. “It’ll be no problem. It’ll take just a second. I need your ID...”

  I hand it to him. The good one, not the fake one.

  “And I’m actually waiting on the last patient to finish up, so I don’t mind helping you out while I wait. I was just going to wait in silence, but now I get to talk to you. Yay!” He claps his hands together once, looking sincere.

  “Great,” I say, clearing my throat. “Thanks.”

  He clicks a few things on his computer and the printer next to him whirrs.

  “Sign this please.”

  I take the paper he offers and glance at it. “What is this?”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s a release stating that this office has released your medical records to you. If you ever need them to go directly to your doctor, we can do that for you too. Check the box that says to you or to your doctor.”

  I nod. It’s all so easy. He hands me a pen. I sign as he holds the paper for me—I can’t do it with my casted arm—and he hands me the papers from the computer, folded in half.

  “Have a good day,” he trills.

  I wait until I let myself out of the building, toddle across the walkway, and am in the safety of my car before I unfold the papers.

  What I read only adds to my confusion of Old Liv.

  I’m not sure how to feel. Unworthy comes to mind first. Then angry. I sit in my car so long that I don’t notice all the cars in the parking lot have vanished, leaving me hanging out alone. But I can’t go home. And I can’t drive anywhere else. I’m shaking so hard I would get into an accident.

  I’ve killed an unborn baby and I don’t know why. The words from my records roll over and over in my mind. Surgical Abortion. Dated a couple of months ago, in March. It says that I was twenty weeks along. That’s a long time to keep a baby baking inside of me, stewing on what to do with it. I couldn’t imagine getting rid of a baby when my pregnant belly must have already been growing.

  My stomach twists. Why would Old Liv do that? There’s no way I could do that now—to have something growing inside of me for five months and then one day decide to kill it. I was growing sick to my stomach thinking about it.

  Is that why Wyatt is so mad? If so, so many pieces of confusion would fit. The reason I’d felt resentment toward him when I woke up. The cold and hesitant way he’s been acting towards me. How he couldn’t go through with having sex with me. Probably because he didn’t want a repeat situation happening.

  Maybe Wyatt and I broke up over the abortion and Wyatt forgave me and was trying to patch things up. Or maybe he can’t forgive me yet. He’s Mr. Charity after all. The abortion might have crushed him. We had a kid together and I killed it. No wonder he’s acting off.

  I hold my head in my hands and cry for myself, forgetting Wyatt. I touch my belly, wishing I could remember what it was like to be pregnant. Had I been sick? Did my boobs get bigger? Had I ever been able to feel it move? Would I, being the New Olivia, have kept the baby?

  Then I cry for the baby. I cry for Wyatt. I let mys
elf scream and cry for this little person I will never meet that was half me and half Wyatt. But that thought stops me. What if it wasn’t Wyatt’s? The possibility that I cheated on him still remains, which would make me an even worse person—if that’s possible.

  I cry harder, leaning over the steering wheel. I stay that way for a couple of hours.

  * * *

  I drive straight to Wyatt’s.

  When I get there, though, Charlotte answers the door. I’ve wiped my tears from my face and checked to make sure my makeup wasn’t everywhere, but my face is still pink and looks swollen. Hopefully she won’t notice.

  She hugs me as Wyatt walks up behind her. He sees my expression, even though I’m trying to hide it. “What is it?” he asks, looking stricken. He steps closer. “What happened?”

  I do this sad little hiccup cry and he pulls me inside. Shoos Charlotte away. I let him hold my hands, knowing there is no way to bring up this subject lightly. There is no right place, right time. I don’t know how to do it. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

  Wyatt’s parents are getting dinner together in the kitchen. They are both large and dark in their hair and eyes. His mom looks over, her expression sharp but caring. “Come eat with us,” she says, setting a bowl of salad on the dining room table.

  I shake my head. “I can’t—”

  “It’s fine. Come on now. Food soothes the nerves.”

  I gaze at Wyatt and he nods. Hesitantly, I let Wyatt’s hands go and follow his mom into the dining room. I sit in a hard wooden chair, too shocked into silence to attempt small talk. I don’t even know what I’m eating or what the conversation is about. My brain is focused on one thing: deadbabydeadbabydeadbaby.

  When the table is cleared and everyone retreats to their respective places, Wyatt takes me out back. A pink loveseat-style swing hangs off the porch. It’s in need of a new paint job, but the chain is thick and strong looking, so I sit. Wyatt sits as close as he can without sitting on my lap. Silently, he brushes the hair from my face. It’s windy and he has to keep doing it. I like his soft touch, but it makes me feel guilty. Finally, he says, “Want to talk about it?”