Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time

by Dani Irons

  I laugh. “Yes, Mom. I have everything I need over there.”

  She leans against the counter, looking wistfully out of the front windows. “It’s going to be weird not working out of the house anymore.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be much different,” I say, “Except hopefully with more customers.”

  “Yeah, but any change for me is especially hard.”

  “Whaaaaat?” I tease, thinking of how hard it’s been for her to move into a more modern business. But she’s taking large strides and so far doing just fine.

  “Yeah, well, we all have our little idiosyncrasies.” She smiles at me.

  I told Mom about my abortion last week. She cried, got mad, threw a heavy pot across the room, and told my dad. She was mostly ticked that I hadn’t told her, that I hadn’t offered up the baby for her to raise. Even if that thought had crossed my mind before I’d done it, I doubt I would have accepted that as a viable option. I would still be the one having the baby. It would have still affected my life in a way I wasn’t ready for. Then I would have to deal with the unbelievable feelings of loss when giving up my baby. To my mother. It would still be James’s baby, making him a constant in my life. The baby might have blue eyes like James, my brown hair...it’s too much to think about so I try not to.

  I still think my decision was the best for me and, despite my mother’s reaction, that belief won’t change.

  * * *

  Later, I visit Natalie at my parents’ house and see she’s set up her room differently. Before, she had pinky-white walls and a flowery comforter. Mom let her repaint it in darker colors—purples, blues and blacks. I remember how her favorite color use to be pink and how, in recent weeks, black has shown up more frequently in her wardrobe.

  She’s leaning over a cardboard box perched atop her bed when I come all the way into the room. When I push closer, I notice the box is full of her Barbies and other dolls, and Natalie’s expression is severe and determined.

  “Whatcha doin’, Bug?” I ask and then laugh. “Sorry. I don’t know why I called you that. It just came out.”

  She looks up at me. “You called me that when your memory disappeared,” she says, her voice contemplative and maybe a little sad. “I used to hate it, but when you got your memory back, I missed it. You can keep calling me that if you want.”

  I sit down on the bed to see her face better. “Okay,” I say. “I will.” I glance from the box and then back to Natalie. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t decide.” She sits on the edge of her bed, her bottom lip barely poking out.

  “You can’t decide what?”

  “On the dolls. I can’t decide whether I should throw them away or keep them. I barely play with them and they probably get so lonely in a box all the time. I know that sounds dumb.”

  This kind of conversation isn’t exactly my forte. Natalie hasn’t ever talked so seriously to me before and I wonder if her change of mood has to do with either a change in me recently or the fact that she’s growing up. Maybe both.

  Wyatt comes to mind, how he would approach this with Charlotte. “No, it doesn’t sound dumb,” I say. “And you wouldn’t have to throw them away. We could donate them so other kids could play with them.”

  Her lips purse, just on the edge of a pout. “I don’t want other kids playing with them. They’re mine.”

  “You’d rather throw them away and have them get all broken and ruined at the dump?”

  Her eyes grow wide. “Is that what happens?”

  I nod.

  “I didn’t know that.” She thinks a long moment and says something I don’t expect. “You broke your promise.”

  “What promise, Bug?” The word feels natural coming off my tongue now.

  “When you lost your memory, you promised you would stay up all night with me one day. I had it all planned out. We’d watch a movie, play card games, make mac and cheese...and maybe even dress the dolls.”

  “Oh.” I think fast. “I’ll tell you what. Keep the dolls for one more weekend. On, like Saturday, when neither one us has school the next day, we’ll stay up all night and we’ll do whatever you want.”

  “But we have church in the morning.”

  “Friday then.”

  Her face brightens. “Really?”

  “Sure!” I say, picking up one of the dolls. “I have too much to do today, or else I’d say we could play right now. But these dolls deserve a kind of going away party. Don’t you think? We’ll donate them in style.”

  Natalie laughs. “Okay!” She jumps up and down and then leans over to give me a little hug. I squeeze her tight, not able to remember the last time we shared one of these.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she says. “It’s like two versions of you have mixed.”

  I smile at her, wondering if I’ll ever know what she means.

  Chapter Ten

  Wyatt swings by the shop in the evening because we made a plan to get some dinner. I told him I needed to talk, but not about what. I plan to tell him my secret. I’ve held onto it for too long, letting him believe I’m someone I’m not.

  After I climb into his truck, we debate places to eat. He wants to go to El Sombrero, the newish Mexican place, where they have no idea what green chili is and their sopapillas are so different from the ones I’ve grown up with. Instead of the puffy, hollow pastries that you drip honey into, they’re flat and crispy and topped with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Chloe loves them, but I don’t get it. I would rather eat at Primo Italiano, but am nervous to the point my stomach is cramping, so I say, “Sounds great,” and we head for El Sombrero.

  After we park, Wyatt leads me into the restaurant with one hand on the small of my back. He opens doors for me, even when I try to get to them first, and doesn’t sit until I do. His politeness is going to make this conversation even harder.

  The restaurant is nice—dimly lit with brown walls and wooden floors. The design is bare and minimal but clean and quiet. There are no signs it’s a Mexican restaurant, just glossy furniture and the soft murmuring of other patrons. After we both order sodas, Wyatt says, “I’ll have to take you out next month for your birthday, so you can order a real drink.”

  I nod and think, If you still want to hang out with me after what I’m about to tell you. Wyatt’s smile falls when he sees what must be a pained expression on my face. “What is it?” he asks. “Oh, crap. Is this where you tell me that you’re giving James another chance? I don’t think I could stand that. I mean, I know it’s your life and you should do what you’re happy doing, but were you happy with him? Oh, shit. That’s not my business.” He looks up at the ceiling and takes in a deep breath.

  I shake my head, clear my throat. I open my mouth several times, but the words just don’t come out. How do I say something like this? Do I hedge and or just go for it? If I avoid it all through dinner, I probably won’t be able to eat anything and it’ll worry Wyatt. If I just blurt it out, then at least it will be over with and if he hates me, I can just leave.

  So I decided I’m just going to do it. I open my mouth but my lungs won’t give me the air I need to say the sentence. After I take a sip of water, I try again. Wyatt is just staring at me like I’m having a stroke or something and he’s gonna need to call an ambulance.

  “Olivia, what—”

  “I had an abortion,” I say, forcing the words out before I get too scared to say them. “In March.”

  His face freezes, his expression unreadable, and at first I think he’s going to stand up and walk away. If I were him, I might. He helps people—children—all the time. There’s no way he doesn’t have some strong opinions about killing fetuses. “Say something,” I whisper, unable to look at him. I remind myself that I’m not ashamed of what I did and that I shouldn’t be so worried about what he thinks. But I am. I wan
t him to like me, as a person.

  He leans across the table and puts a hand over mine. His face grows concerned. “How are you feeling about that?” He asks, his eyes searching mine.

  It takes me a minute to realize that he’s not taking for the hills, making a disgusted expression, or yelling at me. I’m not sure how to proceed. “It was the right thing to do for me. I don’t regret the actual decision or anything and I know you probably think it’s super immoral and my parents would agree with you but...” I take a breath. “It was the right thing to do for me,” I repeat.

  He shakes his head. “You don’t have to sell me on why you did it. I asked how you feel about it.”

  I take another deep breath, try to focus on my feelings instead of being so defensive about the decision. “I’m a little sad, I guess.”

  His expression is somber, but he doesn’t say anything.

  I feel the need to continue. “It would have been kind of cool to see a miniature little me. It would have been nice to have family that loves me no matter what.”

  “Your family does love you no matter what.” He whispers this, like if he delivers it to me gently it will be easier to swallow. “If you couldn’t tell by the way they’re always forgiving you.”

  I sigh. “I think I know that, but sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

  He’s silent for a long moment and then he asks, “Can I ask you something about the abortion? Or would that be too weird for you?”

  “No. Go ahead,” I say, glad we’re able to have a conversation about it instead of a fight.

  “Was it James’s baby?”

  I nod.

  “Did you tell him about it?”

  “No. And I’m not going to. I didn’t want to tell anyone, but I ended up telling my mom. And you. You of all people should know. In case.”

  His dark eyebrows try to touch themselves; he’s confused. “In case what?”

  “In case what I did is your deal breaker.” I look away from him. I don’t want to see the possible confirmation on his face.

  “My deal breaker?” he asks, pulling his hand away. My hand is cold without it.

  “You know, something someone does that makes the way you see them irrevocably destroyed.” My voice is smaller than I want it to sound. I don’t want him to think I’m afraid of his reaction, but it’s hard to hide that feeling.

  “Irrevocably?”

  “Yeah,” I say, thinking of Chloe and her SAT words. “It means—”

  “I know what it means, Olivia. I just...” he shakes his head. “You have no idea, do you?”

  “About what?” I sip nervously on my water.

  He leans over even farther—his face unsmiling and intense—and says, “I love you. Do you understand what that means?”

  I shake my head. I mean, I know what it means, but I want to know what it means to him.

  “It means that no matter what you do, I’ll be here for you. If you screw up, make a bad decision—”

  I raise my eyebrows, which stops him. He sounds judgy.

  “—or make a decision which some would deem bad but was good for you,” he corrects. “I’ll be here. I don’t know what my deal breaker is for you yet because there hasn’t been anything you’ve done that’s been able to keep me away. You weren’t exactly the nicest person to me growing up. It was like I was a small stain on your favorite shirt—ignore it and no one else will know it’s there. But I know you cared for me.”

  I grimace. “It’s not like a meant to treat you like that, I—”

  “I know. You were too busy being in your own life, with your friends and guys. I’m asking you to allow me in your circle. I want to be in your life too.”

  “You are now,” I say, finally returning my gaze to his. There are tears in my eyes and I think they’re more for Wyatt than for me. I really was horrible to him. “And I hope you will continue to be.”

  He nods. “Of course.” He gets up and slides next to me on my bench, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in. He smells of the earth and a little like dude deodorant. I lean my head on his shoulder, only a little aware that an older couple next to us is staring.

  “Can I ask you something?” I ask into his neck.

  “Yes.” He slides a hand over my hair.

  The waiter stops by and Wyatt and I break apart. He drops a basket of chips and salsa on the tabletop. My fingers itch to grab one, but Wyatt doesn’t so I wait. “What is it, exactly, that you see in me?”

  He grabs a chip, breaks it in half, and just stares at it. As if he’s trying to avoid the question. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer me.

  “Wyatt?”

  “I’m trying to make sure I word this correctly without sounding cliché or trite or too cheesy.” His look is desperate and somewhat familiar, as if I’ve seen that expression on him before. Maybe in that weird time when I couldn’t remember who I was. Did he act desperate then? He sighs. “You...bring out the best version of me.”

  I feel my own expression warp into a Picasso of confusion. Then I giggle. “Are you trying to say that I make you want to be a better man?”

  “See...” he says, his expression pained. “I said I didn’t want to sound cliché, and here you are, cliché-ing the hell out of my words.”

  I bite back another laugh. “I’m sorry.”

  He grunts. “But, yeah. Something like that, I guess. When we first met, I was this nerd who kept collectible cards in his back pocket, who was afraid of skateboards and...I don’t know...life. But then you came around, calling me a pussy and showing me how to skateboard like a boss, and it made me want to be better. Less afraid of everything. I mean, I know I’m not the manliest of guys. I can’t leap buildings in a single bound, but I’m better...than I was...because of you.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, just continues to stare at his broken chip. I grab him by the front of his shirt and lay one on him. He’s stiff at first and then he melts into it. My heart stampedes through my ribs. My lips on his feels somehow familiar.

  James wanted so little from me, got so little from me, and here is a guy who has actually used part of my personality as inspiration for his. I pull away from him, embarrassed. “You, uh...” I begin, feeling just as awkward as he looks. “You do the same for me.”

  He lifts his eyes. “I do?”

  I nod. “I want to be a better sister because of how you are with Charlotte. I want to be a better daughter. A better person. I want to stop taking everything for granted and be grateful for the small things I have. Like you are. You are content with your life because you have family and friends and your skateboarding journalism.”

  His face brightens. “You’ve been reading up on my blog.”

  I shrug. “A little.”

  He glances at me with hungry eyes and I think he wants to lean in for a kiss. I turn away. I really should have thought that kiss through. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry...about the lies. I don’t blame you if you never trust me again. I never should have gone along with it.”

  I smile, wanting to lean into him, but deciding against it. I still don’t know exactly what I want and Wyatt deserves not to be jerked around. “I’m kind of glad you did.”

  He leans down, kisses me on the nose, and my breath catches. When our food comes, we’re still looking at each other silently and the plates hitting the table startles us. We laugh. It’s then I know that something between us, something good, has irrevocably changed.

  Chapter Eleven

  My classes on my first day of community college fly by. I took similar classes at UCLA, but I’d barely passed. This time, now that I’m paying for every credit myself, I have incentive to keep my grades up. If I fail, I’d have to pay for them again.

  I ruled Intro to Marketing this morning. So many ideas came spouting from me when we were paired to
gether to discuss some of our favorite commercials and why. I could feel myself light up when I talked about what worked and what didn’t and I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d finally picked something that I could stick to.

  A marketing degree is only two years and I know I can do it. I can get an internship and move on from that. I do well in big cities, so maybe I could move to L.A. and get a fancy job that pay tons and I’d hire Christakos Creatives to do all the signs and maybe they’d grow into their own corporate—

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Right now I need to focus on the website with Wyatt doing all the SEO to get traffic, and we’ll deal with the small checks we’re getting. Later, we’ll take over the business world.

  At the end of class, a girl comes up to me—short, redheaded and stocky—and says, “Oh my gosh I love your shoes.”

  I glance down at whatever I put on my feet this morning, feeling both flattered and a little silly. They’re these gorgeous blue heels that I’d bought with the stolen money from my parents. What I should do is put them on eBay and get their money back, but I was rough on this pair. They’re the same ones I wore the day I was hit by that truck, the heel still broken and re-glued.

  “Thanks,” I say, and compliment her on her bright-orange Converse she’s sporting. “My boyfriend—” I add, then cover my mouth.

  “Your boyfriend what?” she asks. “He wears these? Yeah, I kind of have a tomboy streak in me.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not what I mean, I like your style and everything, I...that’s just the first time I called him my boyfriend.” And where it came from, I have no idea. It’s like someone else entirely was using me to talk with my mouth. Maybe the version of myself that was present in the few weeks that I wasn’t.

  The girl’s face cracks into a huge smile. She has a crooked tooth near the front, which gives her a mischievous look. “Does he know he’s your boyfriend?”

  I laugh. “No! I didn’t even know he was until those words rolled from my mouth. I guess my subconscious knew what I wanted before I did.” I wonder if there’s some way I can recall some of that missing memory, like drunk memory or something. You know, when you get super drunk one night and blackout, and in the morning you try to remember and you can’t? But the next time you get drunk, you remember everything. Maybe I just need to endure another brain injury.