So Much More (Made for Love #3)

by R. C. Martin

  “Josh seems like a really great guy,” I admit, happy to steer the conversation away from me again.

  “He’s the best. I know my opinion is completely bias, considering the man can make my pussy sing four times before breakfast, but it’s true.”

  It takes a second for me to realize that I didn’t imagine her blatant admission of her obviously active and very satisfying sex life. As soon as it registers, I burst out laughing.

  “A laugh. Just the response I was looking for,” she chuckles. “I think we’re going to be friends. Although, I’m completely serious about Josh.”

  “About him being great in bed? Or about him being a great guy?” I ask with a grin.

  “Both,” she says with a wink. “Honestly, though, he’s really sweet and he loves to help and he can fix anything. If you ever need him, don’t hesitate to come knocking. That is—unless you have your own beck-and-call guy…”

  I think of Luke, because I can’t help it, and my heart gives me the finger.

  For crying out loud—how many times do I have to apologize? If I’m not mistaken, it was your attachment to the man that made me go mad with love. You’re just as much to blame, here. So can we just move on already?

  “Uh-oh. I struck a nerve,” says Aria, interrupting the argument between my heart and me.

  “There’s no guy,” I stammer, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I mean, I’m single.”

  She pauses for a beat before she gently asks, “Did he make your pussy sing?”

  I want to laugh, I really do, but I can’t. The cheery sound gets trapped in my throat just as the tip of my nose starts to tingle—warning me that I’m on the brink of a big ugly cry. “I wish,” I whimper.

  “So when you said you needed a change of scenery…?” I nod my reply to her implied assumption. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  When I shake my head no, a tear spills down my cheek. I’m quick to swipe it away before I offer her a small smile. “Thanks, though.”

  “Yeah, sure. If you ever want to talk, don’t hesitate to come knocking.” We pull up to our destination and she grins at me as she puts her car in park. “Come on. A bit of natural sweetness is always good for a pick-me-up. This place has an amazing berry-banana concoction that will blow your mind.”

  There's a small line inside, but nothing to complain about, and I listen to Aria chat about how she got hooked on fruit smoothies. She does a marvelous job of sweeping away the remnants of my emotional moment back in the car, and I decide that she and Josh have a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies in their future.

  “So, do you spend a lot of time with Millie?” I ask as we take our smoothies outside to sit at one of the patio tables.

  “Ha! That would be a big, fat negatory.” I blanch at her response, suddenly worried about who I've just moved in with. “Sorry, that came out wrong,” Aria laughs. “I just mean that she's not exactly the socializing kind. She's really nice, I swear, but she's also really intense. About everything. Like teaching, for instance. She's insanely smart. If I wanted to know how to do calculus backwards, in my sleep, I'd ask her to teach me. She's passionate about sharing her brain—but sometimes she gets lost in her head, you know? Like, she's really distracted; and that's just Millie being Millie.

  “We mostly chat in passing, which is how we found out about you moving in. Sometimes she'll need Josh's help with something. She also has a membership to the gym he works at, so we see her plenty. We just aren't besties or anything.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend?” I ask, anxious to acquire as much intel as I can about my new roomie.

  “She did for a while, back when Josh and I first moved in. We only met him a couple times before he stopped coming around.”

  “Does she date?” I press, wondering just how anti-social Millie is.

  Aria laughs. “I'm sure she does. She's easy on the eyes, even if she is a bit socially awkward. Don't worry, you'll be fine. She got along with Jess, her old roommate.”

  “Do you know if she’s religious or spiritual?” I wonder, shifting gears as I down the smoothie that’s every bit as delicious as Aria promised.

  “Like, Sunday morning spiritual? Or, like, Wiccan or some shit like that?”

  Now it's my turn to laugh. “Like, Sunday morning spiritual.”

  “Not sure. To be honest, Josh and I sort of have this tradition of staying in bed until at least noon most Sundays. It's the only day both of us are guaranteed to be off. I can't recall ever running into her with her dressed in her Sunday best.”

  I nod, appreciative of all the insight Aria has been able to provide.

  “Wait, are you Sunday spiritual?”

  “I go to church, yeah.”

  It's been a couple months, but I don't tell her that. Claire and Jack have never been big on God, so it wasn't like there was anyone around this summer to drag me. Drag being the operative word. My actions this year haven't exactly made me an upright Christian. I won't lie and say my heart and I haven't felt too full of shame to enter into God's presence. How do I answer for what I've done—or what I was thinking about doing? I've been avoiding God; a ridiculous notion, I know, but I don't know how to ask forgiveness for who I’ve become. I don’t know that I want to, either. Furthermore, I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same Sarah ever again. What that means for my relationship with God, I haven’t figured out yet.

  “Hey, where'd you go?” she asks, nudging my knee with hers.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, shaking my head clear.

  “Is church a sore subject, too?” She lifts an eyebrow at me. “If I need to start making a list, I will.”

  “No,” I say with a breathy, half-hearted laugh. “I grew up in a Christian home. I’m totally comfortable talking about it—or not, if that's not your thing.”

  “I definitely believe there's someone up there.” She shrugs as she sips at her smoothie. “Anyway, what else should I know about you? What do you do for work?”

  “Oh. Well. That's something I need to figure out.”

  “What did you do in Westminster?”

  “I—I taught elementary school. Third grade,” I admit, my heartbeat growing angry as I think about the box of school stuff that sits in my new room. School stuff that I might not ever use again.

  “That's awesome! I bet the kids loved you. You've got that hot babysitter vibe going on. I’m sure the boys crushed on you like crazy while the little girls wanted to be you. Why don't you find a gig like that here?”

  My nose starts to tingle again. “I, uh, I'm taking the year off. Maybe more, I don't know.”

  For a moment, I'm in my parents’ living room—two days ago. The list of emotions I see in their facial expressions makes me want to curl up into a ball and cry.

  Surprise.

  Disappointment.

  Frustration.

  Confusion.

  Anger.

  Reproach.

  I know that I've let them down with this move. They paid for my education and they were so proud of the teacher I had become. Now…now I don't know what the future holds. Their shock left no room for empathy and we're definitely in a rough place right now.

  “O-Kay, I'll be adding career choices to the list of things to steer clear of.”

  A mix between a laugh and a groan spills from my mouth. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I’m usually not this awkward.”

  “I believe you,” she says, nudging me with her knee once more. “Just remember you’ve got a couple friends next door, okay? Oh—give me your phone. I’ll give you our numbers.”

  We trade phones and add each other to our lists of contacts. She gives me Josh’s number, too. I have to admit, I sort of love it that she knows it by heart. Who knows phone numbers by heart these days?

  On our way back to the apartment, she promises she’ll keep her ears open for any job opportunities she hears about. I haven’t had a chance to exchange more than a sentence or two with my new roommate, but I know that I love my neighbor
s. I’m so grateful that I’ve got them. One of the hardest things about moving is making new friends and it took less than five minutes for me to make two.

  When we reach home, we go our separate ways, promising to meet up and hang out soon. I decide to spend the rest of the afternoon unpacking and getting settled. In a couple hours, I’m quite content with my progress. I manage to unpack all of my bathroom stuff. I’m happy to report that our bathroom is pretty huge. Not that I plan on spending very much time in there. I’m still not getting along with my reflection. She screams of my secrets and I’m not very fond of that. I already have my bitchy heart to contend with.

  I also manage to fit all of my clothes in the closet. I don't think about the fact that half of my wardrobe consists of, what I’ve dubbed, teacher dresses; cute but functional. In fact, I’m so intent on emptying boxes that I hardly think of anything else accept the task at hand.

  That is, until I come across the red coat.

  That fucking red coat.

  I don’t remember packing it. In fact, I don’t even know why I still have it. I should have burned it. The fucking red coat. A big, fat, red reminder of the most humiliating moment of my entire life. Wrapped in the once thought beautiful and admired trench coat, I’d never been more exposed or vulnerable. Not just physically, but emotionally too. In it, I had been bold, daring, and sexy. In it, I was every boy’s wet dream—I was his vixen.

  I was ready. I was willing.

  I had decided…

  Fucking piece-of-shit red coat.

  I shove the despised article of clothing back into the box and kick it. It slides across the floor as if I’d given it a gentle push and I huff out an irritated sigh.

  I need to bake something. Now.

  I abandon that box for another. I unpack my KitchenAid mixer—the buttercup yellow one I spent months saving up for—and I march my way into the immaculate kitchen, praying that Millie has something that will enable me to throw together a batch of cookies. I’m in luck—thank God—and I’m able to scrounge up the necessary ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.

  She’s even got walnuts!

  I make a mental note of everything I use so that I can replace it when I go to the grocery store. I’ll just have to explain that it was an emergency. In the event of a near emotional breakdown, something sweet must be made.

  I don’t need a recipe; and in an hour, I’m well on my way to having a plate full of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. While I munch on cookie dough and wait for the kitchen timer to buzz, I take a good look around. I open every cabinet and every drawer in an attempt to get the lay of the land. I also wonder if she’s got any room for me to house some of my bakeware. I find one empty cabinet that might hold a fraction of what I’ve brought.

  Just as the timer sounds, I hear the front door open. I pull the cookie sheet from the oven and turn to go greet Millie with a hot treat when I see her standing in the kitchen doorway. The look on her face stops me dead in my tracks.

  Aria was right. Millie is easy on the eyes. She’s got long, ashy brown hair that’s so light it looks like it’s shimmering. Her body has a slight build with a timelessly elegant face. I imagine that her green eyes are why people might find her charming—only, that’s more of a theory at this point. Currently, she looks like she’s ready to throw daggers at me.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. A sloth? I live with a fucking sloth now?”

  My jaw falls open in amazement. Before I can think of a single thing to say, she’s slamming cupboard doors shut as she stomps around the kitchen.

  “Clearly we’re going to need rules. I can’t come home to this shit every day. If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t live like a fucking pig.” She gasps as she reaches for an empty bag of Ghirardelli chocolate chips. “Are these mine? You steal things, too? Un-fucking-beliveable.”

  “It was an emergency,” I mutter lamely. There are so many other things in my head—explanations, apologies, reassurances—but she’s rendered me almost speechless.

  Did she really call me a sloth?

  She scrunches her brow at me as if she can’t believe how stupid I am for making such a remark. Under her scrutinizing gaze, I’m almost inclined to agree with her.

  “I sure as hell hope you can clean shit up as well as you fuck it up,” she grumbles as she storms off to her room.

  That’s my new roommate?

  My nose tingles as I look around the room. Yeah—it’s a little messy. I’ve never really been good at cleaning as I go, but seriously? Did she have to yell at me?

  I sure as hell hope you can clean shit up as well as you fuck it up.

  I replay her words over and over. It doesn’t take long before I no longer associate them with the mess in the kitchen, but with the mess that is my life.

  When I start crying, I resent Millie for robbing me of the happiness that comes with freshly baked cookies; I resent her for unknowingly and unkindly comparing the state of my life to the state of this kitchen; I resent her for calling me names—a sloth? Really? Great. Let me just add that to the list—right underneath slut, another badge of honor I don’t deserve.

  It takes me an hour to clean up my mess, mostly because my tears slow me down. When I’m done, I make a list of all the things I need to pick up from the store to replace what I stole. Then, knowing that I can’t stand to be in the apartment when she decides to come out of her room, I grab the plate of cookies and go knock on Josh and Aria’s door. Josh answers and I can tell by the look he gives me that my face must still be blotchy from crying.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Can I hide out here for a little while? I come bearing cookies.”

  “Did I hear someone say—” Aria’s eyes grow wide at the sight of the plate I hold in my hand. She reaches for a cookie before she even acknowledges that I’m the one holding the plate. It makes me smile. This is how people are supposed to act when I place a perfectly delicious baked good in front of their nose. “Oh, my god,” she groans, resting her head against Josh’s shoulder as she closes her eyes and chews. “You made these?”

  “Yeah. And remember how you swore Millie was nice?”

  She stops chewing and opens her eyes, the sound of my voice distracting her from her moment of indulgence. “Shit, what happened?” she asks before taking another huge bite. As I open my mouth to respond, she grabs my wrist and pulls me inside. “Hold that thought. I can’t think while I’m eating these. Damn, you know how to bake. Baby, you have to try one. Sarah—pop a squat. You’re not going anywhere.”

  THE ROOM WAS EMPTY when I let myself in. The light of activity from the streets of Old Town Fort Collins shown through the window as I waded through the shadows. I knew—I knew that her absence was a sign. It was a warning. It was my last chance. The empty room was a gift from God. He was giving me one more chance to grow a pair and leave before she returned. Instead, I let the memories of her and I pull me down until I was seated on the edge of the bed.

  She had invaded my thoughts all day. I couldn’t escape her. I hated myself for being so weak, but deep down I knew—from the moment she walked into the coffee shop, I knew—I had to have her. My body ached with a craving only she could satisfy. I wanted her—I’ve always wanted her. Olivia. My battered heart and greedy dick have never wanted anyone else.

  She spotted me as soon as she walked through the door. The light at her back coupled with the darkness of the room made it impossible for me to see the expression on her face; even still, I didn’t have to guess what triumph looked like in her eyes. I’d seen it too many times to count.

  On her journey through the darkness from the door to the bed, she stripped away every piece of clothing she had on—save her lacy white panties. Those, she left for me. Not a word was spoken as she reached behind me to free my mane from the tie I always use to keep my long hair back. As she ran her fingers through it, slowly, gently, my lips sought out her breasts. She sucked in a breath when I traced my tongue around her hardened nipple an
d the soft sound seemed to ignite us both.

  After showing each tit a fair amount of attention, I gripped my hands around her waist and threw her down onto the bed. She helped me out of my clothes, her fingers as hungry as my own to touch—to feel. By the time I was completely bare, save condom number one, the only barrier between me and her sweet, wet pussy was a flimsy piece of lace. My cock was so hard it hurt. My impatience to be inside of her shredded her panties, and she begged for me as I tossed aside the useless garment.

  We fucked in the bed. I took her against the wall. I ravaged her in the shower. I wasn’t gentle and she wasn’t sweet. All night, we spoke in grunts and groans of untamable passion. Nothing else was said—no further conversation was acceptable.

  You’re my best friend. You won’t say no. You never do.

  I am Olivia Bennett’s best friend. What we have is fucked up and dysfunctional, but it’s ours—held together by painful memories, bitter betrayals, and unrequited love.

  Olivia Bennett is my worst nightmare. She’s the woman I hate to love; she’s the woman I love to hate.

  We were paired together as lab partners in high school. Sophomore year. Mrs. Katz’s Biology. When I met her, I remember thinking I’d never seen someone like her before. Otherworldly was the only word I could think to describe her beauty. I don’t know if it was the pixie haircut or her big, round, brown eyes, or her wistful smile or all three—but I was drawn to her. It wasn’t just her face, either. She was also smart and funny with a tendency to be mischievous. It wasn’t long before I discovered that her mischievousness was spurred on by her sadness—she dared to be reckless in order to chase away the pain.

  At first, it felt like we had nothing in common. She hated sports, knew nothing about cars, and preferred salty over sweet. After a few days, we came to realize we did share one thing not many people our age had to deal with; one thing that made us kindred spirits. She’d lost her dad the year before, too. Car accident. It happened so friggin’ fast.