Shiftr_Swipe Left for Love_Olsen

by Ariana Hawkes

  “I was just real happy that you wanted to help me. I don’t mind saying that I was in a bad way in that bar yesterday. And you messaged me like a guardian angel or something, and I think I got a little emotional.”

  A flash of heat rose up from Dolores’s chest, making perspiration break out on her forehead. She picked up her coffee and hid her face in it so Olsen wouldn’t see her reaction. Pretending to take a long sip, she slowly counted to five. Of course he didn’t like her like that. Of course he hadn’t meant to kiss her. She was stupid to have thought he had. She cleared her throat.

  “Same here. I think we both got a little overexcited,” she said.

  Olsen stared at her worriedly. “You still want to be my teacher? I mean, I understand if that was just in the heat of the moment too.”

  Dolores forced her lips to stretch over her teeth in an approximation of a smile. “Are you kidding? Of course I want to be your teacher! I can’t wait for us to get started.”

  His fingers knotted on his lap. “Uh, I was wondering. Maybe we could have our first lesson tomorrow. I mean, if you’re not too busy? Or too tired after school?”

  She bit down on the tip of her tongue. “Sure!” she said as brightly as she was able to. “I’ll put some lesson plans together tonight. And we’ll have a lot of fun. You’ll be reading before you know it.”

  “Thanks, Dolores. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  “Stop! You’ve thanked me enough already.” She forced out a laugh which came out sounding more like a dry cough.

  The following afternoon, Dolores arrived home from school, made some coffee, and thought about canceling the lesson. The thought of seeing Olsen again made her stomach churn. She felt embarrassed to like him so much, when their kisses had meant nothing to him at all. Just be happy that he agreed for you to teach him to read, she told herself for at least the tenth time that day, as she laid out the materials for the lesson on the kitchen table. That was all you wanted when you followed him to the bar on Sunday. But her heart was hurting. And then he kissed you, another little voice said. Right before telling you that he didn’t really mean it. A flash of heat warmed her cheeks – part shame, part anger.

  Her doorbell rang.

  “I’m going to be the best damn teacher I can be,” she muttered, a mantra she’d repeated to herself many times, in many difficult situations.

  “I’m sure you will be, Dolores,” Olsen said as she opened the door to him. Her breath caught in her throat, and she shook her head.

  “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

  “Sorry, bear hearing. There’s not too much that I don’t hear, I’m afraid.” He flashed her a wry smile.

  “It’s just something I used to say a while back. I guess it’s turned into a lucky charm or something.”

  “Well I sure can’t promise that I’ll be your best pupil.” As Olsen stepped through her front door, he filled her hallway, and she suddenly felt awkward at having him there, in her personal space. She showed him through to the kitchen, cringing at the tightness in her voice. Calm down. For the next two hours, you’re the teacher, and he’s the pupil, and nothing else that might have happened between you matters at all.

  At first he was uncomfortable, shoulders hunched and tight. But she tried some of the techniques she’d used with adults, to help him realize that he recognized some words already. Like a lot of adult learners, he knew more than he thought he did. Over the years he’d learned methods of coping, of concealing his illiteracy from others, and there were plenty of individual words he could recognize, even if he was unable to write them down. Still, it wasn’t easy going. She sensed his frustration, saw it burning in those blue eyes, every time he made a mistake.

  “You’re doing good, Olsen. Really good,” she said, as they reached the end of the session. Something passed across his face, something wild, like an animal backed into a corner. His huge fist clenched, and pounded into his thigh.

  “I’m not. A man shouldn’t be learning like a five-year old.”

  She swallowed hard. “So you may have the reading age of the five-year-old today. But in a week’s time it’ll be different. You’ll make fast progress, I can tell.” He made a sound of disgust and pounded his fist again.

  Before she could stop herself, she leaned across the table and grabbed that fist in both her hands and looked him straight in the eye. “What happened when you were young, Olsen? What stopped you from learning to read?”

  For a second, he looked at her as if he was about to say something. But then he tore his hand away. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

  She pressed her lips together, counted to ten. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Let’s leave it for today. I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow?”

  Olsen heaved himself to his feet. Then he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a wad of bills and deposited them on the table. She frowned.

  “What’s this?”

  “Is that enough?”

  Her frown deepened. “Olsen, we didn’t agree to this. I wasn’t planning on charging you for lessons. I just wanted to return your kindness.”

  “You’ve given up your time to help me, and I’m grateful. And there’s no way you’re working for free.” He nodded at the money. “I expect to pay the going rate. Except, since I can’t read, I can’t figure out how much that is. I’ll be obliged if you find out and let me know. I’ll see you tomorrow, Dolores.”

  When he’d gone, Dolores sat at the kitchen table and stared at the pile of money. She didn’t even count it. She hadn’t wanted to get paid. She’d wanted to help him because he’d helped her and because she cared about him, like all the people she’d taught in her life. But after everything he’d said before, it was no more than a business arrangement for him. With a sigh, she gathered up the money, and dumped it in one of the kitchen drawers.

  16

  The following day, Olsen didn’t have any contracted work. Instead, he got up at six a.m. and spent the entire day working on the exercises that Dolores had given him. He was determined to learn fast, determined that she wouldn’t think he was simpleminded. He would never be good enough for her, he accepted that, but he couldn’t stand to see the pity in her eyes when she explained things to him as simply as she would to one of her first graders.

  When he arrived for his lesson in the afternoon, Dolores seemed impressed by how much progress he’d made. And the sparkle in her eyes when he managed to sound out a few words in a row until they made a sentence made him feel a little bit less dumb. She looked prettier than ever today, dressed in a red check dress. Although it was loose, it couldn’t help but hint at the luscious curves that lay beneath. It took all of his self-control not to kiss her, not to tell her that he didn’t mean those things he’d said on Monday morning. And that all he wanted was to spend every waking moment with her.

  Days passed and the lessons continued, three afternoons a week. Sometimes he seemed to be getting it. Other times, he seemed to have forgotten everything he’d learned. A few times, he got mad and pounded his thighs with his fists again. But Dolores was the picture of patience. She stood behind him, one hand on the back of his chair, her sweet breath blowing on his ear, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and helped him sound out one word at a time.

  For Dolores, progress was good, but seeing Olsen never got any easier, and she felt ambivalent every time his huge shape filled the doorway. She admired his ambition and the fast progress he was making. It was rewarding watching light coming into his eyes as he learned a new word, or managed to read an entire sentence without making any mistakes. But teaching him made her sad too because she knew she’d never see him at all if it wasn’t for those classes.

  “Great work,” she said at the end of one lesson.

  “Thanks,” he said, looking pleased. They were standing close at the kitchen sink, she turning on the tap so he could fill up his water glass. But the look fell away fast. “God, how dumb am I? Excited at being able to read a fi
fth grader’s book?”

  “You’re not dumb. You’ve lived a different life. That’s all. Can’t you tell me about it?” She didn’t know why she’d pushed him again; maybe she’d sensed that it would help him open up, take that tightness out of his jaw.

  But instead, his face closed down further. “No,” he growled. “I can never tell anyone.”

  Especially not you, she heard.

  “It’s too sad.” His voice was an undertone, so quiet she wondered if she’d misheard.

  A silence began to stretch between them.

  “What are you looking forward to reading the most?”

  “Everything,” he said. “I just want to be able to read everything I see, like any other man.” They hadn’t moved apart.

  “You are like any other man, Olsen. It’s the same as driving – it’s a skill. Some people learn to drive in their forties. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

  His head turned toward hers. She was inches from his body, and with her head tilted toward him, their faces were about a foot apart. He seemed to edge closer. Her heart beat fast, and she didn’t dare move. And then her phone rang. Her head flipped toward it automatically, and the moment shattered. Goddammit. He was already striding toward the kitchen door.

  “Thanks again for the lesson, Dolores. I’ll see you next week.”

  And there was that empty space that he always left behind him. She let the phone ring, staring at the unknown number in annoyance.

  17

  It was a Friday morning, and Dolores’s fingers trembled as she opened the letter with the federal government postmark. It had been sitting on the table in her hallway all day, and she knew it could only be about one thing. When she read the first paragraph, she sank to her knees on her kitchen floor. “Six months,” she muttered, and the world spun as the darkness closed in all around her.

  When she came to, her head ached, and everything was still spinning. She sat up slowly, rubbing the sore spot on her skull where it had made contact with the floor. After all that had happened, he’d only gotten six months. Even though her little cabin was cool, she was suddenly perspiring, and her heart was pounding beneath her ribs. Her breath came short and shaky.

  “No,” she said out loud. “This is not happening again!”

  Twenty minutes later, she was sitting on a barstool in a cocktail bar called Clementine’s, trying to figure out what she should order. She wasn’t much of a drinker, and on the few occasions someone had bought her a drink, she usually just had whatever they were having.

  “It’s happy hour. 2-4-1,” the incredibly cheerful bartender told her.

  “Okay, I’ll take that,” she said, pointing to the first drink on the cocktail list.

  “Two margaritas coming right up!” he chirped.

  The first one went down pretty well, and by the time she was half way through the second, the white-hot stab of injustice had receded to a fiery glow.

  “Ten minutes of happy hour left,” The bartender said, coming over to collect her empty glasses.

  “Thanks. I’ll just have two of the virgin mojitos.” She didn’t want to push her limits with the alcohol, because she hadn’t eaten much that day. She’d been feeling too nervous about the letter. Ever since she’d seen it in her mailbox that morning, her stomach had been in a ball, but she’d had the resolve to put it aside until the end of the day because she didn’t want any bad news to affect her performance with the children.

  The mojitos were really good. As she sipped the first one, her mind wandered to Olsen. Why did he kiss me like he wanted to eat me alive, when he doesn’t even like me? Why did he say all that stuff to me? The same thoughts went round and round in her head, like an out-of-control fairground carousel. Suddenly she had to pee real bad. She slid off her stool, and felt a little tipsy. Good thing I switched to non-alcoholic cocktails.

  Once she was back in her seat, her thoughts returned to Olsen. She missed him. Not the Olsen who was her diligent pupil, but the Olsen who’d been so kind and gentle to her when they first met, who’d saved them from the biker attack, and whose kiss had made her feel like a million dollars. Yes, she especially missed that kiss.

  She started on her second virgin mojito. Her tipsiness made her thoughts and feelings feel a little blurry. She kind of liked it. She didn’t need to focus on anything right now. Instead, she stared into space and daydreamed about a tall, muscular man, with the sexiest wry grin on the planet. She felt that Olsen was a person she could be herself with. And she’d never felt that for a man before. She even felt she could share with him what happened in her previous life as she liked to think of it nowadays. Sexy, kind-hearted, protective Olsen. These are not good thoughts. I should probably go home right now, but as she waved to the bartender for the check, he was bringing her another cocktail.

  “I didn’t order this?” she said.

  “Courtesy of the gentleman sitting at the bar.” The bartender nodded in the direction of a guy sitting by himself.

  “But I –” she began to say, but he was gone. She pushed the drink aside. The last thing she needed was anyone bothering her right now. She squinted at the guy at the bar. Unfortunately, he stood up and began to walk toward her table. But then, somebody else was also coming toward her. Somebody much taller and broader, with a very agile, purposeful walk.

  “Olsen!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  His lips parted in his usual handsome grin as his eyes swept over her, taking her in.

  “Just a lucky coincidence, it seems. The question is, what are you doing here all by yourself?”

  “I – I’m just unwinding at the end of the week.” He gave her a suspicious smile.

  “Okay,” she continued, slightly embarrassed at making herself sound like a seasoned alcoholic “I received some bad news today.”

  His smile dropped immediately and concern distorted his handsome features.

  “What bad news? Is everything okay with you and with your family?”

  “Yes, yes, everything is okay. It’s... it’s a long story.”

  “Well, it’s Friday night and we’ve got all the time we need for a long story. What would you like to drink?”

  “It’s my turn to get you a drink,” Dolores said, calling the bartender over.

  “Okay, but I’m ordering,” Olsen said with mock sternness.

  The bartender brought over a bottle of beer, and a tall glass of transparent liquid. And that was the last thing Dolores remembered.

  18

  She wasn’t in her own bed, she knew that for sure. And she also wasn’t wearing her own clothes. In fact, she was wearing barely any clothes at all. In horror, Dolores jolted upright, and an immediate stab of pain in her head made her wish she hadn’t. It took her another second to discover that she was wearing no bra, no panties – just a huge white T-shirt that smelled of washing powder. What the hell happened? Ignoring the searing pain behind her eyes, she climbed out of the huge bed she was lying in, and got to her feet. She hurt all over. The room had wood-paneled walls and a wooden floor, scattered with heavy rugs. It looked like a man’s room. I’m in a man’s room, with no panties on? A wave of panic hit her, and she rushed around, looking for her clothes. But she couldn’t see them anywhere. The room was immaculate – not a thing out of place.

  Just then, the door opened and Olsen walked in.

  He gave her a cautious smile. “How are you feeling?”

  “Olsen, what happened last night? Whose room am I in and why don’t I have my clothes on?” Panic made her voice sharper than she’d intended.

  He held out a small pile of clothes. It was her bra, panties, pants, and shirt. “I washed them for you.”

  “But why –” she crossed her arms over her breasts, hating the fact that he knew she was naked underneath the T-shirt. “I was drunk, wasn’t I? And then what happened?” she wailed.

  Nothing like this had happened before, ever. She remembered arriving at the bar and ordering a drink. Or maybe two. And th
en Olsen was there. And then there was a huge blank. She was in a bathroom. And he was taking off her clothes, but she was shouting something. And struggling with him? “What did you do to me?” she demanded.

  Olsen frowned. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything to you, Dolores.”

  She grabbed her panties and put them on, quickly following them with her pants. “You took my clothes off. I thought you were a gentleman. And a considerate, kind person. But no! You took advantage of me.” She looked around wildly, full of embarrassment, tears flooding her eyes.

  “What?! Dolores, please, just listen to me for a moment.”

  “I have to go,” she muttered, striding toward the door. There was a flight of stairs to the left. She took it, discovering the rest of her things lying by the front door.

  “Dolores, wait!” Olsen called. She tugged the front door open and stepped outside.

  Did he have sex with me last night? Did I consent to it? She strode quickly down the forest road that led away from Olsen’s house. The thought of him seeing her like that, when she wasn’t conscious enough to be aware that he was looking at her made her sick to her stomach. The scars on her body, her other imperfections. She’d always assumed that when the time came to have sex with a man, it would be in dim light, or maybe even in the dark. But all the flashbacks she had of the night before involved bright bathroom light. God. Her face burned. At last she stopped, pulled out her phone, and used her taxi app. She was desperate to get home and check herself out, see if there were any signs of what had happened.

  Half an hour later, Dolores was standing under a scorching-hot jet of water. There were several bruises on her legs, a huge one on her hip, and, worst of all, four fingerprints spanning almost the entire length of her upper arm. She placed her own fingers over them, trying to cover each print. But it was impossible – the hand was much larger than her own. Did Olsen grab me like that? It didn’t seem possible – he was always so gentle with her. But maybe mating was different. How did I get so goddamn drunk last night? I was being so careful! Drunk enough not to remember a man having sex with me. A man who doesn’t even want to be with me. But was it all my fault? Olsen had bumped into her at Clementine’s. She finished washing herself, got out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. She had been a little tipsy, but not drunk. She must have looked very different from how she felt then. So, he’d obviously taken one look at her and decided it was a good opportunity to take advantage of her. And he was probably planning to tell her the next morning, casually during breakfast, that it had happened “in the heat of the moment”. Just like their kiss. And that he was sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. Shame and anger coursed through her body.