Contessa

by Lori L. Otto

  “It was just about sex–”

  “Dad, I don’t really want to talk about this–”

  “If you can’t talk about it, you’re not ready to do it–”

  “What did I just tell you, Dad? I told you I’m not ready. I recognize that about myself. So please don’t make me talk about this with you. Not today. Not any day, really, but certainly not today.”

  “Fair enough. I was twenty-three when I really knew what it felt like to love someone.”

  “Dad,” I plead with him.

  “I’m just trying to relate. I was much older than you.”

  “So what? Nate was sixteen when he fell in love with Mom.”

  “I would venture to guess it took Nate a good ten years to figure out what the hell love was. Had he known it all along, he would have acted on it with Emi much sooner than he did.”

  “Well, that’s what Granna says.”

  “I’m not going to argue about him. I’m not even sure why he keeps showing up in our conversations,” he adds, his voice strained.

  “Because I think he understood feelings more than most people,” I tell him. “From his paintings, I can tell.”

  “Yes, and I’m an unfeeling robot.”

  I bite my lip, remembering my conversation with Mom. I wonder how much she told him.

  “You’re right about one thing, Liv. I don’t have an outlet to express my feelings like he did, but I can only hope that someday you’re able to feel for someone even half of what I feel for your mom. It’s sad that you don’t see that. I feel like I show her all the time, and I know she sees it, but it’s like you never look for that. You have this idea of who you think I am, but I think you’ve got me all wrong.”

  “Well, I think you’ve got me all wrong. And I know you’ve got Jon wrong.”

  He just shakes his head. “Alright,” he sighs. “I’ll try to let go of my apparent misperceptions about you two. I don’t like what’s happening with you and me, Livvy. I’m not okay with it, and I’m not going to sit back and let it get worse.

  “I’d appreciate it if you weren’t so apathetic about it, and became more active in trying to let me in instead of painting me as someone who can never understand the complexities of love or the trials of being a teenager.

  “I didn’t get where I am in life by being an indifferent idiot.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I try to correct him.

  “Your actions speak louder than words, Liv. You don’t have to say it. I feel it every day.” I try to maintain my composure, but feel like bursting out into tears. Jon had reminded me not to cry in front of Dad anymore. I need to be a grown up. I try to take even breaths to calm myself, keeping my eyes on the road.

  Dad exits the highway and pulls into a gas station. I don’t look at him when he turns off the car and gets out, but I know he’s upset and hurt. And I know I’m the reason behind it.

  And I’ve never felt so bad in my entire life.

  I get out, too, and find the women’s restroom. After grabbing a handful of paper towels, I wipe tears away as they drop from my eyes. I try to touch up my makeup, but it’s still obvious I’ve been crying. To give me a little more time to calm down, I buy a soda on my way back to the car. I look at Dad through the windshield. His eyes are red, and I immediately start crying again.

  Once we’re back on the road, I stare out the passenger window, my head turned away from him. I can’t hide the sniffles, and I know he sees me wiping the tears with tissues from my purse. I keep expecting him to say something to try to soothe me, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say another word to me for the rest of the drive to the lake house.

  I go immediately up to my room and sort through the paint supplies I’d left the last time we were here. Everything is how I left it. A part of me had wanted an excuse to go into town for awhile, but after considering my options, I decide to put another layer of clothes on so I can walk the property before it’s over-run with family members this weekend. I might as well enjoy the privacy while I have some.

  As soon as I’m outside, by myself, away from the ears of my parents, I want to cry some more. Taking a folding chair from the cabana, I set it up on the dock, which is probably my favorite place to take in the scenery. The water is still, and the mid-day sun is bright, providing a little warmth. I pull out my phone and call Jon.

  “Did you get the flowers?” he asks.

  “I did, thank you.”

  “I was worried you might miss them when you left.”

  “I probably would have. Dad found them.”

  “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Awful,” I croak before the sobs erupt. “I’m an awful person,” I tell him.

  “No, baby, you’re not. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t even want to say. I just feel... awful. I just wish you were here to make me feel better.”

  “I wish I could be there to hug you. I don’t want you to be sad, Olivia.”

  “I feel so alone right now.”

  He’s quiet for a second. “Are you?”

  “Yeah, I’m outside on the dock. Everyone else is in the house, not talking to me.”

  “I am so sorry about last night.”

  “Jon, it wasn’t anything you did. I promise. I’d venture to guess they both like you more right now than they like me.”

  “I know that’s not true.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What’d you do?” he asks.

  “Apparently, everything I say, do, and think is just absolutely wrong.”

  “Not to me,” he offers kindly.

  “I know, not to you. Just everyone I get to spend the next four days with, that’s all.”

  “Well, then don’t do anything wrong,” he suggests.

  “Easier said than done. I haven’t done anything intentionally.”

  “Take a deep breath, Olivia.”

  I breathe in and out a few times. “Okay.”

  “Ready to be a grown up?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then go do some intentionally right things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t separate yourself from them. Get in the middle of things. Help your dad with dinner. Help your mom with your brother. Talk to them about the weather. Ask them what needs to be done to get things ready for everyone else. Just don’t sit on that dock alone. Go be with your family.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Yeah, Liv, it is. You’ve just got a mental block right now. You’ve got your guard up. Let it down. Let it go, baby. There’s no point in holding a grudge against them–”

  “It’s the other way around,” I try to explain. “They’re mad at me.”

  “Then apologize for whatever you did wrong, or whatever you think you did wrong. Suck it up and apologize if you think something needs an apology. And if you don’t feel like it does, then don’t fake it. Just move on. This is a new day, okay? Clean slate. Just try.”

  “I don’t know,” I whine.

  “For me, Olivia,” he says. “Please try. For us. Try.”

  “If you were here, you’d see me rolling my eyes at you.”

  “There’s the teenager I know and love,” he says jokingly. “Show them how adult you can be. Go impress the hell out of them. Shock them. Show them they’re underestimating you, because they are. And do you know why they are?”

  “No,” I tell him, frustrated.

  “Because you underestimate yourself. Remember? You’ve got power.”

  “I’ve got power,” I repeat with a laugh.

  “You’ve got all of it. Now go put it to good use, okay?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, feeling stronger and able to handle this. It doesn’t seem as insurmountable now. I don’t know how he does this, how he makes everything seem so manageable, but I love it about him.

  “You’re amazing,” I tell him.

  “I know,” he retorts, cocky. “Let me know how it goes.”

  “I will. L
ove you.”

  “You, too, Liv.”

  Ripples dance in the reservoir, reflecting the crescent shape of the moon in the water. The night is so clear; I can see millions of stars. Staring out my window, I realize this is one of the things I love about this house; one of the things that makes it special to me. Nowhere else can I see these stars, and so often, the clouds keep them at bay here as well–but not tonight.

  I know it’s cold outside, and a little windy, but I decide to go out on the roof anyway. Dad hates it when I do this alone, but he should have never taken me out here when I was younger and introduced me to the most spectacular view on the planet. I put on my coat and my scarf and grab a few blankets from my bed. I dig through the messenger bag to find my gloves and remember the flowers. I take them with me, too, just so I can feel closer to him.

  Opening my window, I carefully step outside. My parent’s bedroom is on the floor below, but it’s way across the house, so I know they won’t hear me. They retired to their room hours ago, as soon as Trey went to bed.

  Lying down against the rough shingles, I pull my hood over my head not for warmth, but to keep my hair from being pulled against the material. Bundled in the blankets, I almost don’t feel the night’s chill. I lay the flowers on my chest, tucked under the top blanket so I can still see them by the moonlight. When I was learning to paint, I did a lot of still-life paintings. I challenged myself with different types of flowers, forcing myself to see subtle differences in their petals and leaves. I was a perfectionist, and would often paint the same flower over and over again until I got it right.

  The camellias were my favorite. They weren’t the prettiest flowers, but I was fascinated how different each flower looked from bud to blossom. I had done one series of paintings over a few days that showed their progression of bloom. It was only about a foot wide, and maybe four inches tall, and I was so proud of it, I used to carry it with me in my backpack every day. The canvas began to wear after a month or so of being shuffled around with my books and supplies, so I eventually had to take it out and find a permanent home for it. I kept it in my locker in the Art Room, and every week, just during class, I’d set it on a small easel on the corner of my desk.

  It also touched the corner of Jon’s desk, but he always said it was fine there. He’d told me he thought it was good. After a few months, I stopped taking it out of the locker, having moved on to other projects by then. I’d forgotten that Jon asked if he could have that painting when he left. Even though it was still one of my favorites, years later, the idea that this boy I thought was cute wanted to keep a memento of mine made me happy, and I gave it to him, no questions asked.

  I remember that day, I’d hoped I’d hear from him, and that he’d come back to the school and see me, but he rarely did. When he would come, I never felt singled out, like he had come to see me. He’d mingle with everyone at the end of class, shyly say hello to me, and then he was gone.

  He always kept his distance until that night a few months ago when he walked me home, marched up to my dad, and asked if he could take me on my first date. Was that really only three and a half months ago? It feels like so much longer now.

  I study the petals. He loves me. I can’t stop the smile from spreading.

  He loves me not.

  I think about the silly game Clara used to play at the park when we’d stumble across a flower. There was always some boy on her mind, and she’d pluck each petal off, assigning each one to a “loves me” or “loves me not” status.

  I get an idea for a painting, and it grips me tightly and moves me to go back into my room. I close the window, but keep my coat on, still warming up. I put up a small canvas on the easel over the drop cloth I keep out permanently and grab my tote full of paints. I set the flowers down gingerly on the windowsill, arranging them neatly until I’m ready for them.

  With palette in hand, I start to knead the red tube of paint. It’s stiffer than it should be, and not only does the lid fly off, but paint splatters out of it, onto my coat.

  “Crap,” I mutter. “Red, too.” I’d left both of my smocks at home in the rush to get out this morning, but normally I don’t make such a mess before the brushes even come out. And it’s my good winter coat. I go downstairs quickly to the laundry room, looking for some sort of stain remover. I find a small stick, but I’m not sure it’s the best way to go about it. I notice the light from underneath my parent’s bedroom door. I decide to ask my mother how I should treat the paint stain.

  Just before I knock, I hear them talking. I lean closer to the door to hear them better.

  “I’m glad you told her,” Mom says.

  “I don’t know,” my dad hedges. “Did I just tell her it’s okay to do it so young?”

  “I don’t think so, Jacks. I mean, the whole point was to tell her how it made you feel. That it just wasn’t anything special because you hadn’t really developed true feelings for your girlfriend yet. You told her that much, right?”

  “I don’t remember what I told her. I think I told her it was all about sex.”

  “Well, that wasn’t quite the message we were going for. And I know that wasn’t true for you.”

  “I know. I think I told her I just didn’t know anything at her age. It probably pissed her off more.”

  “She seemed much better this afternoon. You must have said something right.”

  “Or maybe we’re making too much of a big deal out of this. You know, maybe we’re overreacting, Em. Maybe we should just let it play out, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it’s just young love,” my mother suggests. “He’s her first love. It’s new and exciting, but she’s probably scared, too.”

  “Puppy love, huh?”

  “Maybe.” They’re quiet for a few minutes. I start to walk away, but return to the door when I hear them talking again. “Did your parents ever talk to you about it?” Mom asks.

  “My parents?” He laughs. “I was the one they didn’t have to worry about, remember? They never said one word to me.”

  “Well. Maybe that’s what we did right. Maybe we’ve talked so much about it that it’s lost its taboo quality,” my mom says with a chuckle. “Or maybe we’ve given them both enough to think about that they’ll make the right decision.”

  “She told me she’s not ready,” my dad says.

  “Well, Jacks, that should be enough for us, for now. She’s an independent thinker. She does what she wants. And if she doesn’t want to do something, she won’t.”

  “But she can be impulsive, and you remember what it’s like... the feelings, the hormones.”

  “Remember?” she asks. “What’s to remember? I still get that way.”

  “I know you do,” my dad says. As soon as I hear them kissing, I take my coat and stain removal stick and head upstairs as fast as I humanly can.

  Puppy love? Do they still call it that?

  I soak the sleeve of my coat in cold water before putting the chemical on it. It’s on the inner seam of the sleeve, so it wouldn’t show too much if I can’t get it out. Leaving the coat on the bathroom counter, I head back to my room and pick the flowers up off the sill.

  They’re still too pretty to pick them apart tonight. I decide to delay the art project until tomorrow, even though I know that the insane amount of family we’ll have here will keep me from doing anything like that. I think about texting Jon before bed, but I decide to curl into the blankets and try to get a good night’s sleep. It’ll likely be the last one I can get over this holiday weekend.

  “Livvy, Aunt Kelly’s here!” my brother says as he starts to jump on my bed, waking me up.

  “Trey, come on,” I plead with him groggily.

  “Dad says you need to get up and get ready.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  I reach for my phone on the nightstand, but it’s not there. “Trey, did you take my phone?”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  �
��Really.” I always keep it on my nightstand. I sit up and scan the room, but it’s such a mess I can’t really see anything on the surface.

  “I’m up,” I tell Trey. “Now get out so I can get ready.” He hops off of my bed and runs out the door. “Shut the door, Trey!” He doesn’t come back though, so I get up and stomp over to the door.

  “Good morning, my Olivia,” a guy’s voice says from just outside my room. I pull on my robe quickly and peek my head out.

  “Idiot,” I tell my cousin, Andrew, playfully.

  “Don’t we look pretty this morning?” he asks.

  “Shut up.”

  “Who calls you ‘my Olivia?’” he asks.

  “Huh? Didn’t you?”

  “I was reading this.” He stares down at my phone and reads it aloud again. “Good morning, my Olivia.”

  “Give me that!” I grab for it just as a text alert goes off.

  “Another message,” Andrew says as he towers over me, holding the phone high above my head. He reads it to me. “I miss you. Wow, Livvy, do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Shut up!” I repeat. “Please give me that.”

  “Andrew, give her the phone.” His older sister, Madeleine, appears at the top of the stairs. “Hey, Livvy! I was just coming to see if you were up.”

  “You guys are really early.”

  “It’s ten-thirty.” She laughs at the surprised look on my face.

  “Are you kidding? My alarm–” My alarm was set on my phone, which apparently wasn’t in my room. Where was it?

  Andrew finally gives the phone back to me. “Thanks.” I read the text messages for myself, smiling. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Tell my parents I’m up?” I ask Maddie.

  “Sure thing. Andrew, Dad wants your help unloading the car.” Once he’s gone, I walk over to Maddie and give her a hug.

  “Have you heard from Brandon?” I ask her.

  “Mom and Dad met with him last night,” she answers. “And I think they’ve talked this morning. He wasn’t going to step foot near this place today, he said.”

  “Yeah, I think my dad told him to stay away until he got his act together.”

  “Actually, my mom said your dad called Brandon early this morning and apologized, and invited him to come out for Christmas.”