by E. J. Noyes
“Pretty brunette. Dressed real nice. Little bit of an accent. Looked like she was from the gov’ment or something, all official and driving a new rental. Polite as heck, even when I told her to go away.”
Pretty. Accent. Well-dressed. My mouth goes dry. “Oh?” I pass Glenna the postal receipts. Moments ago they were fine. Now they are slightly crumpled from my fist tightening around them.
Glenna studies me, a thinly plucked eyebrow arched. “Is everything all right? You’re not in any kind of trouble are ya?” A slow grin forms. “You know Archie’s not real good with the criminal stuff.”
My heart double-times. “No, nothing like that.” I force myself to smile. “Sounds like a friend I had a falling out with last year.” I emphasize friend, not ex-lover slash maybe betrayer slash person I still think about nearly every day. My town is a small town, most people don’t know I’m gay and I don’t want to make waves. Not when I’m still an oddball newcomer.
It’s not that I’m worried about being victimized or ostracized. It seems kind of surprising for around these parts, but everyone talks fondly of Graham and Victor, the sixty-something farmers who’ve lived together up on Old Mill Road for as long as most of the town remembers. And the same of Diane and Zara, the women who run a flower stall at the farmers markets, who live with their pack of rescue dogs and eat at the diner every Wednesday night.
It’s just not quite the right time to share that part of myself. Obviously Samantha knows and she keeps dropping hints about her cousin who plays in the WNBA. Maybe one day I’ll just stroll into town hand-in-hand with a girlfriend. One day. If I ever get the nerve to put myself out there again.
The moment I get home, I tidy up the mess made by the boys while I’ve been at work, dust furniture, and run the vacuum and mop over the already-clean floors. She’s going to be here in less than three hours, and everything feels like it’s messy and out of place.
The doorbell echoes through my house as I’m pulling on jeans after my shower. I don’t check my reflection and on my way down the stairs, I drag my wet hair into a ponytail. I’m surprised to see my hand shaking when I grab the handle to open my front door.
Even though I’ve known all afternoon that the person coming to see me was most likely Olivia, seeing her on my doorstep sparks a whole mess of emotions. Nervous. Excited. Scared. And an unexpected flash of arousal. That feeling is deep down, somewhere I thought I’d never feel anything again.
Her hair is longer and lighter. She’s wearing makeup again, and is dressed in a tailored charcoal pantsuit, pale pink silk shirt and low-heeled boots. These images combine to make her the same attractive, poised woman from my exit interview. Beautiful. But she’s always beautiful, even when rumpled and rough and sleep-mussed.
This elegant Olivia doesn’t feel like my Olivia. But she was never my Olivia, was she?
My fingers tighten on the door handle. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for your final interview,” Olivia replies, with the slightest tremor in her voice.
“Why? They’ve sent a lackey for the last two.” The moment the words come out of my mouth, I’m aware of a change—time lengthening, drawing every moment with her out. Slow time. If I ever needed confirmation that she’s the right thing for me, the proof is right here in my changed existence. It’s a sick joke that this thing I can’t have is the thing I need to make me feel like I’m living again.
Her shoulders drop. “Because I asked to. Because I needed to see you. I thought if you knew it was me who was doing the interview it’d be harder for you, having to think about it before it happened.”
“Why did you come to my work today?”
“I just…wanted to see that you were doing okay, that you’d found something normal I guess. That you had good people around you.” She graces me with a faint smile. “I tried to be sneaky, but your coworker came out demanding to know what I was doing.”
Even though I’m annoyed at her invasion into a sphere of my life she has no right invading, the overwhelming thing sitting on top of it all is that she cares about me. She cares, but she still did that thing to me, back in that other place. This is the thing I’m finding so hard to let go of. All my emotions are fighting with one another but I have no choice, I’ve got to let her in. “I thought you left this project. I called—” I’m painfully aware of giving away too much of myself. “Um, come in.”
Her right eyebrow lifts a fraction, then settles again. “No, I was made Head of Research so I’m working in a different department, that’s all. Still Assistant Director, though. And still qualified for the task of interviewing you. Perhaps over-qualified.” Now her smile is a little self-deprecating. Olivia closes her umbrella, shakes it off outside the door and leaves it resting against the exterior wall. She brushes past me and into the house.
“Congratulations on your promotion.” I lock the door, then am suddenly conscious of the fact it means that yet again, I’m basically giving her no choice as to whether she wants to be with me or not. I unlock the door. My skin crawls as though it senses her watching me, and when I turn around my suspicions are confirmed.
“Thank you.” Olivia’s eyes run up and down my body, eventually settling on my face. “You look well.”
“Thanks.” I’m conscious that I should respond in kind. “You too.” It’s not a lie, but it feels hollow. Because while her outside is pleasurable, it’s what lives inside her beautiful body and mind that I love.
Love. There’s that word again.
I gesture toward the couch, and she walks ahead of me, her gait smooth and not the one I recognize. Silly to expect that she’d still have something left from our time together. That she’d be carrying us around the way I have been since she left me in that house in the middle of nowhere. The kittens sprint past, struggling for traction on the smooth wooden flooring. Olivia laughs then bends down and scoops up Hyde while Jekyll leaps around her feet.
“What are their names?” She sits gracefully on the couch, knees together, ankles crossed.
I point my introductions. “Hyde and Jekyll.”
“Those are great names.” She scratches under Hyde’s chin then behind his ears, all the while scuffing her booted foot on the floor to play with Jekyll. I didn’t know she liked cats, something that escaped our countless hours of conversation.
“May I offer you a drink? Water or coffee?” The formality of my words makes me cringe.
She looks up as though just remembering I’m there. Still absently stroking Hyde, she nods. “Thank you. Coffee would be wonderful. This weather really gets inside your bones.” A slow smile. My breath hitches.
Olivia settles on the couch to play with the boys while I take my time making coffee. When I do so for Samantha or myself I’m less fussy, but now I pay careful attention to the way I grind and tamp the beans. For Olivia, a caffé crema, because she once told me that she would drink this type of coffee with her grandparents when visiting them in northern Italy. I know it’s true because the Liv I know would never lie about coffee. Fancy cup and saucer. No plain mugs for her.
From the kitchen I can hear her chuckling and the sound of toys being batted across the floor. Playing with someone’s pets is such a normal thing for a visitor to do. That’s all she is. A visitor. When I start to pull her coffee, she looks up at the sound of the machine. Confusion, then interest flickers across her face before she turns back to the cats.
I baked cookies last night ready for my final interview, but I know she doesn’t really like cookies. There’s chocolate in the pantry. Dark. Expensive. Swiss. The kind we both like. I break off a few pieces, set them on the saucer and store the rest in the fridge away from the rain-hiding ants I can’t bear to kill with spray, even as they invade my house.
I remember Liv in the afternoon, drinking coffee and eating dark chocolate while she read a book. Chocolate and caffeine together is good for your mood, she’d assure me, smiling playfully as she popped another piece in her mouth. She liked to let it melt,
stored between her cheek and teeth as she sipped coffee. “A fancy kind of mocha,” I’d said and she laughed her agreement. I blink the past away and measure half a teaspoon of sugar, balanced on the front of the spoon. It doesn’t need to be exact.
When I set the cup and saucer in front of her, she stares at it like it’s something she’s never seen before. Olivia clears her throat and utters a soft, “Thank you.” She bites a thin piece of chocolate in half. I see that out-of-line canine and imagine it biting into my shoulder as she rides me with my fingers deep inside her. Gooseflesh tightens my skin and nipples. Oh God, why now? It’s not fair.
Olivia raises her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. “I have a set of questions I need to ask, just like your other two interviews, and then you’re all done.” There’s a small bulge in her cheek, the chocolate squirreled in there as always.
“Sure thing. I know how it goes.” I sound appropriately nonchalant. Thankfully there’s no physical aspect to these checkups. If she touched me, I would totally lose it.
After a sip of coffee, she makes a noise I remember well—an unconscious sound of pleasure. Smiling, she drinks another mouthful. “My goodness, that’s fantastic. The coffee I had this morning from someplace called Al’s was beyond dreadful.”
“Mmm, yeah you should stay away from there. I think the rumor is that Al’s coffee is actually leftover nuclear wastewater from the seventies.”
She laughs, raising the cup slightly. “Well, thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.”
Olivia steals one more sip and sets it down with what seems like reluctance. Cup is exchanged for tablet and the now-familiar recorder, which she sets on the coffee table. Liv taps the tablet screen and inputs something. She studies me. “How are you feeling in general? Any physical complaints or illnesses that you think are worth noting?”
“I had a stomach flu last month, but I don’t think it had anything to do with…this. Other than that, I’m fine.”
“You seem a little thinner. Are you sure you’re well?”
“I hadn’t noticed.” It’s not an evasion or false modesty, simply something I don’t pay attention to. “And yes, I’m okay.”
She eyes me for a long moment before lowering her eyes to concentrate on typing something on the tablet. “Have you noticed a change in appetite? Increase in alcohol consumption? Any drugs?” The questions are asked without looking at me.
A muscle in my jaw flickers and I have to unclench my teeth. She knows how I feel about substance abuse. “No drugs. And no changes. I’m exactly the same as when you left me.” Still broken. Still confused. Still wanting you.
“I didn’t leave. You told me to get out.” She tells this quietly to the screen.
“Can you blame me?” I snap back. “What did you expect after everything that happened? That we’d have a happily ever after?”
Her nostrils flare ever so slightly, just enough to telegraph her emotion. “This isn’t relevant,” she says smoothly. And there it is, she’s gone again. So much for needing to see me. I’ve never known anyone who can wall herself off as quickly and as well as Olivia. It must be exhausting for her, like having two people inside one body constantly fighting each other.
“No, you’re right,” I concede. “It’s not relevant.”
Olivia lets out a long breath. The second half of her chocolate. More coffee. “What about your auditory hallucinations? Have they returned?” She won’t look at me.
But I’m looking at her. “No. Still gone.”
“Olfactory?”
“Also gone.” I do not smell Mother anymore, haven’t for quite some time. Right now, I smell Olivia who wears the same perfume as the last time I was in her presence. I’m still not sure how I feel about it. It’s nice and it suits her, but it makes her even more different.
“I’m really pleased to hear that.” She sounds genuine enough.
“Thank you,” I say on an exhalation.
This time, she looks at me when she asks her question. “How are you finding relationships with others?”
“Fine.”
Olivia watches me, clearly waiting for me to give her more. I don’t. She pushes a little. “Are you struggling to meet or connect with people?”
“Not that I’ve noticed, not anymore that is. I have a good friend here, and a small circle of other friends I hang out with.” It feels like I’m trying to prove something to her, something pointless and inane. I’m trying to prove that I don’t need her, that I’ve moved on.
Her voice is suddenly quiet. “What about, uh, romantic interactions?” For the first time during the actual official interview, a smile tugs at her lips. She turns the tablet around for me to see the question listed. “I’m not being nosy. It’s right here as always.” Still, she looks very interested.
I lift my chin and meet her eyes. There’s a curiosity in them that goes beyond professional, but there’s also sadness. My answer is truthful and the same as the previous interviews. “No. None. Not since you.”
She places the tablet on her lap, her fingers curling over the edge. “Why do you think that is, Celeste?”
I’ve missed the way she says my name, the musical way it falls from her lips. I close my eyes against the sudden pain in my chest. “You’ve got no right to ask that.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But I’m asking it anyway.”
Opening my eyes again, I search her face for some sign she really wants me, knowing even as I do it that I won’t find what I’m looking for. I blow out a long, noisy breath. “If I had to guess, I’d say probably because I don’t think anyone would be as physically and emotionally satisfying as my last lover. I’d also say it’s because she broke my fucking heart. And maybe, just maybe, it’s because I can’t even think about anyone except you that way.” I want to say more, but there’s no point. No point in telling her that when I imagine kissing someone or having someone else’s hands on me I want to scream. That when I think about her with someone else, I feel sick.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” she says quickly as she lifts the tablet again. Barely audibly she adds, “I shouldn’t have come here…I don’t know what I expected.”
We engage in a little more back-and-forth about my feelings and interactions and thoughts. I set the remnants of my sarcasm and hurt aside and answer each question for her. My coffee sits untouched on the table. She finished hers, and the chocolate, twenty minutes ago. Liv could never let coffee go without drinking it all.
After the most uncomfortable forty-five minutes of my life, she says, “I think that’s all. Thank you for your time.”
“You’re welcome.” I clear my throat. “So, we’re done for good now?”
Olivia stands. “Yes.” She holds the tablet and stylus out to me. “If you could just sign here to confirm you’ve had your final interview, I’ll leave you alone.”
Alone. What if I don’t want to be left alone? Wordlessly, I scribble where indicated. Over. Done. Finished. I pass the tablet back, carefully, so I don’t touch her.
She drops it into her satchel without looking at my signature. “I have a list of physicians who can remove the implant for you under our medical plan. Or I can do it now, I have local anesthetic and instruments. It will be quick and will only require three or four stitches.” Her expression is intense, like she wants to say more but doesn’t dare.
“Can I leave it in?” I know the implications of keeping it in my arm. If I do that, she will always be able to find me.
“If that’s what you’d prefer.” She drops an envelope on the coffee table. “If you change your mind later, there’s the list.”
“Thank you.” I stuff my hands into my pockets, bunching my fingers up. “Well. Thanks for everything, I guess.” For showing me what I wanted and what I can’t have. For teaching me how to find the truth of what I needed all this time.
“Yes, and thank you for your participation. Your input has been invaluable. The agency who contracted us was very p
leased with the results.” Olivia pulls a large manila folder, the papers inside about an inch thick, from her leather satchel and sets it on the table in front of me.
“What’s that?” I ask, suspicious.
She hesitates. “These…are my personal logs, from our time together and also from after. Every time I thought about you, I recorded it.” She looks unusually embarrassed. “I didn’t submit them, but I’m hardwired to record everything I think. So I did.”
I don’t want to read them, but fuck, I want to read them. “Why? Why would you want me to have this?”
“Because I need you to see the truth and I can’t pretend that my feelings for you don’t exist.” Liv brushes cat hair from her expensive wool pants. “I read all those handwritten logs of yours from our time together. Did you mean what you wrote?” She’s watching Jekyll chase a plastic ball around the floor.
“At the time, yes.”
Slowly, her focus moves to me. “And now?”
“I’m not sure.” I think I do still mean it, but there’s so much more layered over the top that I can’t separate it out to find the truth.
Her expression is unreadable. “If you think of anything else you want to add to your answers from this interview, or if you just…want to talk, I’m staying at the motel in town until my flight leaves tomorrow afternoon. Room twelve,” she tells me as she walks to the entryway. “Take care of yourself, Celeste.”
Numbly, I follow her. She pauses, staring at a series of framed photographs hanging in the entryway. Some are mine, some are the ones Mother left for me. They run sequentially—starting with childhood and teen years with Riley, right through to the last pictures I have of us together. Olivia points at one of the frames close to the door, a series of black and whites taken in one of those photo booths you find in malls. I’m twenty-two and Riley’s eighteen. She wanted to do this silly, retro thing to celebrate finishing school and I protested that it was dumb. But now I’m so glad I relented.
