by Cassie Cross
I’m sad that I didn’t get to tell her about the two of us myself, that she found out from my brother coming home pissed off with a busted-up face. Marisa’s as much Oliver’s friend as she is mine, and I know she’ll find out about what happened sooner rather than later. Might as well hear it from me first.
“No. I think it’s over.” My voice trembles, and another tear falls down my cheek. “He says he thinks it was a mistake.”
Her face falls. “Oh, Oliver,” she whispers, then hugs me again. “I’ve wanted you guys to get together for so long,” she says, her voice full of regret. “He’s been in love with you for as long as I’ve known him.”
Well, that just makes me cry harder. “Not enough, I guess.”
“Felicity, that’s not—”
“Can we please not talk about this right now?” I plead.
“Yeah, sure.” She rubs my back comfortingly. “I’m sorry.”
“Is Ben here?”
She nods to her left. “He’s in his office.”
“Are you going to tell me to take it easy on him?”
“Nah,” she says, shaking her head. “He deserves it.”
I give her the best smile I can manage before I go off to give my brother a piece of my mind.
I find him at his desk, reclined in his chair with his hands clasped across his stomach, staring at the ceiling. From what I can make out, he hasn’t cleaned himself up since his fight with Oliver.
“Rethinking all the terrible choices you made today?” I ask, my voice full of venom.
Surprised, he looks up. His face is worse off than Oliver’s was, and I can’t help thinking…good.
“Felicity—”
“When did you become the brother who thinks he’s the gatekeeper of my love life? When did you become the guy who thinks his opinion is more important than my own? When did you become the guy who thinks he knows better than I do about who’s right and who’s wrong for me? A long time ago, apparently, considering Oliver told me you told him to stay away from me in Thailand.”
He looks like he’s going to argue with me for a few seconds, before he drops his head. “I didn’t want you to end up with someone like me.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “You don’t get to decide that, Ben! Besides, Oliver’s never been like you. Maybe he’s had a little trouble making a relationship stick, but he’s never cheated on anyone that I know of. Unless you know something different.”
Ben shakes his head. “No. He’s never been interested in anything long-term, and I didn’t want you to get your heart broken.”
I can’t really argue Ben’s point about long-term relationships, because it’s true that Oliver hasn’t had, well…any that I can recall.
“Well, now my heart is broken, because Oliver dumped me after your little boxing match back at my office.” A couple of tears make their way down my cheeks, and I don’t bother stopping them. I want Ben to see what he’s done. “I won’t blame it all on you, because I’m sure there are some underlying issues that he’s not telling me about that are making this worse, but you certainly didn’t help.”
He does manage to look genuinely sorry about that.
“You bring me lunch nearly every day because you know that Chris did a number on me, and you chase away Oliver, who’s been nothing but loving and kind to me, not just since I’ve known him, but for the short time we were together, too. I made him happy, and he made me happy, and we were in love and if you cared about me and Oliver, that’s the kind of thing that you should want for us.”
Ben leans forward, resting his hands palm up on his desk. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I think you’ve said enough for today, honestly.”
He nods slightly. “Fair enough.”
“If you really want to do something, figure out how you can make this up to Oliver. You guys have a lifetime of friendship that will not be ruined by this. And you can probably start by telling him that you of all people aren’t someone who has any business judging who’s good for someone else, okay? Because that certainly didn’t help things.”
“Okay,” he says quietly. “What can I do to make it up to you?”
I’m so angry and hurt right now that I can’t even think of anything at the moment. “Honestly? I don’t know. But I have a headache and I’m too upset to try and make you feel better about yourself tonight.”
All I want to do is go home and lie down. I turn around and walk out of the room.
“Felicity—” Ben says as I leave, but I don’t want to hear anything else he has to say.
At home, in bed, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling. Maybe it’s pathetic, but I’m having a hard time sleeping without Oliver in here with me. It’s kind of amazing how quickly you can get used to someone holding you at night. I really hope it doesn’t take me long to break myself of this habit.
The thought of never cuddling up with him in bed again, never kissing him again, never feeling his warm weight on top of me as he teases and touches me again…it’s enough to make tears spring to my eyes, and I finally just managed to stop crying.
Damn Oliver for being so scared, for not telling me what his issues are, for not giving us a chance to work through them.
I think we made a mistake plays over and over again in a loop in my brain. I don’t know what I’m gonna do to make myself stop hearing those words.
Right when I’m contemplating scrolling through iTunes for an ear worm that might possibly do the trick, my phone buzzes. It’s three in the morning, and some sad, broken part of me hopes it’s Oliver, missing me the same way I’m missing him.
When I see Corinne’s smiling face flashing on my screen, it’s difficult to be disappointed.
“Hey,” I say, voice raspy. “Is everything okay?”
“With me, yes. With you? That’s why I’m calling.”
“I’m okay,” I lie.
“Wanna tell me about it?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a weekend, I’m in bed with my fluffiest pillows and the warmest blanket I own. I’ve got nothing but time.”
Now that everything’s blown up in my face, there’s no reason not to tell her the whole story. So I go back to the beginning, to when everything changed between us in Portland. I tell her about how Oliver said he felt about me, about how happy I was with him for what little time it lasted. It feels oddly cathartic, telling someone everything that happened.
“First, I wouldn’t mind strangling Ben, and I’d probably fly across the Atlantic to do just that if it wouldn’t upset my sister. Second, I knew Oliver was in love with you,” Corinne says with the kind of certainty you can only have after the thing you thought has come true. “But he’s always been a little pessimistic about relationships though, so his reaction to this whole thing doesn’t surprise me.”
“What? I’ve never heard Oliver say anything pessimistic about relationships at all,” I say, genuinely surprised that Corinne thinks that.
“He sure has,” she replies quickly. “It’s been subtle, but I’ve caught a few things here and there. Maybe he’s careful about what he says around you, because he was hoping it would work out between you two.”
Maybe. I’m probably going to be thinking about what happened there for a long time. “He told me he didn’t regret anything the first morning we woke up together in Portland,” I say, trying to figure this whole thing out. “But then today he says he thought it was a mistake.”
“He probably wasn’t thinking straight, sweetie. If Ben had this conversation with him years ago, imagine how much he must’ve wanted it, how much that was hanging over his head. It’s probably one of his worst fears about the whole thing, losing you. Then losing Ben because he lost you. Once he has some time to think about things, he’ll realize that he’s being an idiot. Just don’t get lost in your head until that happens, okay?”
Easier said than done. “I’m probably going to be replaying things for a while.”
There’s a long silence. �
��Why don’t we do what we did when we were younger, and some idiot boy would break our hearts over the summer when we were halfway across the country from each other?”
“Long distance movie!” We say excitedly in unison. Then we both laugh, and it feels good to experience an actual happy emotion for the first time in what feels like forever. Slipping into the comfortable warmth of nostalgia sounds like a great idea to me.
“Person with the broken heart gets to pick,” Corinne says.
“Is there such a thing as a comedy with lots of explosions?”
Corinne laughs. “I’m sure we can find something. Ten minute break to procure snacks and then I’ll call you back?”
I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”
Chapter Nineteen
After a weekend full of wallowing in the emotional turmoil in my life, the very last thing I’m mentally prepared for is the photo shoot I have with Lyla Kettler this afternoon. I’m somewhat more recharged than I normally would be after a breakup though, thanks to spending Saturday and Sunday on the phone with Corinne, drowning my sorrows in obscene amounts of ice cream.
Now I’m standing in my studio looking at the mess I need to clean up before Mario—the photographer I managed to pull some strings with to get him here ons such short notice—shows up with his crew. Thankfully there’s not much to do; just right a couple of chairs, and clean up a few drops of blood on the floor. Somehow that turns into an impromptu rearranging of some furniture, just because I don’t want to remember anything that happened here that night. Making it look completely different is a good first step.
Once I’ve done that, the snacks and drinks I ordered for the crew arrive. I set some out in the few bowls that I have, and put the cans and bottles in the fridge. By the time I’m finished, I’ve worked myself into a sweaty mess, and I barely have twenty minutes to take a shower and make myself presentable.
I manage to get out of the shower with five minutes to spare, but I don’t want to put my sweaty clothes back on. I dig out a pair of capris that I keep here for emergencies, and put on the wrap top that I finished up the other day, just because I want something that’ll help me feel pretty since I’ve been crying my eyes out all weekend.
I could use the pick me up.
Lyla arrives with her manager, and she’s as sweet as I remember her being. Mario follows shortly after, and while he’s setting up, I go through the outfits I picked out with Lyla.
It pretty much goes downhill from there.
Mario complains about everything: the backdrops, the lighting, the food, the fact that I didn’t buy his favorite brand of sparkling water. Lyla, bless her, shoots me sympathetic looks and takes me aside to chat between setups. He doesn’t like the last couple of outfits that I’ve picked out, and absolutely hates the way they look in the lighting. I’m not sure what exactly he’s looking at, because from what I can see Lyla looks amazing. Radiant, even, despite Mario’s complaints about the lighting.
I guess we’re all our own worst critics.
He makes me bring out about ten different versions of clothes I borrowed from various boutiques throughout the city. I try not to bristle too much when he complains, because he’s doing me a favor by being here at all. But I’m good at my job, and I know what clothes bring out the best in women, so it’s tough to take his criticisms in stride.
When he finally decides on outfits he likes, he still manages to complain about them while he’s taking photos. Lyla grins and bears it, but I take her aside and promise her drinks—my treat—if we make it out of this alive.
Mario’s assistants take it all in stride, but as the hours drag on everyone seems to be getting antsy. Finally we’re down to the final outfit change, and there’s this anxiety that’s settled over the entire room because we all just want this to be over with already. Of course Mario has an issue with the outfit he okayed just fifteen minutes ago. He makes Lyla change her shirt five times before he turns away in frustration.
He looks at me, and I prepare myself to get yelled at for some ridiculous reason.
Instead, he points at my shirt and says, “That. I want that.”
I look down at my shirt like an idiot who can’t understand simple words. This shirt? That I made?
“Felicity,” he says, running out of patience. “Give it to her, please.”
I’m surprised I even got a please out of him. I just want the day to be over, so I do as he asks, not even bothering to go to a different room. I take the shirt off and stand there in the middle of my studio in a (thankfully) very cute bra and my khakis as Lyla slips it on.
Mario seems pleased with the way the light bounces off of it, and ten agonizing minutes later, that’s a wrap. His crew are just as eager to get this day over with as I am, and thankfully they pack up in record speed. Mario transforms into a completely different person, kissing my cheek on his way out the door, smiling and waving at me as he makes his way to the elevator.
Lyla stays behind to help me clean up what little food mess there is. I didn’t know her very well before today, but she has serious grace under pressure and a spirit that not even a bitchy photographer can break. To say her company is welcome would be an understatement. I hope today hasn’t ruined all chances I have of being some kind of a friend to her.
“I don’t know how you deal with this,” Lyla says, slumping down onto a barstool I have sitting outside my little kitchenette.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure that’s the worst photoshoot I’ve ever been a part of.”
Lyla narrows her eyes. “Why would that make me feel better?”
I laugh. “Good point.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” she says, swiping a small pile of errant crackers on the counter into a bowl. “I don’t know too many people who would literally give me the shirt off their backs,” she says, teasing.
I look down at the shirt that I put back on shortly after the shoot wrapped. “Honestly? I would’ve given anyone anything to get that whole thing over with.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you or something. I’ve worked with him a couple of times, but he’s never been like that before.”
Lyla laughs, her short brown curls bouncing as she pops a cracker into her mouth. “I’ve been in theater since I was a freshman in high school. I’m used to dealing with divas.”
“Good point.” I reach into the fridge and grab a couple of beers. After I fish a bottle opener out of a drawer, I pop off the tops and hand one to Lyla.
She takes a long swig. “Thanks,” she sighs.
“I promised you a real drink, but I think we could both take the edge off.”
Lyla tilts the bottle as I walk over and sit down next to her. “This is good enough for me.”
She’s so sweet and down to earth. It reminds me of my experience with Poppy, and how much she’d changed from the first time we did a shoot with her to when I saw her in Portland. Being talented and having people acknowledge that can turn you into a real asshole if you’re not careful, and Lyla is one of the last people I’d want that to happen to.
“We should hang out again sometime,” I suggest. “If you want.”
She gives me a genuine smile. “I’d like that.”
I smile back, hesitating for a few seconds before I say, “Can I give you a word of advice?”
She nods eagerly. “Absolutely.”
“You’re so great. When you find more success, which you will, because you’re so talented…don’t let this business change you. If I run into you at a party in a couple years, it’d be nice if we could sit down and have a beer again, without you complaining about the waitstaff.”
“That scenario is oddly specific,” she says with a soft laugh. “I take it you have some experience?”
I nod. “A little.”
“Well, it’s great advice.” She holds her bottle up, tilting it in my direction.
I clink my bottle’s neck against hers. “To remembering where you c
ame from,” I say.
Lyla gives me a smile. “I can drink to that.”
Chapter Twenty
Tuesday night, Marisa shows up at my apartment wearing her comfiest pajamas and holding a bottle of wine and a pint of ice cream.
She holds them up with a smile. “Can I come in?”
I step out of her way so that she can walk into my apartment, then take the ice cream and the bottle of wine.
“Mind if I hang onto this?” I say, shaking the ice cream carton. “I’ve pretty much OD-ed on this the past few days.”
“Sure, as long as you bring me a glass of that wine.”
I uncork the wine and pour two glasses, walk out to the living room and hand her one, then plop down on the couch next to her.
“I’ve been trying to keep a little distance, in case you needed some space,” she says before taking a sip. “I know how you Williams kids like your brooding.”
That gets a genuine smile out of me. “It’s true. I spent a lot of time on the phone with Corinne, but…it’s been nice not being reminded of it the past couple of days.”
“It’s a good thing Oliver isn’t the reason I came over here.”
“It’s not?”
She shakes her head, then sets her glass on the coffee table and turns and faces me, folding her legs across the couch cushion. “I was putting the finishing touches on Lyla’s spread today,” she says. “In the credits under one of her pictures, I saw that one of the shirts was from a company named félicité. You made that shirt, didn’t you?”
That’s probably the last thing I ever thought she’d come here to talk to me about, and I can’t read her tone. It’s vaguely accusatory, but not angry. And honestly, in the heat of the moment, just wanting that photoshoot to end, I’d just given the shirt up without any thought of the endgame. Without any thought of the label inside, that it would actually show up on the blog, and that it would be credited to me. With everything else going on it hadn’t occurred to me since.
