by Mj Fields
He sits forward and points at me. “And I saved your ass on the phone with Autumn. What the hell else do you need, Natasha?” He opens his mouth to say more, but closes it and sits back again.
My chest tightens, and I regret being so hard on him.
“Apology accepted.” Then I quietly put in my earbuds.
After a few minutes, he unbuckles and walks to the bathroom. When he comes back out, he walks to the bar, takes one of the crystal decanters and pours some amber liquor in a glass. He tosses it back and fills it again.
He turns and looks at me, holds out the glass and says, “Do you want one?”
I don’t know whether to answer or continue to pretend I’m listening to music.
I decide to pull out my earbud. “What?”
He glances down at my phone and quirks an eyebrow. I look down and realize the screen clearly shows no music is playing.
“I asked if you wanted a drink.”
“No thank you.” He tosses it back.
“Only drink at bars with special names and girls who wanna pick you up?”
“She was gushing over you.” I roll my eyes.
He lifts his chin and smirks, “Yeah, what’s her number?”
“It’s in my phone, I’ll give it to you. But I will do so with warning, she likes Harry.”
“Harry?”
Why is he acting normal? Like nothing happened, like I didn’t just chew his ass. What the heck?!
“What?” he asks.
“I just, we just, I, I, I–” I snap my mouth shut to stop from stuttering, so hard his eyes squint as if he felt it.
After a moment, he turns around and fills the crystal rocks glass again and drinks the contents.
Then he sits across the aisle on the edge of the couch.
“I apologized, and I mean it. Pretty sure I told you a week ago, I’m not into the emotional shit–”
“But–” I begin to interrupt.
He holds his hand up stopping me. “But I suppose I can try.” He looks down. “That is, if you’re still willing.”
Yes! Screams inside my head, but with a man this big, this headstrong, I assume you gotta push a little harder.
His head is still bowed when he looks up through his black lashes. “I didn’t blow your cover on the phone.”
“Fine.” I nod.
He leans in. “No, it’s not fine. I broke whatever connection, whatever trust, whatever–”
He appears to be having some internal battle that I’ve been dragged into and it hurts my heart. I lean forward. “Oliver, it’s fine.”
He flops back and lets out a deep sigh.
Something hits me that can’t be ignored. “You know, I’ve never actually heard the words I’m sorry come out of your mouth.”
He opens his eyes. “I prefer to say, I apologize.”
“I’ve noticed, why?”
“I’m not sorry for who I am or the choices I make anymore. Hate the words ‘I’m sorry’, actually.”
“Why?” I press.
“Made a promise to Maisie I’d try to keep looking forward. Made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t be sorry for the man I have become in spite of it.”
I don’t know what to say.
He stands and fills his glass again and drinks. His back still to me, he moves his head from side to side, stretching his neck, I assume.
“You, you caught me off guard. So, I apologize for the need to feel I had to protect myself against you.”
I laugh and he stiffens. “I’m sorry, but that makes absolutely zero sense.”
He turns around and looks at me intensely as he takes a drink.
“Oliver,” I motion between us, “That’s kind of ridiculous if you think about it.”
He shrugs as he sucks in air between his perfectly white, straight teeth like the whiskey is burning his throat.
“What?” I ask now feeling uncomfortable.
He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
As soon as I ask the question, I realize I’m touching my scar.
He sighs and tosses the drink back, turns and sets the glass down. While he answers the question I already know the answer to, he opens the fridge and grabs something. When he turns around, he opens one of the bottles of water in his hand and gives it to me.
Then he walks over and sits again on the couch. “I know you’ve been through some shit. I’ve seen pictures.” He pauses, and I look down at my lap. “So, when you bounced onto a plane full of strangers, with a smile and no fear at all, I thought, she’s a fucking warrior.”
I can’t help but smirk and glance at him. “Was it the size of my muscles?”
He smirks and looks at his water as he opens it. “More your personality. You were born with something that could’ve been bigger than you, and your tiny little ass kicked its ass. Fucking intimidating.”
“Oliver.” He looks away from his bottle and up at me. “Language.”
He smiles and I swear it’s the most genuine I’ve seen from him.
“Are you drunk?” I laugh.
“Not drunk, just relaxed,” he admits.
He stares at me for a moment longer now, his eyes sparkling. I feel warmth spread in my chest, the kind of warmth you only feel from those who are truly genuine.
“So,” I shrug.
“So,” he sighs and leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Tell me what you were imagining when you were twirling around out there?”
I smile and then take a sip of my water.
“Let me guess, someone at the bar? What’s his name, Harry?”
“Pfft, you may think you saw a warrior when I got on this plane, but when it comes to relationships, or even the possibility of one, I’m incredibly inept.”
He tosses his head back and laughs. “I bet you’ve broken more hearts than you’ll ever know.”
“Yeah right, I haven’t even had my first kiss.”
His face loses all expression.
I laugh and tap my lip.
“Fuck that,” he snaps and this time it’s not at me.
I shrug, “It is what it is.”
His eyes narrow.
“It’s not like I’m out seeking that kind of thing.” I laugh, “Actually, I avoid the awkward at all costs.”
His response is quick. “Why?”
“Well,” I sigh as I ponder the thought, “I guess maybe I’m afraid I’ll be awful at it.”
“Not possible.” I wait for an explanation, and when he stands and walks to the bar, he gives it to me as he pours another drink. “Kissing doesn’t require skill. Just like fucking, a man’s happy to just get his dick wet.”
I can’t help but laugh.
He drinks the entire content of his glass, then turns around. “It’s true. Men just aren’t that deep.”
“Well, those are the men I will avoid. I want one with a little depth. I want someone who wants me and as crazy as it sounds, I want to be good at it.”
He nods, then shakes his head as his chest rises in a silent chuckle.
“What?” I laugh.
“I’m not sure.” He leans back and looks up at the ceiling.
After a few silent moments, he sits forward. “First time you rode a bike, you were nervous as hell, right?”
“I would be, but I haven’t ridden a bike.”
“What?”
I tap my lip again. “Lots of surgeries. When there were longer periods between them, my parents divorced. Mom went to work and I went to every camp or after school art program we could find.”
“We need to rectify that situation.”
“We?” I laugh.
“Yeah, you need to learn how to ride a bike. You live in Europe for fuck’s sake.”
“And you’re gonna teach me?”
“Yeah, I am.” A playful smile graces his face. “You conquer your fears one at a time and soon, Little Warrior, you’ll be fearless.”
“So today bikes, and tomorrow boys?”
<
br /> “Boys?” he huffs. “I’m not sure they’d know what to do with you. And besides, you’re old enough for a man.”
I laugh and so does he. By the look on his face, I can tell he’s laughing at himself for the offer.
“Oliver?”
Still smiling, he asks, “Yeah?”
“If you start being a jerk again, I’m going to be so pissed off at you.”
He leans slightly forward with his eyes narrowing a bit and tells me, “You have my word.”
And for some reason, down deep, I know his words are gold.
The rest of the flight we talk civilly and with an honesty that comes from two people who have decided to be friends, maybe even more than friends… maybe family.
On our way to the house, I ask him if we can keep the lessons to ourselves. I don’t want my mom to think she should have taught me to ride a bike when she was so busy trying to make me happy in every other possible way.
He agrees without hesitation. “Wouldn’t ever want someone who clearly loves their kid to think otherwise.”
His statement makes me realize that he and I are much more alike than I had thought. Which must be where the familiarity I felt immediately with him stemmed from. It’s also probably the reason I felt such an immediate connection with Stella.
“What are you imagining now?” he asks as his head rests against the black leather of the seat behind us.
“A world where people like us no longer listen to the internal voices of our pasts and enjoy everything the present and future have to offer.”
With his eyes still closed, he pushes his knee against my leg as if to say, me too.
21
Natasha
Laying in bed, I am looking up at the ceiling and smiling when I hear a knock on the door. I sit up as it opens and see Oliver as he pokes his head in.
“Just wanted to remind you that O600 is still a go.”
I nod and salute him. “Sir, yes, sir.”
He shakes his head. “I mean, six AM.”
I sit, pulling my knees up to my chest and nod.
“And Natasha, if you hear me–” He runs his hand through his hair.
“I’ll come wake you up.”
“That’s a negative, Little Warrior, I need you to ignore it.”
“That’s a negative back.”
“Natasha, just sleep.” His voice is almost a plea.
“Sleep well, Oliver.”
“You too.”
I stood at his door while he fought his nightmares, again. I know he thinks I promised not to go in, but it couldn’t be helped.
When he mumbles the first word that doesn’t seem to terrorize him, “Grace.” I can’t wait any longer.
“Oliver,” I whisper as I near his bed. A bed that seems to be a source of all the pain and conflict in his life. When he doesn’t wake as easily as he did the other times, I pat his shoulder. “Oliver.”
He sits straight up and begins to throw his pillows, then his blankets, onto the floor.
“Oliver, it’s okay.”
“Can’t find it,” he begins to panic.
“Oliver, it’s okay.”
“Get fucking down!” he whispers hisses a command.
“Oliver, it’s me.”
He begins to stand, slowly. Through the light of the moon streaming through his window, I see his chest heaving rapidly and he turns away from me.
“Oliver–”
“I told you no,” he says, trying to catch his ragged breath.
“And I told you to sleep well. Guess we both–”
“It wasn’t up for debate, Natasha.” He shakes his head, then looks over his shoulder at me and sighs, “It wasn’t up for debate.”
After his shoulders begin to relax, I sit in the chair next to his bed and he glances over, “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to teach me how to ride a bike, and I’m going to teach you how to go to sleep.”
I reach to the large cherrywood nightstand and grab his phone off the charging station. “What music apps do you use?”
He sighs, “Spotify, why?”
I look down at his phone. “What’s your password?”
“My password?”
He reacts as I’m sure I would at such a request.
I hold the phone up to him. “Type it in.”
“This is–”
I interrupt him, “Called friendship. I’m going to trust you tomorrow, trust me tonight.”
“Natasha–”
I use the same words he used on me, “This isn’t up for debate.” Then I shrug, hold out my hand and wiggle my grabby fingers.
He punches in his code and huffs as he hands me his phone.
I open Spotify and make a new playlist called Ollie’s Lullabies.
I add one song, hit repeat, and set it in the speaker cradle.
“What the hell is this song?” he asks as he sits on the side of his bed.
“O-oh Child. Mom used to hum it, sing it, and play it on repeat whenever I was having a hard time.”
“How the fuck are you even sane?” he whispers still looking around the room as if he’s searching for something.
“That’s the beauty of a catchy tune like this.”
“Catchy, like an infectious disease maybe,” he huffs.
I stand, grab the pillow closest to me, set it on the bed and fluff it. “Lie down, Oliver, and let the first family of soul take all your worries away.”
“The who?”
“Trust me, Oliver?”
“If this shit works,” he lies back, “Forever.”
“Then I better make sure of it.” I take the heavy down comforter I picked up and shake it. “Arms up, Oliver Josephs.”
He lets out a heavy sigh with my name encased in it, “Natasha.”
“Trust is important to me, now arms up.”
Once his arms are up, I shake the comforter in the air and it falls on him. I walk around the bed, like my mom used to, and push it under his body, tucking him in. At first, he seems uncomfortable, but I don’t stop and by the time I push the last of it under his side, he no longer looks anxious, he looks relaxed.
When the song begins again, I sit in the chair beside him, and he sighs, “Again?”
I laugh softly, “Until you believe it or you fall asleep.”
“Christ, Little Warrior, you sure you wanna stick with design? The CIA could use you to interrogate terrorists.”
Oliver
After last weekend’s standoff between her and I, I had a feeling we could battle forever and I quickly decided it would be best to avoid World War Three and make peace, for all concerned.
Yeah, I know the entire weekend was like whiplash and that’s because I couldn’t see past Grace and truly see her.
Now that I’ve seen her, the little warrior, for who she is, I like her.
I like the way she looks when I call her that name.
I like the way she touches her scar like it’s an annoyance, not something that defines her.
I like that she isn’t intimidated at-fucking-all by me.
I like that she spars with me and doesn’t just nod her head and smile.
I like that she is so comfortable when she sits with Maisie and hangs with Bass.
I like that she looks like Grace, but is nothing like her, nothing at all.
I like that she could see past my battle scars all covered by ink but didn’t look at me like I was a fucking ASPCA commercial.
I really fucking like her in my room, and I really fucking liked her touching me.
I also hated that I liked all that.
I also hate this fucking song, because things never got easier as a child.
The small smile on her face as she dozes off, well, that’s comforting.
I wake hearing that song, the sun on my face, a slight hangover because I sipped whiskey all fucking day to take the edge off, and an unusual feeling, I’m rested.
“I’m also a damn burrito,” I grumble as I kick and push
the blanket still pushed tightly under me.
Once unwrapped, I roll to my side and grab my phone, it’s fucking nine in the morning.
I jump off the bed and rush to my bag, grab a pair of dark grey sweats and push my legs into them, grab the black sweatshirt and throw it on.
I hurry to the bathroom, piss, wash my hands and brush my teeth.
When I get down the stairs, I stand torn between heading back to see Maisie and tearing around the house to find Natasha.
Sense takes over.
I walk in and see Natasha beside Maisie’s chair in front of the television with credits rolling from what I assume is the end of one of those chick flick’s girls like to watch.
Natasha stands and as per her norm, she looks absolutely beautiful. She’s in thick charcoal tights, a thin knit shadow gray dress that hits above her knees, and a slightly lighter gray, smoke gray, chenille cardigan that’s longer than the dress, and on her feet are boots that look similar to the material of her sweater, with charcoal fur lining them.
The fact that I just instinctually rattled off fabrics and styles, and colors with names not simply black or gray, makes me wonder where the fuck I left my balls. I laugh inside, oh yeah, on a desk in New York City while finding suppliers who sold fabrics better than those Jean used, because I need Bass to produce better quality, I need to make damn sure Maisie’s last days are as perfect as she is, and I need Natasha to have every tool possible to make all the beautiful images in her head come to life.
Maisie holds Natasha’s hand and pats it with her other. “You have the time of your life playing with all that fabric.”
“You know where I’ll be, come in anytime and imagine with me.” Natasha leans down and kisses the top of her head.
When she turns and sees me, she fucking beams like I’m a welcome sight and not someone who broke a promise. As she gets closer, the smell of her calms me.
God help her, and God help me.
She walks to me quickly and puts her hand on my stomach, pushing against me, moving me back from entering the room. The connection nearly drops me, sears me, awakens something I buried so long ago and never wanted to unearth again, just like last night when she tucked me in, like I was a fucking child.
Once in the hallway she asks, “Did you sleep well?”
