“Oliver,” I repeated. I didn’t know what else to say.
He shook his head. “I’m okay. You can go.”
“No.”
“Go! Please.” Just like then, years ago, with the duck, he wanted to be left alone. But this time, I couldn’t let him.
“I’m not going,” I said. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
To my surprise, he moved over and stopped next to me, leaned his back against the wall, let his head lull on it, and closed his eyes.
He was much taller than me, especially now that his head was bent back against the wall. I reached up and took the towel from him, gently removing it to examine his face. Oliver dropped his arm to his side and let me carry on. Nothing seemed broken. Except for his soul. And my heart.
I bit the side of my lip, like he had done before, in the car, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. But I took a deep breath, knowing that if I cried, it’d only make it worse for him. I dabbed the towel at the water drops on his cheek and chin.
Oliver opened his eyes. He straightened and looked down at me. His eyes were dark, not just the green in them, but everything about his gaze.
I dropped the towel and reached my hand up, lightly brushing the bruised side of his face with my fingers. Oliver just watched me, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.
“I wish I had hit him back.” His voice was as hard as the flame in his eyes, even in the one with the darkening circle around it.
My hand dropped from his face, and I swallowed. Size-wise, strength-wise, he could have. I sort of wished for him that he had, because I could see the rage that was accumulating in him. His body radiated dangerous energy, despite the fact that he was completely still.
I wanted to dispel it—the rage, the pain, the wounds that were far deeper than the ones on his skin.
“You could, but you’re better than that,” I whispered. I hadn’t meant to whisper, but my throat was clogged.
“I’m not, and I don’t give a fuck anymore,” he said, his voice grating, hoarse.
“You are,” I insisted, and this time, my voice sounded like his—gravelly. “AndIgive a fuck, Oliver. I give a duck.”
To my relief, Oliver huffed a dry half-chuckle at my lame joke, my inappropriate reference to that day that we had never mentioned, though it had obviously scarred us both.
“I don’t give a duck anymore, January,” he paraphrased my words, the gravel in his voice rumbling in my chest.
As if something in him had given up, Oliver slid down along the wall he was leaning against until he was crouched on the floor, his back against the wall. I sat down, too, next to him.
Now that our height difference was less pronounced, our faces were close. Really close. I could smell him—soap, detergent, drying blood. His skin emanated warmth, though I wasn’t even touching him. I had never tasted whiskey, but I could have sworn, at that moment, it tasted like Oliver.
I wanted to take his pain away, clot the bleeding in his soul. Bringing my face even closer to his, our breaths intermixed. I reached out through the diminishing space between us and cradled the unbruised side of his face. Leaning in, I placed a soft kiss on his bruised cheekbone, traced my mouth up, and kissed the wounded eye he closed. I then trailed my lips down to his jaw. With my hand on his cheek, I made him face me.
We stared at each other. Without breaking eye contact, I leaned in and kissed his lips, softly, carefully. When I pulled back a bit, we looked at each other again.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice barely over a whisper.
Instead of answering, I kissed his lips again.
This time, Oliver kissed me back.
I wanted to ask if it hurt, but I didn’t have to because Oliver brought his hands up to cup my face and deepened our kiss as if nothing pained him.
Yeah, I had never tasted whiskey before, but at that moment, I was doing just that.
We were both clinging to each other in that awkward crouching position, trying to sustain ourselves without tipping over, our lips and tongues entwined, our breaths laboring and resounding in whatever gap was left between us.
I couldn’t say that I had never thought about what it would be like to kiss Oliver, because I had. You had to be blind to not at least wonder what it’d feel like. But now that I had, it felt like déjà vu. It was as if our bodies had a memory of one another, though we had never done this before.
