It surprised me that he remembered their names and ages. They had been conceived and born when he had been away to study in England. He had only heard about them from me once, on a rainy night years ago. He had been lost then, and I was repressing the fact that I had been no less lost. The twins had been two.
That night, I had to recruit every shred of willpower to not cheat on their father and do what I’d longed to do—disappear in Oliver’s arms and let him immerse in me. Instead, I had just let my eyes and words instill hope into him. Doing it for him had helped me, too. Not too long after, I had kicked their loser of a father out for the last time. Oliver had been a continent away, in New York, by then.
“Yep, nineteen,” I confirmed.
“And you?” His gaze drifted to my hands that hugged the warm mug, probably looking for a wedding ring.
“I’m thirty-eight,” I said, knowing it’d draw laughter from him. I was happy to see his face break out in another genuine smile. “I’m working at the Sandy Hills nursing home. Not much to tell.” What could I say—that I was an aide and temporarily living at the facility because I was in so much debt I had been evicted from my apartment and couldn’t afford rent, and I didn’t want to burden my mother and sisters with my problems. “How about you?” I asked instead.
“Not much to tell.”
“It’s good that I stayed to catch up then.”
The sound of his laughter almost surprised me. Oliver rarely laughed, even back then.
Our laughter now sort of died, and I bit my lip, watching him cast his gaze down to the beautiful wooden floor. We both knew that we weren’t telling each other the things that really mattered. If I hid my state, he must be hiding his, too. He seemed alone, still, like he had at the party, like he had been back then. Oliver looked like he was peering into life through a foggy glass door.
I remembered what my mom had once mumbled on our bus ride back from the Madden house to Riviera View. “No amount of soap can clean the dirt that some people are.” It was after I had told her about the duck incident. Now, looking at Oliver, I thought that no number of bandages could heal certain wounds, and no amount of bleach could rectify the stains that had been left on someone’s soul.
We silently sipped from our matching mugs. I was still surprised by the gesture—he’d made them and kept them here, waiting for me to join him. He didn’t seem like the tea drinking type.
“What about your husband?” Oliver broke the silence.
I looked at him, and our eyes linked. “Threw him out a long time ago.”
Oliver nodded once, his lips pressed together.
A silence crackled between us once more. My gaze wandered.
“January, do you need help in any way?” He broke the silence again.
“No.” I brought my eyes back to him and huffed an embarrassed, soft scoff ofwhat the hell are you talking about?
“You helped me, you know. More than once. So, if there’s anything you need … anything I could do …”
I shook my head while he still spoke. “Nothing. Thank you. I’m good.”
If it had come from anyone else, I would have slapped them for even thinking of offering charity to the woman who had once been the child sitting in their kitchen while her mother cleaned their house. But not when it came from Oliver.
He gave me a questioning look back that said,I’m not sure I believe you,but his mouth said, “You always were.”
He was right. I hadn’t gotten to where I wanted to get in life, I hadn’t accomplished what I had dreamed of, but I was usually fine. I was proud of my sons, I liked the place I worked, the people, and I knew that, just as I had made it through the hard years—when my kids could have easily been named Jack and Daniel, or Jim and Beam after their father’s blood alcohol content—I always would make it through. Even now, being practically homeless, I still had hope, though I had to admit it was diminishing with every passing day.
“I’d better go. I have work tomorrow, and you probably do, too,” I said, simultaneously placing my mug on the coffee table and rising to my feet.
Oliver remained seated but looked up at me. “Okay. Can I give you a ride home?”
“I came in my car.”
He put his cup down and stood up. When he rose to his full six-foot-two height, we found ourselves three inches apart in distance and several more in height.
I felt my breath hitch in my chest. With his special mix of Scandinavian and Spanish ancestry, Oliver was breathtaking, always had been. His dad was from Sweden, his mom from Spain. Imagine the combination of a sculpted build, a perfectly tanned olive skin, and emerald eyes, then take it up a few notches. His smoky cedarwood scent filled my lungs. I, on the other hand, probably reeked and looked like shit after a seventeen-hour workday, and twenty years of worries and lack of sleep.
Oliver’s eyes never left mine. I was entranced by him.
And maybe that was what pushed me to blurt out, “I live at the nursing home.”
He shifted his head sideway, as if he was trying to hear better, or make sure he understood what I had just said. “Where?” he repeated.
