Livvy (24 page)

It’s an image of the two of us in an embrace, where only our torsos and arms are showing. One of Jon’s hands was drawing up my shirt, exposing the skin on the left side of my body. The fingers of his other hand were tucked beneath my skirt. I was grasping the waistline of his pants, my arm muscle straining to keep him near me. Although it’s not shown in the painting, I know that the fingernails of my right hand were digging into his back.

“Well, technically, in that one, we hadn’t had sex yet,” I correct him, assuming he doesn’t know which of our many similar embraces this really was. I remember that distinct moment in Mykonos after we had reached our hotel room. It may have been the first time that I didn’t fear that we’d get caught doing something we shouldn’t be doing.

“But that would all change in a few hours,” he says. “You only wore that shirt around me once. I loved you in that shirt, but I’m happy you never wore it again because it would have become commonplace to me, and I wanted every second of that day–every detail–to remain as special and sacred as it was in the moment.”

I love that he recognizes the significance of this painting. I weave my fingers between his, and he holds my hand for a few minutes before pulling away. He drags his hand down the left side of my body slowly, and when he reaches the hemline of my skirt, his touch softens against my skin as he explores my leg beneath the garment.

“Don’t think for a second that I don’t want you,” he whispers. “I do. I just don’t want there to be any shame associated with it anymore. I love you, and I’m not afraid to show the world how I feel about you.”

“I don’t care about the world,” I tell him. “I just care that you want to show
me
. Isn’t it enough that I want to show
you
how much I care about you?”

“Why is it that you can say it all with oils and acrylics but you can’t live it every day?” he asks. “Be yourself! Embrace it! Be Livvy Holland! You don’t have to hide behind your canvases. Eventually, people will know who Olivia Choisie really is, too, and your true feelings will be discovered. You know who you are. You know what you want. And it’s perfectly normal for you to want me,” he teases as he pinches a sensitive spot of skin, making me laugh. “Your parents have seen these paintings... and they’re astute and perceptive people... and I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but Emi and Jack are much more affectionate than ninety-nine percent of married couples.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Well, you’re just doing what you know. You’re living the way they taught you, too. They only have themselves to blame.” I laugh again.

“Well, if we get that sort of thing from our parents, where’d you get your tendencies from?” We’d talked at length of his parents’ bad relationship, so I hope the challenging question doesn’t offend him.

“You get it from your parents. I get it from you. You inspire it in me. Your passion bleeds into me. You obviously can’t contain it when we’re together. Your love is a part of who you are, plain and simple. I’m just lucky to be a part of it.”

“So how long are you going to make me wait?” I ask him.

“How long are
you
going to make
me
wait?” he asks in return.

“Should I call them right now and tell them we’re going to have sex?”

“I’ll get the phone,” he threatens as he crawls over me off the couch. I grab on to his pants leg, stopping him. “I’ll be right back.” I let go of him, smiling up at him. He grabs his bag from the kitchen table and takes it into the bathroom. I decide to change into something more comfortable and get ready for bed, too. After grabbing some pajamas from my dresser, I go into the other bathroom to wash up, change and brush my teeth.

When I come out, I notice the pillows and comforter are missing from my bed. Jon’s made a makeshift sleeping place on the couch where we’d been for the last hour. “Is this okay?” he asks as he fluffs the pillow next to him.

I nod as I take my robe off and drape it on the back of a chair. “Just a t-shirt?” he says, looking at me incredulously.

“I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re wearing boxers
and
pants under that blanket, so it’ll all even out.” He moves beneath the blanket, eventually producing a pair of flannel pants and holding them out for me.

“Now you probably hope I have boxers on,” he says. I pull the comforter back quickly, exposing his body. He’s wearing a grey tank top with black cotton boxer
briefs
. “You were wrong.” He’s never worn briefs before.

I throw his pants on the chair with my robe and climb onto the the couch next to him, facing him. He pulls the blanket back up and wraps his arm around me. I run my hand up the back of his thigh, continuing up his body until I reach his tank. I scratch his back lightly with my nails. “You were supposed to wear the pants to keep warm,” he explains to me.

“I’m not cold right now,” I tell him. “I’m kind of hot, actually.” He grins and kisses me. “Sit up for a second, will you?” I ask. I shift so he can sit up, and eventually kneel next to him. I put my hands on his shoulders and angle him slightly so I can see his tattoo. I run my thumb over it before I touch my lips to the words
dream
and
sleep
like I always used to do before we made out. He sighs with a smile I can hear as he exhales.

When I’m finished, he arranges himself on the couch, kneeling in front of me. He puts his hands on my back firmly, kissing me as he lays me against the pillows. He reaches back once more for the comforter, covering our bodies as he settles against me, his legs astride one of mine. His thigh grazes against me purposefully, and he watches me intently for my reaction. I bite my bottom lip, feeling my heart begin to pound in my chest, wanting more. He does it again, and this time kisses me fully when he hears my satisfied hum.

After stopping by Jon’s dorm early on Saturday morning and dropping off supplies with some of his classmates, we leave my car back at the loft and head across the street to Central Park. Wearing our volunteer t-shirts, blue jeans and collegiate caps, it almost seems we dressed alike intentionally. When we catch up to the group, Jon lets go of my hand and stretches.

“Does it still hurt?” I ask him as I wrap my arms around him gently. He puts his down around me and kisses my cheek.

“Yeah. Your couch seemed much more comfortable when we settled in for the night. It didn’t help that you didn’t move a muscle after you fell asleep,” he complains.

“I was content,” I tell him, reflecting on how nice it was to sleep in his arms again.

“Just content?”

“I was happy.” I look up at him and smile. “I couldn’t have been happier.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” he teases softly in my ear.

“You misheard me. I said I wanted to make
you
happy last night–”

“And when I wouldn’t let you, you sulked. Happy people don’t sulk.”

“Good boyfriends don’t withhold... things... from their girlfriends.”

“Sex,” Jon says. “Say it with me, Olivia. Sex.”

“Sex!” I say louder, causing some of his classmates to look at us. He blushes, releasing me from our embrace. “Better?”

He grins playfully as he starts to unload supplies. “Everyone, this is Livvy. Put her to work, please,” he says to his friends.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” a girl says to me. “I’m Yasmin.”

“It’s so nice to meet you!” I tell her, immediately hugging her. “I’ve heard that Fred is much happier now that you’re at school with him.” I make sure Jon hears my comment and look over at him to see his reaction.

He drops a box of snacks back on the grass and points at me. “I’ll show you happy,” he says. “You know the deal.” I roll my eyes at him. I’m not sure what he expects me to do or say to my parents about us being back together, but I know he’s serious about not wanting to sneak around anymore. I thought I had him convinced and ready to make love to me a few times last night, but he was adamant that he didn’t want to feel like we were hiding anything from Mom and Dad today. Hence my
unhappiness
.

Crowds start to form before my family arrives at nine. A little over one-hundred kids had registered for Jon’s rocket launching competition, a project he had organized for his Community Works class. Since the beginning of the semester, Jon had led his team to find sponsors, raise funds, and promote the event to a few local public schools and their neighborhoods.

“This is quite a turnout,” my dad says to Jon in bewilderment as he shakes his hand.

“Yeah,” Jon says, “admittedly more than we’d planned. I’m afraid we aren’t going to have enough snacks to last the morning.”

As Dad and Jon talk about the logistics of the event, my mom greets me with a hug. “How was the drive in this morning?”

I stall for a second, debating my answer. “It was uneventful,” I say, unable to look her in the eyes. This would be the ideal opportunity for me to be honest about my whereabouts last night, but I simply can’t do it. “How are you, buddy?” I ask my brother, not wanting to lie to my mother anymore.

Trey pulls his hands from behind his back and produces a miniature NASA rocket. “Ready!”

“Your brother didn’t realize these kids weren’t using real rockets until this morning. He was a little disappointed to learn that they’d be launching soda bottles.”

“No, Trey, it’s so cool!” I tell him encouragingly. “And look at all the rockets!” My brother and I both look around at the middle-school-aged kids who have signed up to participate. They’re all having their pictures taken with their bottles before the launch. Since the competition won’t just judge the structural design and mechanics of the bottle or the success of the launch, but also the creativity of the design, the soda bottles are a sight to see. It’s obvious some of the students are more concerned with winning the aesthetic part of the competition, and those are the ones I gravitate to most. Trey and I talk to some of the kids, and my brother starts to get excited for the launches to begin.

“Where’d Dad go?” I ask Mom when we make it back to the shade tree we were setting up beneath. She’s pulled a volunteer t-shirt over her other shirt and is helping to set up.

“He went to get more snacks and drinks,” she says. I look at Jon just as I hear someone shout my name. A hundred feet beyond the tree stands a small gathering of photographers. Behind them is a growing crowd of onlookers who appear to have nothing to do with Jon’s event.

“I gave your dad a choice,” Jon says. “He could either go home with your family, taking you with them, or he could get more supplies. When I planned this, I hadn’t planned on the celebrity sightings, and it’s fair to say this turnout is going to be much bigger than we anticipated.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Did you raise enough money for that?” I ask, remembering how he was worried about the budget and paying for everything they needed earlier in the week.

He shakes his head. “The Holland Foundation just became a silent sponsor,” Jon says as he winks at me. I know how much he hates when my family helps him out.

“We can go home, Jon, and you won’t have to take anything from us. I don’t want to complicate your project simply by being here.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says as he takes my hand. “Just don’t flip off any photographers, and we’ll be fine. Plus, you volunteered to take launch shots. What would I do if you left?”

“Hire one of them,” I shrug my shoulders, pointing to the paparazzi.

Jon picks up my camera bag and hands it to me. “Get ready, baby.”

I take my camera out of the bag and put it over my shoulders, ready to shoot. Jon removes his cap and runs his fingers through his hair a few times, making some final arrangements with his classmates. “Good luck,” I tell him. He gives me a quick kiss before heading up to the small stage to address the audience.

Dad shows up just in time to hear Jon’s speech. He’s a natural on the stage, just like my father always is. The crowd is responsive with laughs and applause, and all of the participants are excited to get started when Jon leaves the stage.

He and three of his classmates will be timing the launches at four separate stations. I get to take pictures at Jon’s, and other photographers have volunteered their time to shoot at the other three. My mom is a last-minute stand-in, joining a few local artists that are judging the aesthetic portion of the competition. Those judges see the bottles before they’re launched and take pictures of them for reference later in the day.

Dad ends up helping at a concession stand. The line to get drinks at his booth is six times as long as the lines at the other booths, and the wait is longer since a lot of onlookers try to engage him in conversation or get a picture with him. Trey stays next to Jon the entire time, watching the bottles sail through the air–or
not
–in awe.

Although the event ends at one, the cleanup effort lasts a few more hours. Dad lets Jon use his car to take some equipment back to Columbia, opting to take my mom and brother for milkshakes on their walk home. “I need a hot shower,” Jon says to me before he leaves, standing next to the idling car.