Love's Awakening (21 page)

Remember
Oliver
doesn’t
want
kids.
Big
difference
between
being
a
parental
figure
and
making
faces
at
a
baby
once
in
a
while.

“Why?” Celia asked.

“Why what?”

“Why did you really get these infant-care books from the library?”

Oliver furrowed his brows. “Because I like Caleb. Because he’s family. To help you out.”

“Okay.”

“Didn’t mean to freak you out,” Oliver muttered.

“You didn’t.”

“La la la!” Caleb.

Celia took a deep breath, her stomach tightening. “Maybe we should stop.” The words formed icicles in her heart.

Oliver’s expression turned careful. “Stop what?”

“This. Us.”

“Why?”

“Your…your grandmother knows about us. She’s upset. I don’t want you to lose her.”

Oliver was silent a few seconds. So silent and so still Celia was not sure he had heard. Then Oliver kissed Caleb’s nose. Once, twice, three times.

“So we should stop,” Celia continued. “We weren’t going anywhere, right? This was what it was. A fling isn’t worth the—”

“I get your point,” Oliver whispered. “I get your freaking point, okay?” He kept looking at Caleb. “How does Grandma know?”

“First, she saw the clothes you wore the night we went bowling.”

“The—oh, Christ.” Oliver’s tones snarled. “You have got to be kidding. Fucking clothes is how she knows?”

“Among other things like her not being blind.”

“I should’ve worn jeans,” Oliver muttered. “My fault. Shit.”

“Oliver, don’t. You didn’t know you’d go home with me.”

“So she’s known since bowling?”

“Apparently.”

“Huh.”

“Huh,” Celia echoed.

“Dad really did love you. For what it’s worth.”

“I really did love him, too.”
And
I
love
you.

“All right,” Oliver said slowly. “All right. If that’s what you want.”

“It isn’t. It’s not what I want. But it’s best this way.”

Oliver got up from the bed. “I’ll put Caleb back and go home.”

Celia studied her lover’s broad chest, his strong jaw, his sinewy legs. “You know it’s best this way, Oliver. You know what would happen? Same thing that happens to everyone else. Intense for a while, then a breakup. We’re getting it over with now is all. This isn’t worth losing family over. Lovers come and go. Family doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Oliver said in a monotone, his eyes glazing over. Quitting her already.

Celia almost shouted: “No! Never mind!” She did no such thing, though. Hell, she had probably felt this way at some point with David: crazily, dizzyingly, dazzlingly head over heels in love. And look what happened.

“Maybe I’ll write you a letter sometime,” Oliver said.

Celia bit back tears. “I’ll reply. I will.”

Oliver bent down as if to kiss Celia but drew back.

“Can we not say goodbye?” Celia asked.

“Fine. No goodbye.”

Putting Caleb up and going home was exactly what Oliver did. Exactly what Celia let him do. No kiss, no goodbye.

Chapter
Nineteen

The razor was pink. CVS brand, plastic and disposable, and for shaving armpits and legs. Plastic and disposable—unlike Oliver. Celia had been staring at the razor long enough for her bath to go from steaming hot to chilly.

Blood.

Celia blinked and swore. The water bloomed with blood. She must’ve nicked herself with the razor, and she was shivering. Her teeth chattered. “Fine,” she muttered. She preferred this discomfort to thinking about Oliver, who had left an hour ago.

Celia gazed over the blood in the tub.
Right.
I’m
supposed
to
be
shaving.
Instead
I’m
starting
a
blood
aquarium.
How
mundane.
How
boring.
Her heart was numb, so why shouldn’t her body be, too? Let the cold do what it wanted. Why was she shaving, anyway? She had no lover or husband to run his hands over her legs, no lover or husband to whisper into her ear.

She and Oliver were over. Over, over, over. Celia held her hand up and dropped the razor. It made barely a splash. It was an Olympic diver, graceful, slicing into the water and leaving scant traces of its action. Except it floated. So not like an Olympic diver at all. A pink Olympic log.
I’m
going
crazy.

“Yoo-hoo!” David’s traditional
I’m
home
greeting.

Celia froze.

“Celia, babe? Where are you?”

Celia’s heart jackhammered. “B-bathroom,” she called.
I’m
dreaming.
She had fallen asleep in the tub. The time was four-something a.m. This was a dream. Had to be.

David entered the bathroom, and he was the David with the purple tie and pinstripe suit from the picture of Celia two months pregnant. He took one look at the rose-colored water and frowned. “Time for a new bath.”

David drew Celia another bath, this time with bubbles. Celia closed her eyes and tried to relax, but the heat of the fresh water failed to reassure her. Her heart was heavy. She was detached, a Band-Aid pulled off, skin stinging. She floated outside herself, her tub self becoming a statue.

She opened her eyes. Her husband sat on the floor. David. Anxious. Clothed.

Celia, naked.

Celia snorted an acid laugh. “Aren’t you dead, David?”

No answer.

Celia studied her reflection in a bubble. Her face was broad, curved, her eyes ugly blue slants. She stabbed the bubble with her pointer finger.
Pop,
you
bastard.
The bubble gasped and folded. No pop. Celia chose a bubble that looked compliant and punctured it. She recalled David’s laugh, David’s rare but lively, from-the-throat guffaws, the way he took fussy care with his hair and then would look at Celia with vibrant brown eyes and say: “Jesus Lord, Celia, I have the most gorgeous wife in the world. How did I get so lucky?” Whenever David picked Celia up in his strong arms and twirled her, Celia felt light and carefree. Now she was nauseated.

“Oliver and I can be friends,” Celia whispered. “I’ve got to try to be there for him, no matter what happened. We’re family. He’s Caleb’s brother.”

David squeezed body wash on Celia’s loofah. “I’ll get your back.”

“Okay.”

As David rubbed gentle, relaxing circles, Celia wondered what Oliver was doing. She hoped Oliver was okay. Relatively okay.

“I thought he could be the one,” Celia murmured.

“You never know. He could be.”

Celia turned to her husband. Studied him. Really studied him, as if David might actually be there instead of being a dream person. David’s brown eyes were no longer intense. They were warm, liquid, understanding. Celia trailed a finger down David’s cheek. Smooth cheek. Skin and blood, not mist and imaginings. “Aren’t you mad?” she asked. “Me and Oliver? Me and your son?”

“Of course I’m mad. But you both did what you had to. I understand that. Mom doesn’t.”

Celia cupped David’s cheeks and kissed him. “Oh, baby. I love you. I hope you have your second chance now, wherever you are.”

*****

Oliver had plenty of supplies ready for Erin’s visit. No candy and soda—Sherelle had said—but popcorn and water were okay. Oliver also had checked out a stack of G-rated DVDs from the library and bought a few board games. He had Erin from seven p.m. to eleven a.m. Bedtime was at ten p.m., Sherelle said, and Erin should not be allowed to sleep past eight a.m. So Oliver had her for five waking hours.

Five precious waking hours.

Oliver intended to make the best of them.

*****

“So,” Oliver ventured once Sherelle left. “What ya wanna do? I have games, movies and—”

“Can we visit your dad?” Erin asked.

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“No, Erin. It’s late.”

“Only seven.”

“Still too late.”

Erin’s gaze was bright. Expectant. “Tomorrow morning?”

“Probably not. I’d need to talk to your mom first about it.”

“Can we visit your stepmother?”

Oliver pasted a smile on.
Celia,
Celia,
oh
Celia.
“No, Erin. I think your mom wanted us to stay here. I really should talk to her before taking you to meet anyone.”

“What about your friends?”

“Hey! Let’s play cards. What games do you know?”

Over Crazy Eights in the living room, Erin asked Oliver about his stepmother. “Her name is Celia,” Oliver explained. “She has dark hair. She’s—” Oliver chuckled. “It’s funny. She’s about my age. She has a baby. His name is Caleb.”

Erin’s eyes went round. “You have a baby brother?”

“I sure do.”

“I like babies!”

Oliver offered a smile. “Good. Good.”

“Could I meet him too?”

“I’ll talk to your mom. Promise.”

“Can you show me where you work?”

“Um…”

“Please, Oliver. Please. Can I see your school too? GMU?”

Oliver rubbed his forehead. “Erin, why do you…”
Why
do
you
give
a
fuck
about
me?
Why
do
you
even
like
me?
Why
do
you
take
an
interest
in
me?

“What?”

Oliver shook his head. He was Erin’s father too, and of course the girl was curious about her dad. All there was to it. “Okay. All right. I’ll show you where I work.”

Erin jumped up from the loveseat. “Cool! Can we go in?”

“Nope. You have to be twenty-one. Lemme see your driver’s license.”

Erin giggled. “I’m thirty-one. Reverse thirteen.”

Oliver got his keys. “Nice try, kiddo.”

*****

So they drove to Azizi. Then to George Mason. Then to Pinewood. They stayed in the car everywhere. Erin was full of questions. She wanted to know every detail of Oliver’s classes, what his job was like, what being at Pinewood was like.

“Can we go by your dad’s house?” Erin asked on their way back to the apartment.

“Okay,” Oliver whispered, ignoring the voice inside warning that such a trip was a bad idea. Because of course Erin would see lights on, would want to go in and meet Celia and Caleb, no matter the time.

Seeing Celia…

Oliver wanted to see her. Of course he did. He ached for Celia, missed Celia. Regretted leaving Celia. Seeing her would provide a nice quick little hit. Plus, Oliver wanted to show off Erin. Beautiful, intelligent, curious Erin. And Celia was pretty much the only person Oliver could show the girl off to.

He parked near the townhouse and indicated the place. “Number 349. With the blue shutters.”

Lights on. Very much on. At least Erin stayed quiet. She kept her gaze on the townhouse, her eyes keen and observant. She probably thought the rain gutter was the bee’s knees.

Shit,
Celia,
I
love
you.
I
screwed
up.
It’s
been
an
awful
week.
I
could
not
go
to
Pinewood.
Until
tonight,
anyway.
No
way
I
can
get
near
Grandma.

Oliver waited. Five minutes after they parked came the inevitable: “Can we go in, Oliver?”

“It’s nine o’clock, Erin.”

“Please?”

Oliver sighed, giving in. “Let me call my stepmother and see if she’s up for visitors.”

*****

Celia, her hair hanging long and loose, met them at the door. She wore sweat pants and an old T-shirt. Oliver had to fight not to hug her, not to kiss the tantalizing crook of her neck. Instead, he placed a hand on Erin’s shoulder. “This is Erin.”
My
daughter.
“She’s been wanting to meet you.”

Celia’s smile was bright, warm and welcoming. But obviously for the child, because she had a hard time meeting Oliver’s gaze.

“Hi, Erin. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to meet you too.”

“You have?”

“Oh yes. Your father’s told me so much about you.”

“My father? You mean Oliver?”

Celia blinked. “Right. Sorry.”

Erin smiled. “It’s okay. He’s kind of like my stepfather. Remember, Oliver?”

“I remember.”

“Well, come in!” Celia ushered them into the house.

The next thirty minutes were torture for Oliver. He followed Celia and Erin around the house. Celia let Erin peek in on Caleb and give him a kiss. Celia also sat on the couch with her and asked the girl about her life, school and friends. They were good together. Beautiful together. Celia was patient and handled Erin’s eager questions with grace and good humor.

Only twice did Celia look at Oliver—furtive, shy glances. More than enough for Oliver to know that he and Celia would end up together someday. They had to. Maybe now was not their time, but their time would come.

Yes, it would come.

They would be together.

At nine forty-five, Oliver got to his feet. “We gotta go. Bedtime at ten.”

“Noooo.”

“Yep. Come on.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She went to the fireplace mantle, apparently for a last look at Oliver’s high school graduation pictures.