Olivia (62 page)

I take off my smock, leaving me in a tank top and a
pair of shorts. I kick off my shoes and socks, too, not caring if I
drop paint on my feet. Wanting a bottle of ice-cold water, I
abandon my project momentarily and go to the kitchen.

Taking a seat at the kitchen island, my summer
paintings capture my attention as they hang on the tall wall across
the room. I’d painted scenes on twenty-nine canvases, each one the
same size–three square feet. In most other spaces, they wouldn’t
fit on the walls, but the tall ceilings of the penthouse loft
provided the perfect place for display.

One painting to go... and I’m almost finished.

At the beginning of the summer, I’d vowed to do
three paintings a week for every week that Jon was in Utah. It was
my promise to him. I’d hoped to have this last one done before
today, but I struggled with it. It had a title, but I wasn’t sure
what the tone of it should be.

Reunion.

I’d since figured out what to paint, even though I
had no idea what our reunion would be like. In fact, I wasn’t sure
there would even
be
one.

I hadn’t heard from him since our fight in the
street after graduation. I’d called him, left dozens of long
messages, sent him letters to an address I had for his aunt–Dad had
obtained it when he was working on getting Jon’s mom into rehab,
and I found it in his address book. The letters weren’t returned,
so I assumed Jon was receiving them.

I’d send a note after completing each painting,
describing it as best as I could. I didn’t send him pictures of
them, though. I wanted him to have something to look forward to
when he got back to Manhattan.

Every message I’d left for him, no matter which way
I chose to communicate, started with the same three words. He had
to know how strongly I felt about him, and about us.

I poured everything into the paintings, and what
little emotion was left at the end of the day, I’d put into the
letters. I’d said all that I could say to convey my remorse, my
regret, the disappointment I felt in myself. There were tear-stains
on the notecards. There was no way he didn’t know how bad I felt
about kissing Finn. I made sure he knew it meant nothing to me. The
fight about Utah and Columbia was nothing compared to that stupid
kiss. I’d forgiven him for going away for the summer. I wanted the
opportunity to make sure he knew I’d give him space, but that I
would always want to be with him.

If he’d take me back.

While everyone else believed the concussion story, I
knew that he would not. He knew Finn and I had kissed before. It
had made him very jealous and possessive. He’d forgiven me then. I
knew it would be a lot harder to forgive me this time
around–especially since he saw the kiss with Finn–and how it ended
in such an intimate manner.

I pick up the phone to call him, not knowing exactly
when he’s coming back. I had broken down and called Frederick a few
weeks ago to find out the day. A loyal friend to his roommate, it
took an inordinate amount of begging to get him to tell me which
day. He wouldn’t tell me what time, or what flight. It’s left me on
pins and needles all day, waiting in anticipation to see him.

I’d told my parents Jon was set to arrive tomorrow.
Without him in town all summer, Mom and Dad had entrusted me with
the key to the loft. I spent most of my days here, painting. I had
to be home at eleven every night, though. I was normally exhausted
well before then anyway, so the early curfew didn’t bother me. It
would have if there had been a better reason to stay out late, but
Jon was the only reason I ever wanted.

If he comes back to the city today, I want him to
come here and spend some time with me. I know we need to talk. I
want him to see what I’ve done for myself. I know my parents won’t
allow me to be here alone with him, even if we haven’t spoken to
one another all summer... even though I know that things won’t
magically be okay when he walks through those doors.

I hope he
does
walk through
those doors today. I miss him so much, and the loft seems much
quieter today than normal, even though nothing has changed from any
of the previous days.

I wasn’t always alone at the apartment. Sometimes my
cousins would stop by. Sometimes Finn would, which became less and
less awkward as the summer wore on. He leaves for school in Miami
tomorrow, so I imagine he’ll come by today. I just hope he calls
first, just in case Jon is around.

Jon’s changed his greeting. His voice is happy.
“Hey, it’s Jon. Yes, I’m back in the city. Leave a message and I’ll
call when I can.”

My heart pounds, realizing he’s only a few blocks
from me. After hearing the beep, I forget myself; I forget the
message I’d wanted to leave. “It’s Livvy,” I stutter. “I’m at the
loft. I’ll be here until eleven. Welcome home. I’d love to see you.
I love you.”

Suddenly reenergized, I drink the rest of my water
and get back into the studio. There are just a couple finishing
touches to make, and after detailing with a few different colors,
someone rings the buzzer. It must be someone the doorman knows
since he didn’t call up. Not even considering how I look, I run to
the door. I don’t think Jon could have gotten my message and made
it over here already, but maybe he was already on his way.

Finn is waving through the peephole. I open the door
quickly. “Come in,” I tell him, hugging him on his way inside.

“
It’s hot in here,” he
says.

“
It’s hot everywhere.”

“
You should call maintenance,
Liv.”

“
Okay, okay, I will,” I concede.
“Are you all packed?”

“
Yep,” he says. “The moving van’s
filled to the brim.”

“
I’m so jealous,” I tell him. “Not
everyone gets to move into their own apartment their freshman year.
I feel like I’m just moving from one overly-supervised living
quarters to another.”

“
You’ll have fun. It won’t be
anything like having Jacks watching your every move. I
promise.”

“
I hope.”

“
How’s the painting coming?” he
asks, grabbing some water.

“
I’m almost done. You can look.” He
follows me into the studio. “He’s back,” I say softly.

“
Did you hear from him?” he asks,
looking over my shoulder. I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” he says,
the sorrow in his voice genuine. I feel my confidence begin to
crumble, but I breathe through it, willing myself not to cry.
“Don’t lose hope,” Finn tells me, pulling me into an
embrace.

“
I can’t,” I admit. “He’s my life,
Finn. If I lose hope, I don’t know what else there is.”

“
Don’t say things like that,” he
says suddenly, pushing me away from him. “You know there’s more to
life than him... than the two of you, together.”

“
He’s my heart,” I say with a
sniffle. “He’s my wings.”

Finn disagrees. “You’re Livvy Holland, and you will
soar–with or without him.”

“
But I couldn’t have painted any of
this if it wasn’t for him.”

“
Hey,” he says as he walks to the
main room, looking at the wall. “You did
all
of this without him.”

“
He inspired me,” I
argue.

“
The happy moments you had together
inspired you,” he corrects me. “Things you did together inspired
you. The memories inspired you.
He
didn’t.
He
wasn’t here cheering you on. The
thought that you might have this again, that’s what inspired
you.”

“
And I want it.”

“
I know you do, Liv. But maybe it’s
not with him, you know?”

“
Have you been talking to my
parents again?” I ask him sarcastically. I had just been joking
with him, but I see a look flash across his face, and realize he
had.

“
They’re worried, Livvy, that’s
all. They say you just go home and sleep... and then wake up and
paint.”

“
They would have been happy with
that last summer.”

“
They’d never be happy, seeing you
hurt. They don’t want you to paint at the expense of your
happiness.”

“
The only time I’m happy is when I
am
painting,” I tell him. “When I relive
these moments, when I face what we had, even though it hurts...
it’s like a good cry, and the elation when I’m done is a total high
for me.”

“
Your dad doesn’t think it’s
healthy.”

“
I don’t expect him to understand,”
I explain. “Dad’s not an artist. I think Mom gets it,
though.”

“
Even she’s excited about you going
away to school, to get away from this routine. She thinks it’s
adding to your depression.”

“
When you look at these paintings,
Finn, do you see depression?”

“
No, not at all,” he says, looking
over the vibrant and colorful wall art. “But when I turn around,
and look at you, Liv... that’s
all
I see.
That’s all
any
of us see. You need to get
out of this cycle.”

“
I want to. Jon’s back today. That
will change everything.”

“
Are you in denial? He hasn’t tried
to get in touch with you in nearly three months.”

“
Because it would be impossible to
work this out over the phone,” I say, making excuses.

Finn frowns at me, not buying it. “Finish up the
last painting, Liv, and then go home. You have three days left
before you move out of the Holland home. Make them count with your
family.”

“
I’ll try.”

“
Okay. I’m always a phone call
away, Liv. I’ll always make time for you, okay?” he says as he sets
his drink down. We hug each other tightly.

“
Good luck, Finn. I’ll miss having
you around,” I tell him.

“
I’ll miss you, too. But I’ll see
you in two months for your birthday, right?”

“
Yeah,” I sigh. I’d been talking
about having a big party here for my eighteenth birthday, but I
never imagined having it without Jon. I can’t envision what it will
be like without him. That was a day we’d been looking forward to
for what seemed like forever.

At this point, it was just looking like a family
affair, one that would likely be fraught with tension anyway.
Camille still wasn’t speaking to us, either... and Mom and Dad
still weren’t thrilled about permanently handing over the loft to
me, although it had become a much more palpable idea with Jon out
of the picture.

In my mind, he was always back by then. “Take care,
Livvy,” Finn says, interrupting my daydream.

“
You, too, Finny. Call me when you
get there.”

“
I will. Promise me you’re heading
home soon.”

“
I am,” I lie with a forced
smile.

“
Okay.” He hugs me once more before
opening the door. “And call your maintenance crew. This isn’t
normal.”

“
Got it, Finn,” I tell him, rolling
my eyes.

“
That’s my Livvy,” he jokes, waving
goodbye. I glance down the hallway, just to see if anyone else is
there. No one is.

I return to the painting and finish it up within the
hour. I normally let the work dry on the easel before hanging it on
the wall, but the nails are already in place, and I’m anxious to
see the finished collection. As soon as the painting is on the
wall, my eyes well up. I’d completed the project. It’s over. It’s
now in the past, and Jon still hasn’t come back to me.

He was supposed to be back by now.

For hours, I stare at the wall, devoting plenty of
time to each painting; to each memory that I’d captured in oil and
canvas. Not all were happy moments, but each one was a defining
moment in our relationship.

Our first date, represented by deep red hues and a
silly drink with an umbrella.

Our first Christmas, where a tiny ring kept Jon and
my father worlds apart.

Our first time together in Mykonos. I’d considered
painting the view from our room, but instead decided to paint the
view of our room from the outside. What happened in that room that
night was more beautiful than any landscape, in any country. A soft
yellow glow emanated from french doors. That glow was
happiness.

I’d captured our first kiss, stolen on the walk home
from the Art Room to my house. The night I celebrated his birthday
with him at his uncle’s bar was represented, the tone of it sad
because of the fight that ensued. There were a few fights
represented on the wall. Each one had given us a better
understanding of who we were as individuals, and as a couple. Even
our last fight was featured. It was the twenty-ninth canvas in our
story.

To many, the thirtieth would have seemed to fit much
earlier on in the series. Not to me, though, and I knew Jon would
understand.

I finally sit down to compose the final note to Jon.
I keep a box of tissues close by, so I don’t mar any of the words
with teardrops. I want him to hear and understand every last word I
say–just in case they are the last words I say to him. It had
always been my plan to continue the letters until the series was
finished.

“
I love you, Jon,”

I struggle with this note, wondering if I should
keep the same format, or write something different. I take a deep
breath, unclasping the hook of the necklace I’ve continued to wear
around my neck. I set it down next to the tissues.

“
Nearly two years ago, you gave me
this charm. Choisie. You told me I was chosen. I’d known it all my
life, but to be chosen by you was something wholly different and
inspiring. To be hand-picked by two parents who needed a child to
complete their family was one thing. To be hand-picked by a man who
wanted to love a woman–to love her in every way–it was nearly
inconceivable to the the fifteen-year-old girl I was then. The
ramifications were beyond my comprehension that night, but I knew I
meant something to you. I knew I meant more to you than any other
girl did, and to me, having the boy of my dreams want me like that
was the best gift I could have asked for.