Page 78 of I Think Olive You

My mother waits inside, wrapping me up in a quick hug before I pull the tie from my neck and unbutton the suffocating shirt.

“We’ll have dinner in an hour or so, okay?” Her voice is gentle, as if she can tell how much of a toll this has taken on me.

“I’m going to lie down for a little first. I passed out in the car on the way here.” I give a tired laugh, relief not quite sinking in yet but well on its way.

Kicking my dress shoes off by the door, I flop down onto my bed face first. My phone on the bedside table is going nuts. It has been all day, which is part of why I left it here in the first place. When will the vultures give it a rest?

Some morbid sense of curiosity wants to see how many people have tried to reach me today when they never bothered during the summer. How many “friends” want to connect now that my name’s all over the internet and gossip surrounds me again? I scroll through the first few dozen messages and notifications before tiring of it all. I should turn the damn thing off. So I do. The screen turns dark and I settle in for a nap.

I feel like I’ve barely nodded off when my mom shakes me awake. Eyes burning with fatigue, I know I’ve had one of those naps where time ceases, and becomes irrelevant. It could be one hour or one day of sleep. Either way my face is creased from the pillow and my hair is a riot of mussed curls.

Wiping the bit of drool from my cheek, I ask. “Dinner time?”

“Actually, there’s someone here to see you.”

“Mom, I’ve had enough of people for today. No more reporters, no more answering questions. I’m tired.” So tired. Can’t she just let me curl into a ball and recover from the whirlwind of the last few months?

I have a broken heart to nurse. It’s not only the stress of Alan and the business, and this mess with the press. I lost something big—something I have no right to want. That sort of thing leaves a mark and it’ll take a while to get over it.

“Trust me.”

I’ve used that line enough times to know it must be serious, or at least that my mother thinks it’ll be in my best interest. She’s done a lot for me the last while. I can handle talking to one of her people if it’s going to help her.

My mother slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her and I take the time to try and make myself more presentable. It’s kind of a wash though. The button up, ironed and pressed this morning, is now an array of ridges and wrinkles where I’ve slept in it not once, but twice. The sleeves are some combination of rolled up and shoved up onto my forearms. My hair has fought the product that kept it contained this morning, curls a halo around my head and I know I look ridiculous.

Whoever it is better not have a freaking camera.

Wiping my hand across my face, I clear the last remnants of sleep, and steel myself with a deep breath before leaving the sanctuary of my room.

Standing in the living room, staring out at the city, is our guest.

And I feel faint.

My head spins with hope, my heart racing at the possibility.

There’s no way. There’s no fucking way. She said she never wanted to see me again.

She’s so close though it makes my chest hurt. The curtain of dark hair, the soft curve of her waist. I want it to be her so badly and I’m terrified to hope.

But then she turns and I soak her in incrementally. The slant of her eyebrow, the rich warm brown of her eyes. The full lips that I’ve savored and missed and despaired for. How is she here? In my mother’s apartment? In New York?

The harvest is over but I’m sure she has pressing matters back home. Still, my confusion is no match for the wonder at seeing her in the flesh, on my turf, a few steps away.

“Lia…” I breathe, fearful that the moment is going to disappear. One wrong move and this will all be a figment of my imagination.

Then my mother clears her throat behind us to let me know we’re not alone. “I’m going to head out for dinner and leave you to it.”

Mom gives us both a little smile and when I look back at Giuliana, she’s got one on her face as well, that little divot of her dimple cutting into her cheek. So fucking beautiful. I drink in the sight of her, parched, desperate. I’ve never wanted to move as much as I do now. A few steps and I could touch her skin—feel the warmth of it seep into bones brittle and exposed.

How the fuck did I think I’d be able to get over her given time? No measure would do it. Giuliana’s crawled under my skin, burrowed so deep into who I am just a second of seeing her pulls me back in. Silence cocoons us in a bubble of everything I want to say but can’t. The door shuts behind my mother, overly loud in the room. It becomes unbearable and, in my discomfort, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“What are you doing here?”

Giuliana’s smile drops along with my stomach. God, I’m an idiot. One thing is certain besides death and taxes: I’ll find a way to fuck it up. This time it’s my inability to say the right thing.

The soft catch of Giuliana’s inhale sounds so close and I can’t believe she’s here, breathing the same air as me. Behind her, the dusk of New York City lights her up like before—my personal goddess come down to earth. It’s gorgeous, she’s gorgeous, and when she leaves, I’ll never be okay again but I don’t care. Not when I get to see her now, one more time.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bottle, dark green with the Abundantia label on the front and my mind is thrust back to that day at the beginning when I joked about my reward for passing the volunteer program.

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