Page 114 of Faux Real
“Guess so,” he says with a sigh. “Thought she’d get over it by now.”
“Buy her some flowers,” I suggest. “She likes daisies. Maybe that will help.”
“Yeah,” he says in a drawn-out breath. “Sure.”
“‘Kay,” I say, biting my lip as I check the time. I hope Oliver’s still outside. “Well, good luck with that. Let me know how it goes.”
“Will do,” Sawyer says, reaching for his phone again. “See ya.”
“Bye,” I chirp, dashing out the glass door. Zipping up my jacket, I look around the quad until I spot Oliver sitting by the welcome sign, his head bobbing to music. I swallow, straightening out my posture as I approach him and tap his shoulder. “Hey.”
“Shit.” Oliver jolts, glancing up at me before removing his headphones, a nervous smile on his face. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” I grin in spite of myself. “Didn’t mean to.” I flick my nails, nodding beside him. “Do you have a minute to chat?”
“For you,” he begins, clearing his throat as he pats the frosty grass, “I have as many minutes as you need.”
“Right,” I say, sitting down and tightening my jacket. Who hangs out outside when it’s still 46 degrees? “So, about last weekend...”
“Ah, that’s what this is about,” he breathes with a nod of understanding.
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly. “Sorry about that. I was uh—I was drunk and I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t apologize.” He lets out a cynical chuckle. “We’ve all been there before. It’s forgotten.”
“It’s just—” I exhale. “I don’t want you to think that I called because—”
“Because you’ve forgiven me? Or that you miss me?” he asks, shaking his head as he gazes into the distance. “Don’t worry, I don’t think that at all.”
“You don’t?” I ask, frowning.
“No,” he mutters, taking a deep breath. “Drunk words aren’t always sober thoughts.” He glances at me with regret in his eyes. “Just like drunk actions aren’t sober thoughts.”
I swallow, the air between us thickening with tension. He’s right but he’s also wrong. He’s right because I do miss him. I do. Sitting beside him, my heart is beating far too quickly. I can feel it. I canhearit. Every beat. It’s so loud.
Deafening.
But he’s also wrong. He’s wrong because the heart isn’t the commander. The brain calls the shots. And despite my heart longing to touch him, to kiss him, my brain is standing firm in its convictions. It doesn’t forgive him. It can’t.
The brain always wins. Always.
“I’m sorry, Ollie,” I whisper, my heart pleading with my brain to stop it. Stop being so scared. So weak. Just stop. “I really am.”
Mind over heart.
“It’s fine.” He smiles at me, scanning my face. There’s a gleam of calm in his eyes like he knows something I don’t. “It’s fine. Really.”
“What—”
“I wanted to show you something,” Ollie interrupts me, grabbing his backpack. He unzips the larger compartment and pulls out a black portfolio. He opens the folder, delicately grabbing a photograph and flipping it over. “Look.”
I blink, staring at the image. It’s me. In the park. Leaves everywhere. It’s me. I know it’s me. That’s my hair. My face. My clothes. But it doesn’t feel like me. That girl is smiling. She’s reallyreallysmiling. She looks so happy. Is that really me?
“What do you think?” he asks. “I never got to show it to you earlier. It’s quite brilliant, isn’t it?”
“It’s—” I tilt my head, unable to stop staring at the strange girl in the photo. She looks fun. Nice. Energetic. She looks like someone I’d like to be friends with. Someone who laughs more than she cries. Someone who makes wishes. “It’s um... it’s really good.”
“Keep it,” he says, handing me the photograph. “I have more versions developing in the darkroom. You should come by and pick them up this weekend.” He shrugs when I cast him a confused look. “Might be a nice gift for your mum or something.”
