Page 74 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“It’s more than that Ollie.”
“So I take it, that’s a yes. You slept with my fucking sister, Christian.” His voice rises. “I let you stay here, give you a place to hole up so the bastards don’t tear you apart—yeah, I caught up on the whole disaster sitting in the airport in Dubai—and this is what you do? Sleep with my sister?”
“You’re missing what I said. Yes, I slept with Haley. But we’re together, Ollie.”
He huffs out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, so I’m supposed to be thrilled about that. It’s meant to make it all OK. You take advantage of her, when she’s at the low point of the year, when the last guy who did a number on her has just made her bitchy little friend his wife, when she’s vulnerable, and now what? You and her are a thing? Come on Christian. I bet Haley’s so screwed up she hasn’t got a clue what she wants right now. But rather than let her figure it out, you leap in there and convince her what she wants is you.”
He shakes his head, and there’s a look of disgust on his face that I’ve rarely seen before. Ollie sails through life thinking the best of everyone. He’s forgiving of things that would annoy the hell out of me.
The only time I’ve ever seen him look even remotely like this was when he confronted a jerk of a reporter who’d written shit abouthim and Kendra. It’s an expression I’d never have expected to be levelled at me. I’m going to change that. He has to understand.
“What she wantsisme, Ollie.”
“Are you sure about that?” He shoves past me, his shoulder colliding with mine, and storms up the stairs. He stops part way up and glares down at me. “I thought we were friends.”
“Wearefriends, Ollie. What’s between Haley and me doesn’t change that.”
“And what about when there isn’t a Haley and you? What then? Won’t that change everything?”
I think I preferred the angry Ollie of moments ago, to the resigned one telling me Haley and I can’t possibly last. Warning me when it falls apart, I’ll not only lose her, I’ll lose Ollie too. If I haven’t lost him already.
“Maybe I should go.”
His back is to me, and he’s climbing the stairs again. “Best fucking idea I’ve heard today.”
I pack my stuff quickly, thankful there isn’t much. I wrap the photo of Jet in a sweater and place it carefully on top of the rest of my things in the duffle bag. My mouth can’t help but edge up in a smile at the thought of her bringing it over for me.
This is what Ollie doesn’t see. Haley and I are different, but at the heart of things, where it really matters, we are the same. We care about the same things, love doing the same things. Not the big things; the ordinary little ones we could build a life on. Like we’ve already started to do. There’s a deep pit in my stomach, an empty void of the unknown, as I prepare to leave this place and time where I’ve been happy, unsure when—or worse still if—I’ll get to recapture it. However, for now, while Ollie is so volatile, leaving is the best plan.
I bet he’s slamming Haley with What-The-Fuck texts right this moment. It might be an idea to send one of my own. Let her know I’m out of here and I’m sorry for once again making a mess, and for dragging her into the centre of it.
I grab my phone and string a few words together. There’s so much I need to say, but I’ll leave that for when I can actually talk to her. For a guy who can pour his heart out in lyrics, I unexpectedly struggle with the mundane.
I stack the series of books Haley nudged me to read on her bedside table. There’s a bookmark tucked inside the top one in the pile, the smallest but her favourite of the five, the one she calls the Christmas book, and it does have that feel about it. It’s placed in the page where I took a pencil and gently underlined a sentence. I don’t think she’ll mind me marking the page. The books are full of her little scribbles in the margins, circles and hearts, smiley faces and highlights. I hope the words I’ve drawn attention to—the ones that echo how I feel about her, how my heart knew she was mine long before I realised it—help steady her through this rough patch with Ollie. Damn, those fairy guys know how to woo a woman. I don’t feel bad about stealing their lines.
On top of the book, I place a small box wrapped in red tartan paper, tied with a bow nearly as big as the container. It’s a gift I had ready to give her tonight as the final episode of the show rolled across the screen. I ordered it a few days ago—I’ve become the master of online shopping—my small thanks for how she’s backed me through the wholeWild For The Windisaster. I won’t get to see her unwrap it now, but I know she’ll love it.
I lay the incriminating red Oodie on her bed. Why the fuck did I persist in wearing it, the evidence of my crime? Two pairs of eyes, one deep brown, one ice blue, stare up at me from the pet donuts on the floor. Even the dogs seem to judge me.
“Sorry girls, I fucked up.”
They don’t even offer a consoling tail wag as if they know there’s nothing they can do to fix this.
Bag over one shoulder, guitar on the other, I leave like I arrived twelve days ago. Hat pulled down low, sunglasses on, and uncertain what the next few days will bring.
Chapter 36
Day Twelve
Difficult as it wasto leave him all sleepy and sex-sated in my bed, it’s lucky I didn’t succumb to the temptation of Christian and call in sick. Work is crazy and not to sound arrogant, but no temp would have kept up with all that needed to be done this morning. It’s almost noon, and I haven’t had a single break. I’m finishing up changing a drip for a ponderous Basset hound, still groggy from anaesthesia, when Alice pokes her head through the door.
“Someone here to see you, Haley.”
“Sure. Give me a sec.” I’m too engrossed in the task to even think about who it might be, but even if I wasn’t, I’d never have expected to find Bethany Holt waiting for me when I step into reception. She’s talking away to an elderly lady who has a curly white bundleof Bichon in her arms. Bethany coos at the dog, oblivious to the uncertain look I see in the owner’s eyes when she looks my way. The woman’s wariness isn’t surprising. Bethany may be harmless, but her outrageous hair and makeup, and intimidating clothing, say otherwise. At first impression, Bethany looks downright scary.
She’s once again dressed in dramatic black from head to toe, except for a pair of floral patterned combat boots. Over slim leggings, her baggy coat with angular collar pulled up against the cold, makes her look like a bat about to take flight.
“There you are.” She pulls away from the dog and fixes me with those violet eyes. Her mouth, today coated in lipstick the colour of an espresso shot, curves in a smile. “I told Peter I’d find you here.”
