Olivia Read online

  “Your Grandpa Hennigan seems to like me,” Jon says with a frown, staring at the wall across from us. “I earned a pat on the back for this.” He picks up the paper and looks at it again.

  “Sounds like Grandpa.” He always had a skewed opinion of love; he was a cheater after all.

  “Did Jack ask anything else?” Jon asks quietly.

  I shake my head. “But he suspects something.”

  “Maybe it’s just our own guilt,” he argues. I don’t think that at all, but I don’t bother to correct him. I’d rather not think about it anymore, because doing so reminds me of the look on Dad’s face. That look makes me want to cry.

  “Do I look fat in the pictures? Why would they think I’m pregnant?” We both study the paper intently. “Wow, that’s some zoom lens.” My body is mostly hidden in all of the pictures by Jon’s, but one photo is focused on a large close-up of the ring on my left hand. “So they assume it’s an engagement ring.”

  “And they assume you must be pregnant, still in high school and engaged.”

  “Idiots,” I say with no emotion, my mind focused on the idea that I could be ‘with child,’ as the article states so eloquently in black and white.

  “Yeah,” Jon agrees, equally as monotone. When I look at his face, I only see a blank expression, realizing he’s probably having the same disconcerting thoughts as I am.

  “Did you finish your breakfast?” I ask him, bringing him out of his daydream.

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “That fashion show you like is on,” he says from the couch just outside my bedroom door. I stare at myself in the mirror, ready to leave, holding a small canvas under my arm and my paint supplies in my right hand. It has been three months since Granna’s funeral. I should be able to do this by now.

  When I blink, one tear escapes. I put my things back in my closet and kick off the heels I’d just strapped on.

  “You hate that show,” I remind him.

  “I’m interested in what you’re interested in,” Dad says to me assuringly as I stand in the doorway. “Come sit with me.” I smile and walk to the couch, taking a seat on the plush cushion next to him, letting him put his arm around me. “You don’t have to go, you know?”

  “I’m not,” I tell him, looking up to see if he’s disappointed in me. He smiles, wiping the tear from my cheek and kissing my forehead. Just as I settle back against him, his phone rings.

  “Em?” He removes his arm from around my shoulders and leans forward, listening intently. “Just stay inside. I’ll be right there.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him, startled by his tone and actions.

  “Nothing you need to worry about. Just a crowd forming at the Art Room. Can you watch Jackson? I’m going to go handle things.”

  “Yeah. They’re okay?”

  “They’re fine. Some of the kids are just restless with all the attention. We need to get window fixtures installed, I suppose. Or maybe we should hire private security.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I tell him.

  “This is not your fault, Contessa. I’ll be back in a half hour.” I hear his footsteps ascend the stairs, his keys jingle, and the front door open and then close behind him.

  He’s just being nice. It is my fault.

  “Can we watch something else?” my brother whines, appearing from the game room where he’d been putting together a puzzle Jon had given him.

  “Nope,” I tell him. “Come here.” He sulks across the room, holding two puzzle pieces in his hand and trying to make them fit together. They obviously don’t.

  “Why is that man wearing a dress?” Trey asks, plopping down beside me and cocking his head at the television.

  “It’s not exactly a dress. He works in fashion,” I explain, as if it makes perfect sense.

  “Do you have to be a girl to work in fashion?”

  “Just because he wears a dress doesn’t make him a girl, Trey. Men and women work in fashion.”

  “Is he a dragon queen?”

  I burst out laughing, looking at my brother wide-eyed. He laughs with me. “A dragon queen? Do you mean a drag queen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know about drag queens?”

  “Uncle Matty showed me pictures.”

  “Good lord, Matty,” I mutter to myself, remembering when my favorite uncle showed me pictures of a drag show for the first time. My father was very uncomfortable–I could tell–but Mom was as enthralled as I was, often having a hard time distinguishing the men from women.

  “Does Matty wear dresses?”

  “No, buddy, he doesn’t. But a lot of his acting friends have a lot of fun doing that. Why all the questions? Did you want to try on a dress?” He looks at me as if I’ve just said the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard.

  “I’m a boy!” I roll my eyes, realizing he hadn’t really understood anything we’ve just been talking about.

  “I just wanted to ask. They’re just clothes. Clothes don’t define you.”

  “Why do you wear dresses all the time now?”

  “I’m a girl,” I answer him, giving him an equally simplistic response.

  “You used to hate them.”

  “Yes, but Jon likes them.”

  “Does Jon wear–”

  “Trey, just shut up with the questions and watch the man in the dress on TV, okay? Jon likes me in dresses. And I like it when Jon likes me.”

  “Is he coming over tonight?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I hope so, too. I need help with my puzzle.”

  “I can help,” I offer.

  “I want Jon to help,” he says, considering him the expert on anything that needs to be assembled in any way. He’d even brushed off Dad a few times, which I could tell hurt my father’s feelings. It made me feel like Jon was more a part of the family.

  I like the way it feels.

  It’s obvious my father does not. He comes home a few minutes after the show ends, rejoining us both on the couch as we start to watch another episode of the marathon of my designer competition. “You have fans,” he tells me.

  “Great,” I say with a frown. “Not the fans I want.”

  “You’d have to do some more painting to get the fans you want.”

  I don’t respond to his assumption. It’s the first time Dad has said anything about my lack of painting, but it’s not something I care to talk about. “What did they want?”

  “A glimpse of you. Your autograph on one of their blown-up pictures of you on the beach.” He sighs, annoyed. I hated the pictures that had been printed from our summer vacation just as much as he did, and neither of us liked to discuss them. “Why is that man wearing a dress?” Dad asks. I have to laugh to myself a little. My brother is certainly my father’s son.

  As soon as we hear the front door open a few hours later, Dad and Trey race one another up the stairs to meet my mom. I stay on the couch, having become used to the routine by now. Over the summer, my parents had come to trust me and Jon a little more, allowing us to spend time with one another in the basement. My bedroom was still completely off-limits–not that we’d do anything in there anyway. Had I painted at all over the summer, he probably would have been allowed in the studio side of my room, but that opportunity never presented itself since I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in months.

  Jon sets his heavy bag on the ground by the coffee table and kicks off his sneakers, leaning over to kiss me in the process. It’s familiar and comfortable.

  “Hi,” he says when we part.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. He nods understandingly and sits down.

  “You could have called me.”

  “I was on my way out the door, but I just... couldn’t.”

  “I know. Jack said he tried to convince you to go.”

  “He said that, huh?” That’s not at all what happened. It wouldn’t surprise me if Dad took advantage of my r
eluctance to go to the Art Room to keep me away from Jon. That knowledge almost makes me want to go next week, just to spite him, but I know myself better than that. I don’t think I’ll be able to go then, either.

  “He did when he came by to handle the crowd. You missed the paparazzi.”

  “I wouldn’t say I missed them.” He laughs a little. “So maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t come.”

  “Good for whom?” he asks quickly. “For the kids? For you? Certainly not for me.” He leans into the billowy back cushions of the sofa, closing his eyes as he relaxes. He doesn’t flinch at all when I touch my cold fingers to his forehead and run them through his hair. I kneel up and kiss his cheek, feeling his arm wrap around my back.

  “Did you miss me?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he admits, opening his tired eyes. “It’s one of the nights we get to spend together... and beginning next week, when school starts again, we’ll have much less time together, you know?”

  “I know, but you get to come here after class on Thursdays.”

  “I never have enough time with you,” he admits.

  “I know.”

  “And I’ll probably have homework to do...”

  “I know,” I repeat.

  “I was just looking forward to doing this with you. We’ve been planning this class all summer.”

  “I know, Jon, but I just can’t. We knew this might be a problem.”

  “I wish you’d try. Oh,” he says, leaning over and grabbing something out of his messenger bag. “Here.”

  It’s a card with my name on it. Intricate swirls and birds drawn in fine-point black pen surround it. “Jordan made this, huh?” I’d know his style anywhere.

  “He’s got a bit of a crush,” Jon says.

  “I hope you put him in his place.”

  “I’m not the heartbreaker, Olivia. I’ll leave that to you.”

  “Hey!” I argue playfully. He tickles my sides, making me squeal loudly.

  “Shhh...” he cautions me, watching the wall for a shadow of one or both of my parents. None appears. I move one of my legs over his and settle back on his knees. His hands slide tentatively up my outer thighs. We stare at one another for a few seconds before my lips find his again. “Are your parents still going out of town?” he asks softly.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me help you on Saturday morning,” he pleads.

  “No, I can do it myself,” I tell him.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “Of course.” I massage his scalp as his thumbs knead deeply into my legs. I watch the muscles in his forearms flex and release with his motions.

  “No,” he says, lifting his right hand and putting his finger under my chin to angle my face to his, “are you sure you want to do this?”

  I swallow before answering. “Of course I am, Jon. I love you.”

  “We don’t have to. There are no strings attached here, baby.”

  “Sure there are,” I tease him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling myself into him. “I couldn’t get away from you if I tried.” I kiss the stubble on his chin before moving my tongue to the hollow beneath his ear.

  “You know what I mean,” he says, his voice strained. He has to push me back before he can continue, unable to focus on speech when I’m kissing him like that. He’d made that clear many times over the summer. “I love you, too, but I can wait.”

  “I don’t want to wait anymore,” I tell him, all joking gone from my face. “I want you.”

  He grins–clearly liking my admission–then pulls me back into him, turning his head to the side so I can continue what I’d started while he watches for anyone coming down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 4

  The guest room door across the apartment on 5th Avenue stays closed. Every Saturday, I spend minutes–if not hours–staring at it, knowing I can’t cross its threshold. Behind that door is the painting I started. I remember the portrait of Nate, and the empty space on the wall next to it. Would James even still want this painting that Granna asked for? It doesn’t matter. She asked for it, and I want to finish it for her–for principle, if nothing else. Just because she’s gone–

  “I’m going for a walk, Mom.” I make sure not to look directly at her, hiding my watery eyes from her. I’m so tired of her asking about my feelings. If I’d wanted to discuss them with her, I would have done it long ago.

  “Want company?” she asks, setting her laptop aside tentatively.

  “I’d rather be alone.”

  “Okay, sweetie. I’ll be here.” She settles her computer back in her lap and continues her illustration. “Be careful.”

  “’Kay.” I pull on my jacket, anticipating the cool fall air that’s set over Manhattan earlier than normal.

  In the lobby, I nod to the doorman, Francisco, before pulling out my cell phone.

  “Fail.” I only need to type that one word for Jon to know what’s going on. My boyfriend is the only person who knows about the painting I’d started with Granna. He took her picture for it.

  “It’s okay,” his text back reads. I put my phone in my front pocket and cross the street to the park. Is it okay? It’s been nearly three months since I painted. I worry that I may have forgotten how by the time I start doing it again... if I start painting again.

  As soon as people on the trails around me start to do double-takes when they see me, I pull the hood over my head and angle my eyes toward the ground. I wish I could just have some time alone, where no one knows me or watches me or tries to talk to me.

  “Excuse me, Livvy Holland?” Someone taps me on the shoulder lightly. I look up and smile politely. “Is it true that your parents are separated?”

  “I’m sorry?” I ask the woman. She must be in her early-thirties.

  “I heard your mom had gotten her own apartment. Does that mean your dad will soon be on the market again?” Her expression is hopeful, and she bounces lightly on her toes. I glance up at the penthouse apartment across the street, and wonder if my mom is watching me like she normally does.

  I process the woman’s question and stare at the lady in disbelief. “I don’t mean to be rude,” I start, “but you’ve got some audacity, asking me that. They’re my parents.”

  She raises her eyebrows, looking suddenly remorseful. “Oh. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think...” Embarrassed, she backs away slowly. I watch her with contempt until she finally turns around and starts walking at a normal pace.

  Most Saturdays, I’d stay on the path through Central Park, but today, I’m on a mission. The key to the loft tucked in my pocket, I’m making my way to a small, independent hardware store to have a duplicate made. I don’t want my parents to know, so I’m hoping that the insensitive woman in the park is the only person to recognize me today.

  Sliding my sunglasses on and leaving my hood up, I enter the shop. The man behind the counter looks at me suspiciously, and I realize I do look like a common criminal caught on camera in the middle of a bank robbery.

  “Hi,” I speak softly, making my voice sound cheerier than I actually feel.

  “Hello, young lady. Is there anything I can do for you today?”

  “Can you copy this key?” I ask, producing it from my pocket.

  He takes it from me, his fingers dark with dirt or dust, flipping it over in his palm. “It says not to duplicate it,” he informs me sternly.

  “I know, but I’m afraid I’ll lose it. I just, uh, had my purse stolen last week... fortunately my keys weren’t in there, but it reminded me how easily something like that could happen.”

  “In most instances, people would change their locks,” he counters my reasoning, looking at me sideways, “and therefore get new keys.”

  “Right.” I smile. I had a feeling this wouldn’t be an easy transaction, but I’d come prepared. “Could you just do it for me?” I slide a fifty-dollar bill across the counter.

  “Yes ma’am,” he says quickly, grabbing the money before I even move my hand away. As he turns around to
his machine, I frown, moderately disappointed in the man. People will do anything for money. Forget trying to help someone out just because they want to do something nice for another person.

  He finishes the job quickly, taking a few steps toward the register. He puts the keys in a small bag, folding the paper over twice. After typing in a few codes, he looks up at me. “That’ll be three dollars.”

  I glare at the man, realizing he can’t see my eyes through my dark glasses. I take the last bill out of my pocket–a five that I’d planned to use to get a cup of green tea with on the way back. I never go on a walk without coming back with that drink.

  “Keep the change?” he asks as I pick up the bag, afraid of what he’ll ask for next.

  “No, I’ll take it, thank you very much.” Reluctantly, he holds out two wrinkled bills, which I swipe away from him. “Thanks,” I mutter, exiting his store quickly.

  I nearly run into an old woman on the street, her clothes dirty, her hand holding out a distressed paper cup. “Excuse me,” I apologize to her. The two dollars still in my grasp, I hand it to her.

  “Thank you, my child,” she says with a near-toothless smile. I nod, sidestepping her and heading back toward the park.

  “Got it,” I text Jon. “Fifty-three dollars later.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! Most places will do that for two bucks.”

  “This key was special. It said not to duplicate it.”

  “Most keys say that. And still, most places will do that for two bucks. I wish you’d have let me take care of that.”

  “Well, it’s too late now. And you’re missing the point. I GOT IT!”

  My phone rings, Jon’s smiling face coming across the display. I’d taken the picture a few weeks ago when I went with him to get a hair cut. I answer quickly.

  “So, we’re on for next week?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Don’t do anything to get in trouble. And don’t do anything to make them stay home.”

  “I won’t!”

  “Fifty-three bucks, huh? Which fund did that come out of?”

  “It’s my weekly fun-money. That means we’re slumming it tonight.”