He frowns. “You’re right, I’m sorry. But having my father here for sixteen years, and then waking up to a world where he’s not there... I’ve just become intimately familiar with that feeling. I don’t want to say whose loss is greater, but he was my life for much longer. We had so many memories, and now that’s all I have left of him.”
“No, I understand,” I tell him with a sigh. I don’t have any memories of my birth mother at all, and I realize I can’t relate to the loss he’s suffered. I feel guilty, recognizing that I probably do take my adopted mom and dad for granted sometimes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You’re probably right.” He kisses the top of my head before letting me go. We both go back to the table and finish organizing our things.
“Shall we?” he asks, carefully closing my computer and tucking it in his bag.
“If we have to.”
“We have to,” he says, helping to put my backpack on. He takes my hand in his and leads me out of the library. “You like to break things, huh?” he asks.
“No,” I sigh. “I can’t believe I did that. Promise me you won’t, like, sell your kidney or something to get it fixed.”
“I will not sell any part of my body. I’m saving it all for you.” He jokes, trying to make me smile. “I’m just going to plead my case with the computer shop. I’m hoping someone will have pity on me. Whereas if you were to take it into a shop, they’d probably charge you three times as much just because they know your dad has the money.”
“If it comes to that, I’m sure he’ll pay.”
“Your dad probably has connections, Liv. If he were to take this somewhere, I guarantee he wouldn’t pay a dime. I’m just trying to save you from an uncomfortable conversation with him–one where you’d have to admit you lost your temper and broke your computer.”
Even though I know he’s right, and he’s trying to be nice, it still sounds like he just called me a child–again. I’m quiet the rest of the way home, barely listening to what are undoubtedly excellent ideas for my Hamlet essay. I don’t want him to see me as a child. I realize he hasn’t called me Olivia all day, and oddly enough, it hurts my feelings. I start to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose.
“So when your dad talks to you about being grounded, I want you to be humble and sincere and apologetic, okay?”
“I know,” I tell him.
“Don’t be mad. It’s okay. It’s one week. It’s a week you didn’t want to spend with me anyway,” he says, mocking my earlier statement.
“You know I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He smiles and puts his arm around me, walking up the sidewalk to my house. We must be early, because Dad isn’t waiting outside, monitoring my every move. “Can I kiss you?”
I shrug, eyeing the door. “I guess so.” He turns his back to the door to block our embrace, just in case my parents come outside. He kisses me slowly, and I’m sure he’s making it count since it will be our last for awhile. When he pulls away, I tug his shirt, bringing him back to me once more for a few more sweet kisses. “I’m sorry about today.”
“It’s okay. We’re learning.” He laughs lightly. “I’m sorry I was mean, too. I was just frustrated.”
“Understandably so,” I admit. “It was kind of stupid.”
“Let’s just put it behind us and move forward, Olivia. Okay?” My smile is immediate as I nod my head in assent.
“I love you.”
“Love you, too, baby. Go knock ‘em dead with that Hamlet essay.”
“Yeah, I hope I can maintain the quality.”
“I have no doubt you will. You’re a smart girl, Liv. Go with it.”
“You really think I’m smart?” I ask him. “Why do I have to have a tutor, if I’m so smart?”
“Of course you’re smart,” he says, as if my suggestion is preposterous. “You skipped a grade, remember, Liv? And you’re taking advanced placement classes on top of that, at the best school in Manhattan. This isn’t easy work, and I don’t tutor you much. You get this on your own. My role is to keep you focused. I’m not sure how I manage to do that, but somehow, it works, huh?”
“Yeah, it does. I appreciate your help.”
“I’d do anything for you, Olivia. Anything at all.”
“Me, too,” I say, although I don’t know what I could ever possibly do for him. He is so self-sufficient, and he never seems to need anything.
“Alright. Go be your sweet self. Tell your dad I’m sorry, too, if needed. I hope I didn’t do anything to make things worse.”
“Okay. Have a good week.” We finally let go of one another and I head up the steps to the door.
“Sneak me an email or text and let me know the details of your punishment,” he says softly, “because the thought of being away from you for a week kind of sucks.”
“I know.” I smile and wave from the doorway. “I will.”
“Bye, Liv.”
“Bye.”
The grounding lasted longer than a week. Jon’s attempt at getting the computer fixed didn’t work, so I finally had to admit the truth to my dad. During the week I’d been without my own Mac, I had concocted a pretty decent story of my own, but in the end, I decided not to lie. I’d already been in enough trouble, and didn’t want the chance of getting caught.
My parents were upset with the lack of respect I’d displayed for my computer. They got it repaired quickly, but made me do odd jobs for them and for my aunts and uncles to pay for part of the repair. I didn’t argue. I knew I’d be spending a lot of time with them, and I didn’t want to spend those six weeks in misery, so I made the best of the situation.
Jon and I were allowed to talk on the phone for a “non-excessive” amount of time, as instructed by my father. Neither of my parents actually monitored that, though, but I didn’t take advantage of it, either. I just buckled down, studied, did my homework, painted–a lot–and looked forward to the day I’d get to spend with Jon in mid-February.
I still did get to see him once a week, for twenty minutes on Thursdays when he’d walk me home. Granna had been told not to allow us any additional time together after class, and Dad was always waiting out front. I don’t know why my parents continued to let me see him after my Art Room classes. I realized my Dad could just as easily come to the studio and walk me home. In the end, I knew that they really were starting to trust him. The five minutes of stolen, sweet kisses on the metal stairs on the side of the building were the highlight of my week each week.
When we reached my house, he’d give me another brief kiss in front of my father. Dad didn’t seem bothered by this at all, and would engage Jon in conversation about school before he’d catch the bus back home. My grounding included a no driving rule, too.
“Have we heard from any colleges yet?” my dad asks the final week of my punishment.
“Yes, sir, I was accepted into NYU,” Jon says, still forgetful of my dad’s general dislike of the formal address. My dad smiles, looking relieved. “But I’ve heard nothing from Columbia. They tell me I should know sometime in March.”
“NYU’s a great school,” Dad says.
“It’s not my first choice,” Jon returns, his voice clearly disappointed. “Columbia’s the goal.”
“I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t want you.” I can tell my dad is being sincere.
“Thank you,” Jon says, squeezing my hand. Jon knows he has made significant progress with my parents, and I know he is pleased with himself. “Well, Olivia, I guess tutoring resumes on Tuesday?” he asks.
“I’m officially ungrounded on Sunday, right Dad?”
“That’s correct. Although your grades have been fine without tutoring.”
“He helps me a little on the phone at night, Dad,” I tell him. It’s not really true, but it’s just a little white lie. I knew Dad would let our Tuesday study dates continue. I had obeyed every condition of my punishment.
“Well, thank you,” Dad says to him.
“I’ll pick you up then, right?” I confirm our p
lans. Jon is only momentarily caught off guard, but quickly recovers.
“Right, yeah. After school, I’ll be waiting.” He turns to me and winks, then whispers in my ear. “Eight in the morning?”
“Right,” I say softly back to him.
“That’s Valentine’s Day, too,” my Dad comments. “Were you going to go to dinner somewhere? You’d need reservations.”
“Wow, we haven’t even thought about that. I don’t know, Olivia,” he says, feigning disappointment. “I didn’t make any reservations.”
“It’s okay. Maybe we can celebrate next weekend.”
“Yeah, that’s a better idea. I’ll plan something.” His smile is mischievous as he leans in to kiss me. “I can’t wait for Tuesday,” he says.
“Me neither.”
CHAPTER 14
“So what in the world are we doing today?” Jon buckles his seatbelt and settles his messenger bag on the floorboard, arranging his feet around it.
“I thought we’d just hang out today. Maybe play a little house.”
“House?” He doesn’t sound sure about my plans at all. I hadn’t given him a clue about what I wanted to do with our stolen day.
“Yeah.”
“Whose house?”
“A special house. You’ll see.” I drive down the island, taking my time as I skim the perimeter of Central Park. I pull up to the apartments at 78th Street and park next to the curb. A valet comes to the car to take my keys.
“Miss Holland,” he says with a nod. “Do you have any more bags to bring up?”
“Nope, we’ve got it.”
“Sir,” the valet finally addresses Jon, who waves politely as he gets out of the car. I go around to his side and take his hand in mine.
“Come on.”
“Where are we?” he asks. He looks completely unsure of the situation.
“Patience–”
“Olivia, this man knows who you are. We’re dead if we get caught.”
“We’re not going to get caught. I’m allowed to be here, and they know to treat my family with discretion. They’re not going to say anything.” I say hello to Francisco, retrieving the key from him. We go into the elevator and I hit the button to the penthouse.
“Yes, but you’re skipping school. I have a bad feeling about this,” Jon says.
“It’s fine. I promise. We don’t have to encounter anyone else all day if we don’t want to. And those two guys aren’t going to say a word.” I know this because I had given them both money that I’d been setting aside over the weeks of my grounding. The lift doors open to the top floor. “This is us.” I guide him to the door on the left, unlocking it and holding it open for him.
“Wow,” Jon says, stunned by the apartment. “Whose place is this?”
“It’s Granna’s,” I explain. “It used to be Nate’s, and then my mother’s. Granna recently bought it back from the people Mom sold it to. Isn’t it amazing?”
He wanders around, gazing at the simple decor and drifting toward the windows that overlook the park. “Incredible,” he says, turning around to look at me. I smile proudly, taking off my leather coat to reveal the pink and red cashmere sweater, my personal homage to the holiday. “And you look like a little piece of candy,” he notes with a sly grin. “Good enough to eat.”
“Thank you,” I nod, walking toward him. I slip his coat off of his shoulders and toss it onto the bed. He’s wearing a short-sleeved black polo with a long-sleeved red t-shirt underneath. He pulls me into a hug, finally tucking his fingers into the back pockets of my new black designer jeans.
“So we’re spending all day here?” he asks, nudging a strand of hair out of my face with his nose. He kisses my cheek.
“We can, if you’d like.”
“I’d like.” His voice is sexy, and I’m suddenly very nervous.
“Jon, I don’t want you to have the wrong impression,” I tell him. “I really want to hang out with you today–catch up on things, talk to you about life–but I’m still nowhere near ready to... you know.” I look up at him through my lashes.
“Oh,” he says simply, biting his lip. I still see a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Okay.”
“Is it?”
“Of course,” he answers quickly. “And I’m glad you told me now, but I came prepared.”
It takes a split second for me to realize what he means. “Oh.”
“It’s probably not a bad habit to get into,” he states. “But it’s okay.” His voice is reassuring. He removes his hands from my pockets and puts them on either side of my face. “I love you, Olivia. Happy Valentine’s Day.” He kisses me slowly, then lets go and returns to look out the window.
“You can still kiss me like that and stuff, you know?”
“Okay,” He laughs, glancing only briefly over his shoulder. “So what else can I do today, Liv?”
“No, I don’t mean to make rules or anything,” I try to explain. “I was just saying that I wouldn’t mind you kissing me, if you felt moved to do so.”
“I’m sure I’ll want to do more of that. What else is there to do here?”
“Well, we can watch movies, or paint and draw I brought my stuff by earlier today. Listen to music. Talk. I bought some groceries, so I was thinking I could try to make us lunch–”
“Olivia Holland cooks?”
“Olivia Holland will try to,” I respond. “But there are a ton of quick restaurants around here if I screw up too badly.”
“I bet we’ll do okay together.”
“Jon Scott cooks?”
“I microwave masterfully.”
“I didn’t know that was a thing. I mean, who doesn’t?”
“Hey, do you want my help or not?”
“I do,” I tell him with a smile. “You look nice, by the way. I like your hair like that.” It’s spiky and messy, but styled to be that way.
“Thanks. I got it cut. It kept getting in my eyes.”
“I like it when it gets in your eyes, too. It’s cute.”
“Cute, yes. Just the adjective I’m going for.”
“Hot. Sexy. What was it... libidinous?”
“Look at you,” he says with a laugh.
“I’m smart, remember?” I whisper, sidling up next to him and clasping my hands behind his back. I blink at him innocently.
“How could I forget that?” He stares at me, as if he’s contemplating something. Suddenly, he picks me up and carries me across the room.
“Put me down!” I squeal.
“Demanding one, aren’t you?”
“Please put me down! I’ll hurt you!”
“Ouch, yeah,” he says as he settles me gently on a couch. “You’ll hurt my ego. What, am I weak?”
“Yeah, so weak,” I taunt him. He hovers over me, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his eyes challenging mine playfully.
“You mentioned music, little girl. Where is it?”
“Don’t call me that,” I instruct him, my voice lilting, as I throw a pillow at him. “My iPod’s on that dock over there.”
“Oh, your music. I was hoping for a better selection.”
“Hey!” He wanders over to my music player but starts rummaging through some CDs sitting next to it. He sets a few aside, making comments to himself that I can’t quite hear.
“Let’s check this out,” he says, opening up the jewel case and putting it in the CD player of a large stereo system. Granna went all out to make sure this place was perfectly livable. Mellow guitar music starts to ring out from the surround-sound speakers.
“What is it?”
He shrugs. “It simply says ‘demo’ on it,” he tells me. The lyrics begin, the man’s voice velvety smooth and perfectly on pitch. “Not bad. Wonder if this guy’s made it big by now. It’s act–”
“Shhh.” I stand up and move closer to the speakers, recognizing the words of the chorus. “Holy hell, it’s Nate.”
“No. Really?”
“Yeah. That poem is in his sketchbook. Look.” I run quickly to
my bag in the guest room and pull the leather-bound book out, flipping to one of the first pages I’d studied. I start to follow along with the words as he sings them, pointing out each line to Jon, who’s watching over my shoulder.
“Wow, what a find,” he says.
“It’s beautiful. I wonder if Mom has heard it before.”
“You think it was for her?”
“I know it was.” I’m mesmerized. “I want to be loved like that.” I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but I did. My cheeks flush bright pink as Jon moves toward me. I sit down on the guest bed, and he kneels in front of me.
“What makes you think you aren’t?”
“You’ve never written me a song,” I say, shrugging my shoulders bashfully.
“Is that the mark of true love?” He teases me. “Is that the only real proof that a man loves a woman? He has to put it in song?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” I tell him, but I’m not really serious. Just to have a man bare his soul to me like Nate did to my mother; that’s all I want. It wouldn’t have to be in song, but a poem, a painting, a photo, a letter...
Why would Mom choose my dad over Nate? What could he possibly offer that Nate couldn’t? Just then, I think of the ways my dad has shown his love. Gifts. Diamonds. Affection.
A toast.
Vows.
Still, I can’t even begin to compare him to the romantic that Nate obviously is. Or rather, was.
Jon picks up my left hand and presses the pads of his fingers against the red spots. “Are these the marks of true love?” he asks. It sounds like he’s teasing, but I know that there’s real curiosity behind his question.
“No,” I laugh, trying to brush him off.
“Are these for him? For Nate?”
I don’t look him in the eye when I shake my head. “Of course not.” We’re both silent for a minute or two, listening to Nate’s song, and I can feel his doubt hanging in the air above me, but he doesn’t press for more information.
“Note to self: write a song for the woman I love.” I’m thankful he’s changed the subject back.
“You don’t have to,” I explain. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not. You know I like a challenge.”