Don’t text me anymore
I bet you are, he responded.
My blood coursed through my body at a furious pace.
Stop
I bet you are I wouldn’t put it past you to do something like that
I pressed the top button of my phone with shaky fingers to close out the screen altogether and set it at the top corner of my desk, as out of sight as possible. Every time the phone vibrated, I jumped. Each time felt like a knife to the heart, reminding me of what he’d done. They came to me for fifteen minutes straight. I couldn’t take it anymore and I grabbed the phone, reading each one in turn.
Has it not occurred to you that he’s MY best mate? It’s wrong you’re staying with him
What kind of girl runs to her ex’s friend for comfort?
Did you fall on purpose?
Chloe thinks you did and I’m wondering now if that’s exactly what you did
Why would you be staying with Oliver otherwise
Does Oliver know how much you hated him before I broke up with you
I wonder if I told him what he would do
Answer me or I’ll tell him
The last one had popped up while I was reading. My fingers couldn’t type fast enough.
I’m not yours to control anymore, I told him. Go back to your French Jezebel. Leave me alone.
Graham didn’t respond; I felt my stomach settle once again. I breathed a sigh of relief and went back to my edits. Five minutes later my phone rang. I looked down for the ID and saw it was actually Oli.
“Penelope Beckett, wanton goddess and all-around badass,” I answered.
“Penny!” Oliver shouted into the phone. He started to speak, but I couldn’t hear him. It was too loud.
“I can’t hear you, Oli!” I shouted back.
“Hold on,” he said. It got quiet. “Outside now. Are you texting Graham?” he asked.
“Just to tell him to leave me alone.”
“Oh my God, Pen. Stop. No matter what he says, don’t respond.”
“Oliver, he’s saying some vile things! I had to.”
I could hear him sigh. “I know him and he is trying to keep open the line of communication for no other reason than he just likes the control, so don’t give in.”
“Fine. I won’t. I’ll just sit here in my little chair and mind my own business and do my edits.”
“Good girl.”
“Bye, Ols. Go have fun.”
“Bye, Penny.”
I finished my vlog and uploaded it to my scheduler then sat down on the bed to watch a little television. Before I knew it, I’d fallen asleep.
I heard a sharp bang as the metal door in Oliver’s workroom burst open and I launched up, my breaths panting with the panic. I glanced at the digital clock on the television. It shone 2:37 in the morning. My heart raced in my chest, I stood and felt around for a crutch, determined to use it as a weapon if I had to, but heard Oliver’s voice slur something and a girl laughing. I placed the crutch back against the wall and sat at the edge of the bed, cringing at the thought that Oli had brought a girl home with him. I heard another guy’s voice, but it wasn’t Oli’s. No, no, it wasn’t Oliver’s. It was a voice I knew very well. It was Graham’s. I felt ill.
Please just let him be dropping off a drunk Oli. Please. Please. Please.
“Penelope!” Graham’s voice rang through the door of my room.
My mouth draped open in shock. I stood, more pissed than I had ever been at him since the whole thing had gone down, and hobbled toward the door, throwing it open. Inside Oli’s workroom stood at least fifteen people, and there were more piling through. They all stood quiet and staring at me. I glanced down at my clothes, realizing I was in an old pair of volleyball shorts because they were comfortable to sleep in as well as flexible enough to fit around my leg cast and a tank top because I hadn’t any intention of being seen in either. I grabbed my short kimono robe hanging behind the door and draped it over myself, cinching the belt at the waist as best I could.
“Uh, hey,” I told the silent room.
“Did we wake you, Pen?” Oliver’s raspy voice asked.
“That’s okay,” I told him, throwing my hair behind my shoulder.
“Why don’t you join us, darling?” a lilting French accent asked me.
“No,” I bit out just as Oli shouted yes with slurred speech.
He was three sheets to the wind.
“Come on, Pen.” Oliver waved a sloppy hand my direction. His face held a large, goofy grin.
Graham watched me with rapt attention, his eyes burrowing through me. Just looking at him was painful. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him, but I also didn’t want him to see me run away. He’d know it was him, and I was tired of him feeling as if he had power over me.
I hopped down the steps and rested my knee on my scooter. Oliver came over and threw a heavy arm around my shoulders. “You know the lads, of course,” he mumbled, “but this here,” he said, pointing at a blonde I didn’t know, “is Gemma.” He pointed at another girl, a redhead. “I’m sorry, love, what was your name again?”
“’Allo,” the redhead called out in a cockney accent, “I’m Nicki.”
He pointed out three more girls I wouldn’t remember the names of and thankfully skipped over Chloe, buried in Graham’s embrace and smiling at me as if she’d won some grand prize, which she most definitely had not.
“Music then?” he asked the group, and everyone followed him into the kitchen where he plugged his phone into a Bose speaker. Tunes covered the silence, giving me a bit of a reprieve from the strange stares I was getting from everyone.
I felt so uncomfortable; I could practically read their thoughts through their capricious looks. I felt like a fool, a Yank on the wrong side of the pond, and I wasn’t wanted. They were loyal to a fault to Graham, and I was someone he wanted gone, so they did as well, save for Oliver. My breaths came in pants as the room seemed to close in on me. I backed up, leaving the scooter where it sat, and rested a hand against the nearest wall for support, heading toward my bedroom. I was escaping and hoped no one noticed.
“Where are you going, Penelope?” Graham asked.
I dared not turn around. “Very tired,” I answered with my head toward the ground. “Good night, all.”
“Oh come now,” Graham prodded. I heard footsteps approach and panicked at the thought he might touch me.
He drunkenly clasped me around the waist and dragged me back toward the group, setting me down in the center of their round configuration. I turned around and searched the crowd for Oliver, but he was gone. So was Gemma.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to break past Graham.
Chloe watched me with hateful eyes.
“Stay, Penelope,” Graham insisted. “Join us.”
Individual conversations came to a stop as they waited for me to make a decision. I felt trapped. I gulped and sank into a kitchen chair buried on the other side of the group opposite Graham and Chloe. The hurt their presence brought me was growing exponentially. I gripped the edge of my chair to keep from toppling over. I’ve made a huge mistake, I thought, my eyes burning and growing blurry.
“And back to the kitchen!” a cheerfully buzzed Oli sang out. He was playing tour guide to Gemma. Just seeing him made my heart calm and the tears cease. Friend, albeit stupid, drunk friend, my thoughts registered. I took a deep breath.
Oli came through and plopped next to me. “Penny, I thought you were in bed,” he told me. A hand went to his head, messing up his hair. He didn’t bother to fix it. “Oh no! Did we wake you?”
He was so drunk he was confused. “It’s all right,” I told him, trying to ignore the presence of Graham and the excruciating pain he was causing me. “Did you have fun?” I asked him.
My hand went to my chest, the site of the misery, and rubbed.
“I had a bloody good time, Pen. Lots to drink.” He laughed and gestured with his hands down his tall, lean body.
“I can see that,”
I stated, my hand still rubbing at the hurt.
His eyes went to my fingers and he stilled. “Why are you doing that?” he slurred.
I let my hand drop. “Doing what?”
His eyes widened. “Did I cause that?” he asked, panicked. He pointed at my chest.
“No,” I whispered. We were getting stares. Graham’s pierced me in my place. It was too heavy to ignore.
I whipped my head his way and narrowed my eyes, a silent threat to leave me alone. I turned back toward Oliver.
“I did that, didn’t I?” he asked. He reached out, pressing the butt of his right palm into the agonizing spot. His left hand gripped my shoulder to bring me closer to him. “I forgot,” he whispered. “I remembered too much of myself and only myself and forgot you here.” He glanced over at Graham, as if just remembering him. “I let him in here. I’m so fucking sorry, Pen.”
Shocking everyone around us, including me, Oli stood in a rush, almost toppling over. The movement pushed his chair back, causing it to tip over with a loud clang.
“Everyone out,” he gritted, staring down at me.
Oliver’s friends, old and new, looked at him with strange expressions. Only his old friends recognized he was serious and started gathering and walking toward his workroom.
I looked over at Graham. He stayed where he stood, his hands clenched. Chloe clambered at his arm in desperation, obviously recognizing something in him she wanted to get control of. It hurt she knew him well enough to see that in him.
“Are you sleeping with her?” Graham shouted. He threw himself forward and stepped to Oliver, nose to nose. They stood at the same height, their chests heaving. Chloe screamed and clawed at Graham’s jacket. Oliver’s fists clenched, ready to punch, and everyone stopped, trying, in their inebriated states, to gauge whether they should intervene or just watch.
Using the back of my chair for support, my hand still clenched at my chest, I dragged myself up, almost hyperventilating. I let go of the throbbing pain and as calmly as I could, placed a hand on Oliver’s chest and pushed gently. The gesture broke his stare on Graham and he staggered back. His eyes looked clearer, though. The burning adrenaline had sobered him. The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop.
I turned to Graham just as he took advantage of Oliver’s distraction, bent his arm back and swung, hitting Oliver in the left eye.
I screamed as Oliver staggered back a few steps then regained his footing, a look of pure hate across his face. He cocked his arm back and began to charge.
“No!” I said, putting myself between them, that same hand going to Oliver’s chest.
He stopped and looked down on me, his face softening. I turned back toward Graham.
“You’re an asshole,” I told him matter-of-factly. “And not that it matters, but we are not sleeping together. Oliver took pity on me and gave me a place to stay while I recovered from my accidental fall,” I rationalized. “I think with all the alcohol you’ve obviously drunk tonight that anything other than your leaving right now would be a very bad idea. Leave.”
Graham looked at me, then at my hand still resting on Oliver’s chest. A strange look I recognized as regret fell upon his face. I knew Graham, though, and any regret he felt could only be selfish. Eventually Graham’s stance relaxed and he walked backward a few steps before turning around and grabbing Chloe on his way out. I removed my hand from Oliver’s chest and brought it to my own, to that painful spot, and pressed. The rest of the group fell behind Graham and when the door closed, I relaxed. I turned to Oli and tried to put on a good-humored face, but the expression on his confused me.
He looked down at my chest where I had plastered my good hand. “I did that. I put that there,” he said. His brows pinched in pain, in obvious disappointment in himself. His left eye was starting to swell.
I reached up and dragged my thumb over his forehead. “Stop it, Oli,” I told him softly. “You know damn well you didn’t put that pain there.”
“I may not have put it there, but I made it throb where otherwise it would and should have subsided. I clawed at the wound.”
“Oli—” I began, but he stopped me by wrapping me in a hug.
“I’m sorry. Very sorry,” he said. He brought his lips to my ear. My hair shifted with each breath he took. “I’m drunk, Pen,” he whispered.
I laughed. “I know, Oli. Come on,” I said, breaking away. His warm skin overwhelmed me and I struggled between the butterflies it gave me and the broken heart that barely beat in my chest. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He nodded and after I grabbed a plastic bag, filled it with ice, and yanked a hand towel from its drawer, I hobbled/led him back toward his bedroom, a room I had yet to see for myself.
We rounded the hall off the kitchen and landed in a room at the back that, frankly, wasn’t anything at all like I’d expected. It was a dark room, though I did expect that, but it was much richer and warmer than I imagined. For some reason, I expected something modern, but it was nothing like that. There were two exposed brick walls and a large hide patchwork carpet over the original wood floor. I wondered briefly if he’d made it and decided to remember to ask him about it later.
The bed was four poster and painted metal but cast to look like bamboo. The headboard was an intricate lattice pattern with Asian-inspired elements draped throughout the canopy frame. There was a huge block of rattan caning at the headboard and footboard. The bedding itself was simple white linen and down. It looked utterly masculine yet not overly so. Oli wasn’t overcompensating like Graham did. I was only just realizing how different Graham and Oliver were.
He fell face-first onto the bed and groaned as he attempted to pull off his vest, his face still buried in his comforter.
“My eye,” he moaned.
I sat at the edge of the bed beside him. “Where’s your jacket, Oliver?”
“In the car. I treated it very badly. It’ll have to be dry-cleaned.”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
“I won’t,” he said. He turned his head in that languid manner that drunks adopted. “Are you upset with me?” he asked, sounding worried.
“I’m not,” I told him, handing him the makeshift ice pack.
“I can’t believe I did this,” he said, taking it. “You may not be mad, but I’m angry at myself. And I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Oliver.” I swallowed. “But this night did tell me something.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I think I need to get out of London. Just for a little while. I need distance. I feel like the wound scabs only to be reopened over and over.”
He nodded. “I have an idea then, Penelope.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I’ll finish up my last order tomorrow and we’ll go on a trip, you and I.”
“Together? Where to? I can’t fly, remember?”
“It’s not far. I’ll take you to my childhood home. You can meet my family. They’re a good sort, and I like them very much. They bring me comfort. I suspect my mother will bring you that as well. She’s a sweet woman.”
I smiled at him. “Will I meet your sister, the handbag designer?”
He laughed. “Yes, you will. And all her little monsters as well. How are you with children?”
“Oh, I’m the queen of children. They love me. I think it’s because I hand out candy like water and can spend hours chasing them around.” I stared down at my leg cast. “Not that I’ll be able to do that with them, which is a shame. I’ll have to double up on candy.”
Oliver, though he laid like a lump, laughed, shaking the bed. “My sister’s husband will love that, I suspect,” he said sarcastically.
“He’s none of my concern. Children are more my speed.”
“That’s sort of lovely, Penny.”
I looked at him, wondering if he really meant it. “Well, I am what I am and that’s all that I am.”
“Good on you, Popeye.”
“What’s your sister??
?s name?” I asked him.
Oliver lazily turned over on his back, forgetting all about his vest.
I leaned over him and slowly undid the buttons for him. His hooded eyes watched me. I averted my gaze so my hands wouldn’t shake any more than they already were. When I reached the bottom, I laid the flaps back. He shrugged it off and I took it from him, folded it neatly, and placed it on his nightstand. When I sat back down, he grabbed my wrist, and my heart leapt into my throat.
“Thank you,” he told me.
“You’re welcome,” I said and sat back.
He let go of my wrist and stared at the ceiling.
“Oli?”
“Yes?”
“Your sister’s name?”
He cleared his throat. “My sister’s name is Zoe. She’s ten years older and talks to me like I’m one of her children,” he explained, but he was smiling so I could tell he didn’t mind. “My mother is Eleanor and my dad is George.”
“Eleanor, George, and Zoe. Got it.”
He smiled at me. “What are you parents’ names?”
“Ben and Samantha.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“Two brothers, Sam and Mark.”
“Older or younger?”
“Both older.”
“You’re the baby of the family then? How did they feel about your moving to jolly old England?”
I laughed. “They really, really thought it was a terrible idea. For weeks while I waited for my resident visa they tried everything to convince me to stay. I’d just graduated university and was offered a pretty nice job in Dallas. I’d already had the vlog and had begun to make a little bit of income and I thought since I was young,” I said, hesitating on the next bit, “and i-in love, I could have a little adventure and just see where it took me.”
“That’s understandable.” He cleared his throat. “Do you regret coming here?”
“I don’t believe in regrets, not really. I mean, in the heat of a moment I may strongly wish I hadn’t done something, but to be honest, I believe all our decisions help mold us into the persons we’re supposed to become. Think about it, if everyone made flawless decisions, how could any of us truly understand life and all its accompanying beauties? If we never suffer, how can we recognize joy for what it is? If we never witness another’s struggles, how can we submit ourselves to helping them? No regrets help shape us into selfless people. After all, the only regrets people really speak of are surrounded by a hesitation to love or allow love.”