Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
LIAM
S he picked the ugliest tree on the lot.
She either did it on purpose or has zero taste.
Or she’s the only one who can see its potential.
I’m sure she could tell by the look on my face that the choice confused me, but once she made up her mind, that was it.
Classic Olive.
She made me show her how to use the axe even though I’m pretty sure she could’ve snapped it right out of the ground with her bare hands, and a few minutes later, we were hauling it back to my truck. It’s skinny and sparse, but Olive said it had character.
I’m starting to see that she grew up to be exactly who I expected her to be—quirky, creative, and determined. And talkative.
It was always obvious, even as kids, when Olive was on a mission to break me out of one of my moods. She had a natural brightness about her, but she’d kick it into high gear if she sensed I was having a bad day.
She’s doing that now. It should annoy me but it doesn’t .
I never realized how much I relied on that until I didn’t have it anymore.
Even now, after my conversational absence, she’s sitting in my truck, staring out the window, quietly humming a Christmas carol and still wearing that Santa hat. Just having her next to me calms something inside of me. It’s familiar. I don’t have to try, or perform or live up to anything.
She just is and I just am, and it’s nice.
The angry part that resents everything about Pine Creek isn’t as loud as it was before.
It’s probably a coincidence.
“Oh, wait! Turn here.” She points to a road up ahead, and I flip on my blinker, though I’m not sure why we’re headed this way.
“I thought we were going back to your house.”
“We are,” she says. “By way of the old neighborhood.”
I frown.
“Have you been back?” she asks as I come to a stop at a red light.
I shake my head and begin to accelerate as the light turns green, then make my way over to the once-familiar neighborhood where Olive and I grew up.
“My parents are in Green Bay,” she says.
I grimace. “Your dad is a raging Packers fan. I forgot about that.”
“He wears that cheese hat so proudly, you’d think it was a trophy.” She shakes her head.
“You can park in their driveway.”
Again, I do as I’m told, and once we’re parked, I’m more aware than ever of the silence. I lean forward, looking out the front window.
“Wow. It hasn’t changed much.” I study the once-familiar scene in front of me—the backdrop of so many childhood memories. The pair of matching houses have both been updated, and both yards are as pristine as I remember.
“I thought our houses were bigger.” I tap my thumb on the steering wheel.
She chuckles. “Everything feels bigger when you’re ten, I guess.”
Feelings included , I think.
“Did your parents get rid of the treehouse?”
She shakes her head. “No, my mom said they want to keep it for their grandkids.” She laughs. “No pressure, right? Like I’m going to pop one out in the next nine months.” She opens the truck door and gets out. “Come on!”
She immediately stops and whips back around. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean come on like we’re going to make a baby . . .” She looks horrified.
I really try to stifle a laugh, but a snort escapes.
“Shoot. I didn’t mean it . . . I meant . . . argh. ” She struggles to find words that make sense and ends up muttering, “Let’s just go.”
She slams the door, and I can hear her muffled self-scolding from inside the truck.
It’s adorable. She might be infuriating, but I’m finding more things to like about her than I want to.
I get out and follow her down the driveway, stopping when she opens the garage and flips on the lights in the backyard. I look around. “So not everything is the same.”
She does a half turn. “They built the three-season room after you guys moved.”
“And got a hot tub,” I say, pointing.
“Apparently for my dad’s back, but honestly, I don’t ask questions about that because I don’t want to know.”
I grimace. “Thanks for that visual.”
“Yeah. I think they’ve gotten friskier as they’ve gotten older, if that’s even possible.” She shudders .
And it strikes me that while I was out there growing up, Olive was doing the same. She had a whole life here that I wasn’t a part of. I’m hit with the sudden urge to find out more about that life, but I tamp it down and steer my thoughts in a different direction.
I turn to face the treehouse. “That looks the same.”
She nods.
“Ooh! All that’s missing is—” She spins around. “You go up, I’ll be right back.”
I watch as she walks toward the house, knowing exactly what she’s going to get. The part of me that thinks this is ridiculous wrestles with the part of me that thinks it’s exactly what I need.
I look at the old treehouse, back toward the house, and decide to go with it.
I hoist myself up. I remember it feeling more precarious and taking longer when I was younger—I would routinely scrape my stomach shimmying onto the platform. Now, though, it’s not that difficult.
If only everything figured itself out so easily when you got older.
Olive returns a few minutes later, carrying two blankets. “This one’s for you ,” handing it out sing-songy like a waitress bringing extra breadsticks.
I take one of the blankets and look at it, then at her.
“Well, come on, Cranky, spread it out.”
It feels odd, familiar, and new at the same time. I spread it over my legs as she does the same. Once her blanket is in place, she reaches inside her coat and slowly, with mouth agape and visual fanfare, pulls out two foil-wrapped circles.
“Are you even ready?” She grins.
It’s freezing out here, but that smile warms me.
“Listen. I don’t know what’s going on with you, I don’t know what life’s been like between the last time we were up here and now, but I know for a fact that nobody can stay grumpy while eating one of my mom’s homemade ice cream sandwiches.”
The memory of the last time we were here flashes in my mind like a scene on a drive-in movie screen.
Before I can get lost in it, she hands one over. Two thick, soft chocolate chip cookies held together by a healthy portion of vanilla ice cream.
I take my gloves off.
“Before you say it, I know it’s kind of a dumb thing to eat outside in December,” she says. “Do you want to go inside?”
“I’m okay.” I’m surprised to discover I’m telling the truth. I start to unwrap it. “I didn’t realize until this second how much I missed these.”
She’s already got the foil off of hers, and as she takes a bite, she looks at me and smiles, and it’s like no time has passed between us at all.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” She reaches into her coat pockets again and pulls out two cans of Coke. “Do you still drink Coke?”
I motion for her to hand it over.
She gives me one, then cracks her can open and takes a drink, and it’s like we’re kids again, insulated from the world, from sadness, from complicated family relationships, from broken hearts.
Our treehouse, our oasis, our sanctuary.
“You didn’t deny your reputation,” she says between bites.
It takes me a second to remember what she’s talking about.
“Is it true?” she asks as a chunk of the ice cream falls onto the floor of the small treehouse. “Darn it. I wanted that.”
“You should take smaller bites.”
She frowns and pulls the blanket tighter around her. “So? Chronic first-dater or . . .?”
I sigh. But I don’t answer.
Her shoulders slump a bit, “Oh, it’s . . . I didn’t mean . . . If it’s too personal, or whatever, it’s fine, I?— ”
I’m not sure why, but I decide to talk. “I date.”
Two words. Not bad. Probably a personal record when talking about this kind of stuff.
“Okay . . .?”
I take a bite. Wow, this is good, like rediscovering Pop Tarts as an adult.
I nod. “That’s it. I date.”
“Deep stuff there.”
I shrug.
“How many second dates have you been on in the last year?”
I pretend to think about this for a second then say, “Ehh . . . let’s talk about something else.”
She cocks her head to the side and jokingly says, “Who broke your heart, Liam Fisher?” in an overdramatic tone.
I stop mid-bite and meet her eyes. “What makes you think someone broke my heart?”
She shrugs. “Lucky guess? I mean, we’re thirty-one. We’re both single. It stands to reason that someone, somewhere broke your heart.”
“It’s not as tragic as all that. There are other reasons relationships don’t work out,” I say.
“Like . . .?”
I shrug. “Like . . . it just runs its course? You discover you want different things? You realize you’re not really compatible? You move away and . . .”
Shoot. I did not mean to say that.
I try to save it— “. . .like, meet new people, and you just don’t click, you know, that kind of thing.”
She takes a sip of Coke, then looks at me. “Can I say something without it seeming, I don’t know, like weird?”
“That hasn’t stopped you at all this whole night, why start now?” I quip.
“Oh, okay, pal. Calm yourself down. ”
It’s getting easier to tease. She makes me feel comfortable enough to loosen up.
She looks straight ahead. “Do you believe you were my first kiss? Right here in this treehouse.” She smiles, like it’s a sweet, cherished memory. “Do you even remember?”
I go still.
I can’t say that it’s a conscious decision to say something, but “You tasted like vanilla ice cream” comes out of my mouth.
She freezes, holding her half-eaten ice cream sandwich in mid-air.
I tell myself not to look at her lips, but I fail.
There’s a quick, quiet zap of electricity, and then I look away. “We should go.” I eat the last bit of the ice cream, then shift toward the ladder and make my way down.
“Right.” She follows me down.
I stand behind her as she climbs down, though it’s obvious she doesn’t need my help. And once both of her feet hit the ground, I start off in the direction of the truck.
I need space. Or distance. Or both? My head is swimming and my heart wants neither.
She was nothing more than a childhood crush.
Right?
As I get into the truck and start the engine, I realize something. Something I don’t want to realize. Olive is the standard I’ve compared every other person I’ve dated to.
Which makes me wonder—is that why I haven’t been on a second date?