Chapter 21 #2
I'm sorry, he scribbles in the margin of my textbook.
And then he draws a heart.
I turn the page quickly.
◆◆◆
Perhaps it’s wrong to entertain it.
I’ve side stepped the kisses and flirting for almost eighteen months now.
I mention Porter at every opportunity.
A feeble attempt at loyalty toward a long lost love.
Was it love though?
He barely gives me the time of day.
Yet somehow I still feel complicit every time my desire for Olsen burns.
Guilt weighs on me constantly.
I haven’t walked away as often as I should.
I’ve let myself linger in the moment whenever those lips hover near mine.
Almost as if I have some unspoken need to be near him whenever possible.
This seductive but tender man is a bonfire offering warmth and solace.
I’ve spent two years being left out in the cold.
And who else can I talk to about this?
One afternoon, I confess my angst to Olsen.
Hopefully it might quell the spark between us.
Maybe he’ll get tired of hearing me harp on about some other guy.
“It's like I miss him, even though he's there all the time,” I lament.
He buries his face in his hands before answering.
“For a chef, Porter seems way too comfortable letting you starve.”
I hate to admit it, but he has a point.
“I know, it's like he's not even bothering to throw me crumbs anymore.”
“You deserve more than crumbs, okay? You deserve the whole fucking loaf.”
His words leave me flustered.
I revert back to my usual defense.
“He's just scared to let anyone know that he…”
“Likes taking naughty showers with the kitchen hand?”
“I mean, we used to. But not for more than a year.”
“A year?” Olsen almost chokes on his water. “That’s not even a situationship.”
“We cuddle maybe once a month.”
“Cuddle as in…?”
“No. Nothing flirty, just…”
“Mates who share a pillow?”
“Most of the time I sleep alone, but sometimes we fall asleep while talking.”
“Talking about romantic stuff?”
“About work and study mostly.”
“No wonder you fall asleep,” he grins.
Sliding his chair closer, he serves me a sultry look.
“So you haven’t had a decent lay in more than a year?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Jesus, you’re like a forest fire waiting to happen. No wonder you blush when I…”
“Touch me?”
As soon as the words have left my lips, I feel the heat of Olsen’s breath on my neck.
I’m scrambling to keep my thoughts pure.
“It's just a rough patch,” I fumble.
This is something I’ve told myself over and over.
“Every couple drifts at some point.”
“So you're a couple?” Olsen plays devil's advocate. “Has he actually said that?”
“Well no, but…”
“You're killing me, you know that?”
He rests his head on my shoulder.
It’s comforting, so I offer no objection.
“It felt different when we were in Noosa. When it was just the two of us.”
“Mark…”
The ache in his voice catches us both off guard.
“Uh huh?”
“If you were mine, I'd stand on top of this table telling the entire world how much I…”
“Shhh! Trying to study here!”
A girl across the aisle shoots us an evil glare.
We move to another row.
“How much you what?”
This time when Olsen's hand reaches for mine, I don’t step away.
“You know I want you.”
“Yeah, you're not exactly subtle.”
“No, not just in that way.”
“No?”
“I mean, yes obviously, but…”
Now it’s his turn to be flustered.
Seeing him giddy is almost endearing.
I find myself torn between loyalty and longing.
“You know it's more than that. Remember our night on the couch?”
As if I could forget.
“When we talked until four in the morning?”
“Yes. That's the Mark I want to be with.”
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me.
“I can't…” I swallow.
But Olsen bends the rules, brushing a thumb across my lower lip.
“Tell me to stop, and I will.”
Teasing my legs apart under the table, he runs a warm hand along my thigh.
God, it feels good. I’m so close to surrender.
His mouth is right next to my ear.
“You deserve to be loved out loud,” he whispers. “The way I would. If you let me.”
Too far. I’ve let this go too far.
Gathering my things in a hurry, I shove them into the bag.
◆◆◆
I make it as far as the bottom step before I feel the tug.
Olsen has looped a finger inside my shoulder strap.
“Talk to me,” he begs, pressing me against a pillar.
“Tell me I'm imagining things. That you don't want this too?”
“You know it's not that simple,” I sigh.
“It could be,” Olsen smiles. “You could be happy.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe… but?”
“I’m scared to tell Porter goodbye.”
A hand caresses my cheek.
“I'd be so fucking good to you, Mark.”
“I know you would.”
He switches from hypotheticals to promises.
“You'll never ever have to dilute yourself for me. I'll never make you hide.”
I want so badly to believe it, to melt into those arms right here in the crowd.
But all I can offer is a breathless nod.
Tears sting as they roll down my face.
“Don't cry,” Olsen implores. “I didn't mean to upset you. Come here.”
My bag slips to the ground.
Heartache is a heavy weight I’ve grown accustomed to carrying.
“I know he was your first,” he soothes. “I get it, it's hard to let go. But Porter…”
“Already has,” I finish. “He’s already let go.”
A hollow grief echoes in my chest, the dam breaking at last.
“I've been watering a dead plant, haven't I?”
Olsen offers refuge, holding me tight as I sob.
“You don't have to choose me, okay? I shouldn't have said that.”
He brushes a tear from my chin.
“But at least choose yourself. Please promise me that.”
I let myself fall.
Down, down, down.
A pain that creeps in like the tide.
“You didn't imagine it,” I whisper.
“Hmm?”
“You didn't imagine it. I've been falling for you too.”
The confession unravels between us.
“Saying goodbye will break me though.”
“And I’ll be right by your side. Even as a friend.”
I take a moment to let it all sink in.
He sweeps a strand of hair from my brow.
“There are different types of goodbyes,” he shrugs. “Not all of them are forever.”
“No?”
“Maybe Porter can still be a rock for you one day. If you give it time.”
A wave of relief floods through me, joy entangled with ache.
This tiny shred of hope creates a buffer of sorts.
Still, when Olsen leans down to kiss me, I turn away.
“Let me talk to him first,” I insist. “I need to hear it from him.”
“I respect that,” he says, releasing my hand. “Come find me when you're ready.”
◆◆◆
The once familiar room feels foreign to me.
Smaller somehow.
No longer ours.
Porter sits on the floor, knees bent as he leans against the bed.
He seems reluctant to pause whatever he’s listening to on his headphones.
Is there some invisible fast forward button we can push?
A short cut to the other side of this conversation?
“Got a minute?” I ask tentatively.
But he beats me to it.
“Look, I don't wanna hurt you, Mark. Really. I just… I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and it's better if we stick to being mates. Nothing more.”
Nothing more, huh?
I’ve spent months bracing for this wound.
But all I feel is numb.
I witness the soft collapse of all that was.
A slow exhale.
A release from ambiguity.
“Also... there's a girl I probably should’ve told you about.”
There it is.
The nail in the coffin.
“A waitress by any chance?”
I fail to keep the bitterness from my tongue.
Has he been fucking her and then every so often spooning me?
Or worse.
Does she get to see the version of him that I so desperately miss?
“Sutton and I have been texting for a while. Nothing serious.”
“No?”
“Not yet, anyway.”
I grip the door frame to hold myself steady.
“Have you cooked for her?” I ask. “Alone?”
The silence of his pause is brutal.
“Twice,” he confesses.
And that’s all I need to hear.
Returning to my bedroom, I toss a few things into my backpack.
Keys, phone, wallet, toothbrush.
Where is my fucking toothbrush?
“Mark, wait…”
“Leave me alone.”
Porter stands in the hallway looking foolish.
As he damn well should.
Little do I know that one day I’ll be grateful to Sutton.
Without her, I might have settled for half a love story for many years to come.
“I don't wanna lose you,” Porter frets.
He hushes his voice, still afraid of who might hear.
“Then maybe let the paint dry for a while,” I grumble.
I can’t even look at him as I stomp down the stairs.
“Guess we'll find out if there's any kind of friendship worth saving.”
◆◆◆
Rain soaked sneakers leave puddles on Olsen's front porch.
The dark wintery night has turned my nose pink.
At least the damp weather hides my tears.
Answering my knock, there he stands.
Shirt undone, bare feet on the rug.
Hair unkempt in a way that makes him look dangerously fuckable.
“It's over,” I say. “It's done.”
Taking me by the hand, he leads me to a cupboard full of towels.
“Come stand next to the fire,” he says, ushering me into the lounge.
Without hesitation, he peels the sodden hoodie from my body.
Then my damp shirt and jeans.
Wrapping a towel around my hips, he whispers three little words.
“Take them off.”
“My underwear?”
Holding my gaze, Olsen nods a yes.
He offers me a pair of fleecy pajama pants and a faded gym shirt.
Rolling the briefs down to my ankles, I thaw myself next to the hearth.
The heat from the burning log, the rough texture of my towel.
It’s such a pleasing sensual combination.
Olsen’s smile is both coy and apologetic.
“I'm not trying to seduce you,” he vows.
“I'd take my damn sweet time if I were undressing you like that.”
But I’m done with good manners.
When I let the towel fall, I give no warning.
Ass bare, my erection is on full display.
I give that boy a look which requires no interpretation.
Olsen keeps talking, words spilling out of him.
“I know you're vulnerable right now. I know the pain of losing Porter is fresh.”
“That’s not…”
“… and I'm not here to take advantage.”
“That’s not what this is,” I sigh. “Ol, you’re not just some fleeting distraction.”
“I’m not?”
No, I mouth silently.
“More than just a rebound?”
“Far more. I’ve been falling for you ever since we met.”
“From the beginning?” he smiles.
I nod.
“Guess I’ve just been too afraid to let go of the past,” I admit.
For once, he's trying so hard to be a gentleman.
“If you need a bed tonight, you can stay here. I'll sleep on the couch. We could listen to the rain if you don't feel like talking. Or fall asleep in front of a movie.”
“Olsen. Nobody’s sleeping on the couch.”
I lace a hand through his hair.
It’s something I’ve been wanting to do ever since I first sat behind him in class.
“I could read to you,” Olsen continues. I reach for his hand.
“Or…” he says, offering himself as medicine, “I could kiss it better.”
Sinking into each other, we let desire take over.
And at last, the walls crumble.
“Kiss it better,” I whisper. “Please.”