Chapter 15 Olena
OLENA
Pouring my guts out to Wyatt is an old tradition.
He knows my protocol, which was the brainchild of our boy-obsessed teenage selves: tissue box, ice cream, and warm blankets.
While probably the most cliché girly thing I’m associated with, it always works to help me feel better, so I don’t question it.
So, when he sees me come in the front door of our apartment—sopping wet, exhausted, and with a tearful expression on my grime-caked face—he launches into action.
“Oh, honey.” He stands in front of me and tentatively reaches out a hand, then pulls it back, taking in the full head-to-toe picture of exactly how wet and dirty I am. “Can I… run you a bath?”
“No.” I sniff, my expression flat. “It’ll be like sitting in a dirt soup. I need a shower.”
“Okay, I’ll get it started for you, and then I’ll make you a blanket nest on the couch with a hot water bottle.” He walks toward the bathroom, then stops, looking back at me. “What flavor of ice cream?”
I level him with a look. My brain is not available for decisions right now.
“Any ice cream; got it. Let’s go.” He waves me along to the bathroom and helps me peel off my t-shirt, throwing it in the sink. I sit on the closed toilet lid and pull off my socks, adding them in with the shirt.
“You got the rest, babe?” he asks softly, turning on the shower for me.
“Yeah,” I sigh, then blow my nose on a wad of toilet paper.
Why am I so upset about this? I think to myself, scowling. I shouldn’t have been touching Jude in the first place, especially not at work. Murphy probably did us a favor by interrupting.
“Have you eaten dinner?” Wyatt asks.
“I had the Meal of Shame on the way home,” I say with a nod. I remember the concerned look on the drive-thru worker’s face as she handed me my order. I’m sure I looked like I had been auditioning for a horror movie and then had taken a swim in a swamp.
“I thought we agreed to stop calling it that,” he says with a soft half-smile.
“Old habits.” I wave a hand dismissively at him.
Without saying any more, Wyatt steps out and closes the door behind him.
When I emerge in a towel half an hour later, he looks up from his phone and gives me a kind smile, patting the couch next to him. “When you’re ready. No rush.”
I smile weakly back.
Wyatt convinces me to tag along with him to the grocery store the next day; he hardly ever has Saturdays off work and, even though food isn’t my area of expertise, he says he wants my input for some dish he’s cooking up for Sam.
We both know full well that I won’t contribute one useful opinion about the ingredients and instead will probably end up impulse-buying a box of overpriced, semi-palatable protein bars for myself.
But I think he knows I need the distraction.
“Do you think arugula or something milder for the salad? Maybe romaine?” Wyatt holds two bundles of leafy greens, looking pensive.
I look at him in a daze. “Whatever you think makes sense?”
He nods, dropping one of them into his basket, before moving on to squeeze an avocado from a nearby display.
I stuff my hands deep in the pockets of my sweater and follow him. The grocery store’s fluorescent lighting is too bright; the aisles of vibrant products are upsettingly cheerful, and I squint.
My stomach rumbles. On the way past the deli, I grab a pre-made sandwich and fiddle with the plastic edge of the clear container as we make our way through the store. Wyatt picks up a can of white beans and a bottle of sauce with a name I can’t pronounce on the label.
We queue up behind a few other customers at the front of the store. To pass the time, I read the headlines on the terrible magazine covers near the checkout. “Wyatt, look, a celebrity has had a relationship development!” I say in a jaded deadpan, pointing at one of them.
“No way, that is shocking information,” he replies dryly, then picks up a different magazine from the display. “Oh, look, this celebrity has a different sized body than previously!”
“Oooh,” I intone sarcastically. “What’s their secret?”
“Oh, wow, handsome man alert,” he says in a hushed tone.
I’m still looking down at the magazine I’ve picked up, flipping through the pages with distant interest. “Yeah, I mean, but they’re celebrities. Is that really shocking?” My eyes linger on the glossy pages in front of me.
“No, Olena, real life.” He tugs at my sleeve. “Real life hot guy. In the floral department.” He’s still speaking quietly so the other customers won’t hear us.
I look up and Wyatt dramatically jerks his eyes over my right shoulder. I turn around and my stomach drops.
Jude is standing at the floral counter, putting his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.
Frozen, I watch as he picks up a bouquet of flowers and heads for the door. When my body finally clues in that he might see me, I duck down behind the magazines so I’m hidden from view. My mind and heart are both racing and my face flushes.
Wyatt’s voice sounds confused. “Wait, do you know him?” Then realization lands. “Wait, is that him? That’s your hunky lumberjack?” He pulls me up to standing, his eyes shifting between a few nearby customers with an apologetic smile; people are starting to stare.
A glance at the door confirms Jude is gone. I hug my arms over my chest protectively and Wyatt puts an arm around me, pressing a kiss to my head.
“More ice cream when we get home?” he asks softly.
I close my eyes.
I spend Sunday in a numbed state, scrolling on my phone and trying not to fixate on who those flowers were for.
It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. He’s clearly got some other woman in his life.
Even though he said he didn’t have a girlfriend, he could be dating someone casually.
Or maybe he lied. I barely know him, after all.
I have no right to be jealous or hurt. Still, the sting of seeing him buying flowers for someone else leaves an ache in my gut that I can’t shake.
The image of Jude’s regretful look after Teddy drove away on Friday flashes into my mind and I wince. We should probably pack up, he’d said.
More like wrap it up. Shut it down. We’re done here.
It’s late when I finally shuffle to my bedroom and take stock of what I need to deal with before work tomorrow.
I try to push down the dread of seeing Jude again and focus on my job.
Standing in my sweats with my hair in a sloppy bun that falls halfway off my head, I rifle through my work bag.
I pull out my notebook and a bundle of paperwork, and settle onto my bed to look through it all.
I remind myself about the deliveries coming in this week, including the swing and furniture for the seating areas, stones for the fire pit, and the ceramic planters.
Listing the items and their delivery dates in the notebook so I can keep track in one place, I remember I’ll also need to be there to speak with the electrician and the irrigation company…
My thoughts swim together and I find it hard to keep everything straight.
The emotions of Friday curl their claws into me, sapping my mental energy.
I put down my pen and sigh deeply, rubbing my face with both hands.
I’m so exhausted and frustrated… and I hate that I can’t stop thinking about Jude.
I cringe again, remembering those moments when I flirted with him so blatantly, thinking he felt what I felt. I was so wrong.
My phone rings and I jump, whipping my head to look at the screen with resentment. Frustration quickly boils into anger when the words “withheld number” pop up on my screen.
Fuck it. I answer. “Hello?”
“Olena, finally.” Sean’s voice pulls me back in time and I feel ill.
“What do you want, Sean?” I’m agitated. I stand and start pacing.
“I just want to talk to you. Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”
“Look, we broke up. I moved home. I need you to stop trying to contact me.” We agreed he wouldn’t.
“Olena, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I had no idea things would get that bad. Those guys… look, I’ve handled it now and they won’t come after us again. I promise.”
I grimace at the reference to the robbery, remembering with visceral revulsion the feeling of that man’s hand covering my mouth and pulling me backward, my head wrenched into his chest.
“Sean, there is no us. I’m living here now, and I’m not coming back.”
“Why won’t you listen to me?” He sounds frustrated.
“I’m listening to you just fine.” And what I’m hearing is garbage.
“No, you’re not. I’m saying we can work on things. We can be together. I’ve got it under control now. I’ll be better. Come on, Olena. Come home.”
“Sean,” I say, rubbing my temple, “you’re not getting it. I don’t want to be together. I’m done. I’ve moved on. I’ve got a job here now and—”
He cuts me off. “So, what? You think you can run away from the life we had together for three years? You’re just throwing that away? Like none of it matters? Like I don’t matter?”
“Sean, calm down.” He’s making me nervous. The phone slips against my sweaty palm. I readjust my grip and try to breathe slowly.
“No, fuck calming down. Fuck that. I love you, Olena. I’ll always love you. You can’t just ignore that and pretend I don’t mean anything to you.”
Feeling numb, I take a deep breath. I need to make him understand. “Listen. It wasn’t just the robbery. You’d been using for a while before that even happened and… things changed, okay? I don’t feel… I can’t be with you. You changed…”
I’m scrambling. I’m not making sense.
“I changed? What the fuck does that mean? How did I change? I know you didn’t like the drugs, but I thought… Are you saying you don’t love me anymore?” His voice is incredulous.
I close my eyes, bracing for impact. “Yes,” I say softly.
The line goes quiet. For a moment, I’m not sure if he’s still there.
“You know what, Olena? Fuck you. I gave you everything and you just… Fuck you. I can’t believe this.”
The call disconnects.