Chapter Fifteen #2
He does, down the deck stairs and right onto a dirt path lined with enormous, leafy green trees and all kinds of grasses.
The greenery waves at us in the light winds as we trek up a gentle slope.
Birds call from every direction while the low buzz of insects hums around us.
Normally the thought of all those bugs freaks me out, but today I hear it as something else. Like nature’s own music.
From a few feet behind him, I watch as Oliver sticks his hand out occasionally to run his fingers through the tall grass.
His shoulders rise and fall when he takes deep breaths, especially when the climb steepens and we have to clamber over parts of the trail that got washed out in the heavy rains.
I can feel my body heat with effort the longer we hike.
I can’t deny that it’s beautiful out here. The sun on my skin feels like a warm embrace. The edge of a chill from the breeze off the water is a welcome reprieve from the exertion. There’s even a bunch of butterflies fluttering around.
The trail crests after a steep incline, then flattens out to offer a view of the harbor itself. We both slow to a stop to take in the sight. I’d gasp if I weren’t winded.
“Damn,” I whisper, genuinely impressed by the glittering waters below us, dotted with dozens of little boats. There’s even a big lighthouse perched on the cliff across the water. “Okay, maybe this was a good idea.”
“I’m glad you think so. Not so different from walking, right?”
His teasing words elicit a smile from me. “I mean, yes and no. When I walk in the city, it’s never vertical like that last hill.”
“Fair.”
“The sun feels so pure out here.” I pinch my shirt to shake out the sweat. “It never feels this intense back home.”
“I should have brought water,” he replies. “Wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”
I shrug as I peer up at him. “It’s fine. I could have brought some, too.”
He shakes his head and frowns. The actions are small, but I notice them.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been living and working in such close proximity to Oliver recently, but I’m starting to see that he’s not the cold, impassive person I thought he was.
He’s expressive—sensitive, even—if you know what to look for.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “It’s really not a big deal. We’ll turn back and hydrate at the house. I’ve just about reached my limit of outdoor time anyway.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Are you always this hard on yourself ?” I try to ask this as gently as I can.
“I’m naturally gifted at it, yes,” he deadpans.
I use the shield of my sunglasses to keep an eye on him. Either my earnest question tipped him off or he’s aware that I’m observing him, because everything about Oliver clams up. He holds himself so still as he looks out at the water below us, he could be mistaken for a statue.
Seeing him this way stirs up something new in me, something I haven’t felt toward Oliver ever.
I don’t want him to shut down. What I want is to make him smile.
One of the rare, real ones––not the half version he shows the world whenever the situation calls for it.
I used to think that smirk of his was condescending, but I’m starting to understand just how much Oliver holds himself back.
I hedge my bets with a relatable joke. “I don’t think it’s possible to go to college where we did and not wind up with a complex like that.”
He huffs out a half-laugh. “Maybe. You seem pretty well-adjusted.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I mumble as I wrench my gaze down to the pebbles around my feet.
“What do you mean?” he asks, the tenderness in his voice winding its way around my heart.
I don’t know how to explain all the pressure I’m under—the financial stress, the fact that I don’t have another job lined up after this one, which adds to said financial stress, the fact that I feel like I can’t tell my family because somehow it all feels like my fault, my problem to fix.
The eldest daughter with big dreams isn’t allowed to fail. Instead, I kick some rocks.
“This is a tough career,” I say with forced ease. “Every no from the industry makes me feel like a flop.”
“Hey.” The bluntness in his voice forces me to look at him. I can’t read his expression with those damn sunglasses, but he’s shifted to face me fully now, hands on his hips as he looks at me. “You said it yourself—this job is hard. You’re not a flop. You’re here, aren’t you?”
I raise my eyebrows and fold my arms across my chest. “True. Just like we’ll be fine without water, right?”
There it is—a real smile from Oliver, one that lights him up as he tosses his head back and laughs. I revel in the moment, the rich baritone of his chuckle, the roundabout way we relate to each other.
“Okay, point taken,” he says, that sheepish grin still lingering on his face. “Shall we?”
I nod. This time, I lead us back down the way we came.
It’s slower going on the way down, in part because I’m much shorter than him, but also because it’s somehow trickier going down a hill than it is going up it.
I’m also less experienced than he is on this trail—or any kind of trail—so I have to sort of pick my way down the dirt path.
I try not to think about what Oliver must see or think about as he follows me.
Somewhere around the halfway point, I misjudge a step.
My foot slides on loose rocks as my heart jumps into my throat.
There’s a terrifying, fleeting second where I think, Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, this is where I fall down the hill and die, this is why I don’t hike, but then I’m yanked back before I really tumble.
Right into something hot, pliant, and firm.
Right into Oliver’s embrace.
My face is pressed into his chest, his arms wrapped around me, my own wrapped around him as pebbles cascade around our feet.
My heart remains in my throat, where it beats wildly, trapped between terrified of falling and recognizing that I’m safe.
The scent of him overwhelms me immediately, that clean soap smell mixed with the tang of sweat permeating my very bones.
Neither of us speak. We stay that way for longer than needed. Just holding on to each other.
It’s him who finally breaks when he asks, “You okay?”
The throaty timbre of his voice zings through me. I gulp. “Yeah. Thanks.”
We release each other at the same time, but his hands skate over me, dragging across my waist until there’s a few inches of space between us. I can’t bring myself to look at him. But it turns out that doesn’t matter.
I can feel the ghost of his touch for the rest of the day and well into the night.
LINEAGE—EPISODE SIX, “DON’T HATE THE PLAYER”
INT. HOTEL ROOM—NIGHT
361
WE RETURN to DAHLIA’S hotel room, where she sits on the bed. It’s remarkably clean, like it’s unlived in. The city skyline dazzles in the window. There is an incessant knock at the door.
HARRISON (V.O.)
Dahlia, please. I know you’re in there.
She ignores him but looks distraught. The knocking grows more frantic. Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s a call from HARRY. The knocking grows so loud that she caves. A disheveled HARRISON bursts into the room.
DAHLIA
What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you want someone to call the police or something?
HARRISON
(quiet now but upset)
What did you expect, D? That I’d be calm when my fiancée basically moved out of our apartment and refused to answer my calls?
He moves to touch her, but she flinches. He stops.
DAHLIA
I told you I was done playing their games. Your family is psychotic. If you won’t back me up, then I’m out.