Twenty-Six
Oliver
I do not want to go to this party.
Could I have told Elle that? Sure, I suppose I could have, but then I would have to provide a reason why I didn’t want to go. And at the moment, I don’t have an intelligible one.
Every time I’ve stood at Elle’s door for the past week, I’ve knocked with the intention of talking to her.
Telling her that I’m overwhelmed and I can’t take on so much right now.
I have sentence starters prepared in my head.
But then she opens the door, and the memory of her beneath me comes rushing back, and I can barely remember my own name, let alone the conversation topics I had prepared.
I then proceed to spend the next several minutes kissing the hell out of her instead of having the hard discussion I intended to. Not the most mature move on my part.
I couldn’t exactly have the conversation now, before we’re about to leave for Lucy’s book party something or other, so I’m at a bit of a stalemate.
“Careful, you’re drooling,” I say confidently as Elle admires me in my outfit.
I wasn’t sure what one wears to a book party, so I opted for black dress slacks and a steel-colored shirt.
I’m standing in her doorway, trying to suppress my stunned reaction at her appearance.
She’s wearing a satin dress that hugs every inch of her, with long puffy sleeves and a slit up her leg.
Her hair is big and curly, with a clip on one side so it is not falling in her face.
She’s glowing. Or at least, she looks like it to me.
Her gaze runs up and down my body like she could devour me. The feeling is mutual. When her eyes meet mine, she bites her lip and I nearly jump her. She knows it drives me crazy when she does that. I raise my brows at her.
“How much time do we have before we have to leave?” I ask, taking a step into the apartment and wrapping a hand around her hip and squeezing, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Not enough to do what you’re thinking of right now,” she says with a small smirk.
I purse my lips. I kick the door closed behind me and press her up against it. “Enough for you to put new lipstick on?”
“What—?” I stop her words with my mouth. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the excitement of kissing Elle. It’s intoxicating. She’s intoxicating. Especially when she moans at something I do—like when I push her against the door and put my knee in between her legs.
She runs her hands up my torso and around the back of my head, her grip tight. She pushes her tongue in my mouth and I grip her hips harder, desperate for more. I start to pull the bottom of her dress up, and she stops me, pushing me away.
“No seriously, we have to go,” she says, breathless. If I thought she was irresistible before, she’s even more so now—her lips swollen, her hair slightly messy, her dress creased.
What did I need to talk to her about again?
“What I’m imagining won’t take more than five minutes, tops,” I reply, trying to take another step towards her.
She rolls her eyes and lets me pull her towards me. Damn, I love when she does that. “Yeah, right,” she says, playfully pushing me away.
Elle moves herself to the tall mirror on her wall to reapply her deep red lipstick.
I step behind her, pressing myself against the length of her body so she can feel how much I want her.
I move her hair to the side and press kisses against her shoulder and up the back of her neck—where I’m quickly learning is one of her favorite spots.
Elle lets out a soft “hmmm,” but turns around and sidesteps me. “Stop playing dirty, Cole.” She puts her coat on and places a small bag on her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
*
I don’t know much about what Elle does, other than she works with romance books. But the soirée that her company put together for Lucy is quite impressive. It’s at a restaurant on the edge of the park, with a beautiful view of the lit-up skyline.
I try not to leave Elle’s side as much as possible, but she does quite a bit of running around, trying to get Lucy everything she needs.
We’re in a private room in the restaurant, and the crowd isn’t large—mostly friends and family, with some publishing people Elle introduces me to, whose names I forget immediately.
When Elle isn’t with me, I stay on the periphery of the party, anxiety taking over as the number of people in the room increases.
I keep the exit in my eyesight the entire time, and cringe anytime someone coughs.
My OCD loves to shine when I’m anxious about big things in my life. And this is one of those moments.
Elle usually finds me and brings me back into the fold, which is how I find myself standing at a high-top table with a drink in hand, wishing I could rip my tie off my neck because of the chokehold it has on me.
I recognize Elle’s boss from the night in the ER as she approaches us.
Her hair is big, curly, and frizzy and her clear glasses take up most of her face.
Her lipstick is red and all over her teeth.
All of this seems pretty on brand for her, given the stories Elle’s told me about her and her attitude when I first met her.
“Ah, so you’re the boyfriend then, right? The doctor?” she says, reaching a hand out to shake mine. I drop my hand from Elle’s waist as if I’ve been burned, and I feel a tightness in my throat.
“Anne, this is my friend, Oliver,” Elle says, putting a hand on my chest, clearly unfazed by my panic.
I straighten out my body to evade her grasp, instead holding my hand out for Anne to shake and immediately regretting it.
Where was her hand before I shook it? I wonder if Elle has hand sanitizer in her purse.
“Yes, the hero who saved my life in the hospital,” she says with a gummy smile. This lady is a bit of a quack, if I’m being honest.
“You weren’t dying, Anne,” Lucy says, joining the conversation and standing next to Elle.
Lucy may be one of the coolest people I’ve ever met.
She’s dressed in a simple red dress with a bow on her waist, her hair tied back in a slick bun.
I can see her cheeks flush from her drink, and she’s definitely the most smiley I’ve ever seen her. I can tell why Elle loves her so much.
Everyone around me laughs. I try to let out a small chuckle to appear like I’m in the conversation, but it comes out as an awkward cough. Elle looks at me, her brows furrowed.
“Are you okay?” Elle asks when we have a moment in between conversations for just the two of us. “You’re acting a little off.” She squeezes my arm in a show of support and affection, and I cringe. The flash of confusion on her face makes something twist in my gut.
Elle doesn’t deserve this. She deserves someone who doesn’t question being her boyfriend. Who wants to stand beside her with the feeling of being hers. Not some chump whose mind is always elsewhere.
I hate that I can’t tell if these are intrusive thoughts or just how I feel. That’s what OCD does to you. It makes you doubt who you are and what you think.
“I think I need some air,” I say, unwrapping myself from her and nodding to the other women around us.
I practically jog out of the restaurant, taking in a huge gulp of air when I finally make it outside.
The few people passing by on the street give me a wayward glance.
I lean my hands on my knees in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to steady my breathing.
Don’t panic right now. Please don’t panic right now.
Elle comes rushing out of the restaurant towards me. “Oliver? What’s wrong?” She puts her hands on my back but I immediately move to avoid her.
The hurt is plain on her face, her lips parted as if she wants to say something, but she can’t form the words. I think about a few hours ago, when I kissed the color off those lips, as if kissing them could breathe the life back into me that I’ve been missing for what seems like forever.
And now her eyes are dark, not warm and bright the way they usually are. The way I like them. They are shaded by furrowed brows, brows that make me question every step I’ve taken in the past week.
“Elle,” I say, my voice weak.
“What’s going on right now?” she demands, taking a stumbling step back in her heels.
I straighten up, running my hands down my face in frustration. Fuck, my hands are dirty. I wipe them against the side of my shirt, as if that will help me now. I scrunch my eyes closed, trying to physically push out the annoying thoughts.
Calm down. Please calm down.
“Oliver?”
Inhale. Exhale.
“I just need some space right now,” I finally say, my voice tired.
“Space?” she says weakly. “From the party? Or from me?” I force myself to meet her eyes, and I know she knows which one I mean. “Oh.” She takes another step backwards.
“Elle, I’m so sorry.”
“For what, Oliver?” she asks, a coldness in her tone that I’ve never heard before.
“For… for—” I stutter.
“You don’t even know!” she exclaims. “You’re blowing things up, and you don’t even know why.”
“Elle, I just can’t handle all of this right now. I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, Oliver. It’s just me. Look at me.
” She steps towards me, putting her hands on my cheeks.
There are tears welling in the corners of her eyes, and something else inside me breaks, because I’m the one making Elle cry right now.
And I can’t even give her a good reason as to why.
“Take a deep breath, Oliver. You’re okay,” she says, trying to calm my panic.
And I’m the asshole who’s pushing her away.
“I can’t do this, Elle. There’s just too much going on, with my job and—”
I can see her brain working behind her eyes.
The look she’s giving me is the same one she gave me when she handed me an ice cube in my apartment and held my hands to my chest during yoga.
She’s trying to figure out how to make things better, like she always does.
It’s her default mode. But I can’t be her project anymore. I just can’t.
“Is this because Anne called you my boyfriend? Because if that’s what you’re freaking out about right now—” She trails off, and I don’t respond. I take a step away from her and her hands fall from my face and hang by her sides. She shakes her head, disbelief written all over her face.
“God, I don’t even know what I’m doing,” she says, turning away from me to face the street.
She runs her hand through her hair, frustrated.
“You told me who you were right from the start, and for a minute, I guess I forgot.” She presses her lips in a firm line, and I can tell she’s trying to stop herself from crying. “My mistake.”
“Elle, you don’t want a relationship with me. You need someone who can be there and look after you, you deserve nothing less, but right now I’m a mess. I—”
“Yes, you warned me. And I fell for you anyway, like the idiot I am.” I can tell she doesn’t want to be angry with me.
Maybe she’s angry at herself that she wasn’t able to fix me.
That all her grounding techniques and new experiences weren’t enough to get the wires straight in my head.
I think she wishes she could go into problem-solving mode right now, because that is the way she thinks.
But it’s more than that now, and I think she’s starting to realize that.
“Would you believe me if I said I was scared—”
“No,” she says harshly, a tear rolling down her cheek. Her voice pierces through me, worse than any needle or knife I could ever imagine. I don’t know how to come back from this.
“I’m not—I’m not normal, Elle,” I say, hating the words I’ve chosen right away. “I mean normal is overrated and all, but the shit that goes on in my head… Everyone sees what it does to me and walks the other way. They make faces or comments and they can’t handle it. I didn’t want—”
“You know I never cared,” she whispers, her voice cracking.
“I never cared that the television remote had to be in the left corner of the nightstand before you went to sleep, or that Thor’s leash had to be hung on the third hook by the door.
” She takes a step closer to me, her arms falling to her sides.
“I never cared that you didn’t take the subway or that you washed your hands twice before sitting down to eat.
I knew you battled things in your head that you didn’t tell me about.
I hoped one day you would, because I understood you. You knew that.”
Her words knock the breath out of me, and it takes all that I have not to fall to the ground in front of her. She saw everything. She saw everything and she never said anything. Never did anything.
“Elle, it’s just… I wanted to do this right, and I can’t right now. There’s too much out of my control and—”
“Please don’t say anything else, Oliver. I don’t know who you’re trying to convince, but you’re just making stupid excuses.” She shakes her head and wipes a tear from her cheek. “Why don’t you just go home, Oliver? Please.”
“Elle—”
“This is the biggest night of my best friend’s life and I will not let this steal her thunder. Go home.” Her voice is barely raised, but the anger in her voice is palpable. She turns on her heels and walks back into the building, and my hands fall to my knees again, defeated.