Olivia Graham was twenty-two when she started a whirlwind romance with charismatic Jakob overseas.
By age twenty-five, Liv was back home and checking off the widowed box on paperwork. With zero plans, Olivia and beloved dog Snuggles find themselves...
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I'm the first to awaken, and Snuggles's ears perk as she hears me rustling.
Rays peek through the large French doors of her bedroom; elongating shadows splashed on the vinyl flooring haphazardly from the morning sunshine.
Livvie is zonked still--hair splayed everywhere, mouth hanging open. My mind wanders, thinking about morning time rituals she shared with him.
Did he kiss her good morning each day like I would love to? Did he bring her coffee with hazelnut creamer? Did he pay attention to how she preferred it, or focused on how to get his morning jumpstarted?
I would love to slide back in and hold her, kissing her neck to wake her up. She shifts in her sleep, pulling me out of my wishful thinking, and I hitch up my dress pants from yesterday, buttoning and zipping as I walk. Snuggles scampers after me, and I let her out in the backyard as noiselessly as I can.
Rubbing away the blurry vision with my fist, I survey the house and decide coffee is the next step. I make my way to the kitchen to see if I can rectify the coffee situation.
Once the brewing begins, I stumble off to the bathroom. After I finish up, I let Snuggles back inside. "Do you need water?" I ask, scratching her ears. Dang it. I just washed my hands.
"Good morning."
Her voice is warm and lilting, and it gives me a hot feeling in my stomach as the dog bounds over to her to bid her a cheery morning.
"Morning, sweetheart," I respond, turning to glance at her. I've seen Liv in the morning one hundred times. In Michigan, in New York, in Puerto Rico, at Christmas, in the hallway, next to her in bed.
But this is dangerous; nobody else is around, and the aching vulnerability between us this time around is intense.
"This is surreal," Liv says, shaking her head as she strides across the kitchen and waves he hand at the coffee pot. "Thank you for making coffee."
I am relishing the scent of coffee brewing and the view of her sashaying around the kitchen in her robe and glasses. "What's surreal?"
"The past few days."
She pours coffee into an enormous, pale pink mug, continuing, "Last week, Jake and I were still two ships in the night. We hardly ever saw one another, let alone spend quality time together."
He was missing out.
She glances at me before stooping to get half and half from her refrigerator, "You being in my kitchen in the morning is surreal; you being in my life."
I smirk as she bends over. "Aw, did you miss me?" I ask, then sip my coffee.
"Of course," she replies, dumping some of the liquid in her cup and stirring a few times, the metal spoon lightly clanging. She leans over the counter, glancing over at me, then down to her coffee cup, "You never even told me goodbye when you went off to college."
I sigh, running my hand through my hair, offering an apology that I know is not good enough.
"How come?" She asks, straightening up. She reverses to the countertop and pulls herself up, her palms resting on the edges. The ground has somehow become fascinating to Liv while she waits on my explanation.
"How come?" I repeat.
She peeks up through her eyelashes at me and scratches her knee softly. "One day, you were everywhere I turned. In my house, my phone, your name always on the tip of my tongue. Then one day, you were gone."
Her eyes brim with bright tears of rejection, and my heart plummets.
"I didn't know that upset you," I reply, turning to face her.
She rolls her eyes, "Oh, come on, Chris."
"Liv."
"It's ridiculous for you to say that, and you know it," she accuses.
I walk toward her, my arms folded across my chest. "I didn't," I repeat.
I'm telling her a bald-faced lie, but I promised to walk away. I couldn't be what she needed. My secrets were secret for a reason
"Then you're a moron," she answers simply, and I unsuccessfully fight off a smirk in response.
"Or trying to remain in denial, I guess."
My hands come to rest on either side of her dangling legs on the counter. She sucks in a tiny breath, moving her gaze to her hands folded in her lap. "About?"
"How I feel about you."
"Chris," she whispers, her hands coming to cup my face.
"Olivia, we — We can't do this."
"Do what?" Her voice is soft, and nobody has talked to me in a tone like this in so long. And it's her. Her hand curls in my hair in the back, fingers gyrating in tiny circles.
She has always known how to rile me up and talk me down. Olivia is the enigma that I carried through life in my back pocket, a memento I stuffed into my wallet for safekeeping but never had the guts to view again.
I close my eyes, resting my head against the hollow of her throat. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, and I hold her around her waist while her fingers find my hair again.
"It's too soon," I mumble.
"Can you stop speaking in riddle and just talk to me?"
I lean back, my hand resting on her delicate face, "You just lost your husband five minutes ago. I can't pursue you," I continue, moving her hair off her neck. "Kiss you, date you, fall in love with you."
Her thumbpad trails on my lips as she cocks her head coyly to the side. "Who said anything about falling in love?"
I snag the hand in front of me and kiss her palm. "It wouldn't take much," I promise, looking into her ocean blue eyes.
"Stop staying things you don't mean then."
"Who said I don't mean them?" I ask thickly, leaning in closer.
She tilts her head, looking down at my lips, then travels up to meet my gaze.
Just do it. Just kiss her.
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