This is not good. Not good at all. This is not supposed to happen. This can't be happening. It's all so wrong!
Jane waves her hands in the air walking over to us, "Whoa! No, no, no! Annabelle, may I please speak to you? Out in the hall?" Dazed, I stand up and walk out of the apartment, her pushing me along and closing the door. She grabs me by the arm and shoves me against the wall. "I thought you said there was nothing going on," she hisses. "That certainly looked like something! I mean, I'm just minding my own business, serving my food, then I turn around to see you two kissing!"
"I didn't know that was coming! I was caught off guard as much as you! And we weren't kissing! Our lips were just touching because we both froze."
She sighs, rubbing her forehead. "I think I have to talk to you about-"
"Jane, please!" I cover my ears. "I don't want to talk about that!" Not the talk. Please, not that one. Anything, but that. Not with her, or my mother, but some warning would have been nice. I'm so confused. "And don't you dare talk to him about this either!"
She folds her arms and sighs again. "Okay, but just do me a favor." I nod, willing to do anything to get out of the discomforting chat. She leans in and drops her voice to a whisper, "Tell me. Do you… like the boy?"
I open my mouth and shut it, then open it again, "I'm-I'm not actually sure. I think so?" I groan, "I'm confused. This can just complicate everything. So much can go wrong!" I cover my face. "Jane, how did you know you liked Arthur?"
"Oh, I never liked him. I always loved him. From the first time I saw him." I uncover my face to see her wearing a sad smile. "But I knew because I used to get this feeling when I was around him. Not like I was sick, but it was my nerves going haywire. When he touched me, ugh, I felt that and more. When I wasn't around him, I used to be the clumsiest person on this planet." She laughs at herself. "But when I was with him, everything worked out. I was so much… smoother, you know? I felt… complete. More stable."
I don't know if I feel complete around Oliver. That is not the case here, but that deep feeling has to mean something. My nerves going haywire, perhaps? But I've never felt any different when he touches me. We've held hands, he's put his arm around me and more, but I never felt anything but spite since we weren't too happy about our proximity this week.
"In a way, I married my own father. That's what my mother used to always tell me. You marry someone just like your father. Every girl does, intentionally or not. I didn't understand her at the time, but after a while I saw it. My father was sweet and kind and caring and every bit as good a man as Arthur was." She shrugs. "So I guess she was right."
A lump forms in my throat. My father? I am going to marry my father?! That's horrible! He was dreadful and- I don't want to marry him! "Do-do you think that's going to happen to me?" At least say maybe not or who knows.
"Probably."
"How do you know? Just because you and Arthur-"
Jane cuts me off, "Oh, it's not just me. It’s everyone I’ve met. It’s not like they’re consciously doing it, it’s not a choice. It just happens." She gives me a warm smile. "Do you think Oliver is similar to your father?"
I think hard. They do have some similarities, but there are some major differences as well. But even if he was the total opposite of my father, I can safely bet my mother never thought he'd turn out like he did.
"I don't know, but I don't know if it even matters. You know what our reality is. He hired me. I'm his employee. Neither of us should cross the line that separates us." But I want to, I think. But I also know that if by some miracle he did feel something also, he would be over it shortly, leaving my out in the cold. Oliver goes through girls like he goes through shirts. I almost want to cry right now. How is this fair at all?!
Someone in the room across the hall comes out of their room and stares at us as they walk away. Now is a good time to go back inside. Everyone else is still sitting in the place they were before we left the room and all eyes fell on me as I enter.
I have to act like nothing happened. Reacting any further to what had happened can only make this awkward. Or even more so. Act like we were doing it for show, like this past week, only this past week we never did this. It's not like we established a rule against it, we just didn't do it for some unknown, unspoken reason.
"C'mon kids. Let's get going," says Jane.
"You're going to look for work on a Sunday?"
"No, we're going to church. You're more than welcome to come."
"Since when do you go to church?"
"Since I've needed something to turn to. We met a really nice minister and he invited us to come to the service this morning. So are you two coming?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm not much of a church going person."
"Do you have an aversion to all formal institutions?" snorts Oliver.
"Not all of them," I retort. I turn to Jane, "Well, I guess we'll go then. Have fun… in church." Molly hops out of Oliver's lap and hugs me. "I promise we'll visit more often." The words escape before I could think about it. I told myself I wouldn't bring him anymore, but I just promised we would visit. I want to kick myself.
"You better! And make sure you bring him, too." She jabs her thumb in his direction. I'm going to make this little girl cry next time I come over. That's two kicks for myself.
"I'll be back, Molly, don't worry," assures Oliver, walking over to us. You're not helping! She switched from me to him. This is not going to end pretty. I can already see it. Because not only does she seem extremely attached to him, but he's also attached to her. I rub my temples with my fingers. I hate what I have to do.
Suddenly, I'm being pulled in by the waist. Molly is hugging us both. "I love you, Annie. I love you, Ollie."
"We love you, too," we say in unison.
She steps away and Jane hugs me then Oliver. We say our goodbyes to the boys from the bed, a simple wave, and we turn to leave. Just as he's getting to the door, Oliver turns around and grabs my hand. My face flushes, but thankfully he was already out the door, turned away. I catch a glimpse of Jane, who gives me a wink.
Why grab my hand now? We're already out the door. But my question is answered by the sound of the Russells filing out of their apartment to leave for church. This… disappoints me. I wish he were holding my hand because he wants to. Not because he's trying to pretend for Molly who thinks we’re in love. But I have to say, he was pretty convincing.
We walk down both flights of stairs and make it outside. The Russells go in the opposite direction, but he keeps his hand around mine, and I'm okay with that. I know this will only hurt myself more in the future, but can't I enjoy this a little?
"That was never supposed to happen," Oliver suddenly blurts out. "I'd never do that. Molly was whispering for me to kiss you on the cheek, because you looked so depressed, and I didn't think that was that bad because we've done that before, in front of them, and in public, so I agreed, but then you turned and my head didn't react on time and we kissed and I feel like I violated you or something." He's talking with his hands, moving them up and down and around, my hand still in his. "Can we just forget that ever happened? I completely understand if you hate me right now, but can that just never be brought up?"
Act like it never happened, huh? That is what I want, but it isn't at the same time. "You don't have to apologize. It was a strange accident. We both froze, both caught off guard, so it's no one's fault. And you did not violate me." I get a shiver when I think of times where I have felt violated. "I swear. I do not hate you."
"You better not be pulling my leg, Annabelle."
"I’m not, Hastings."
He narrows his aze on me, but looks away. "Alright. I believe you."
"Good." An idea comes to mind, "Hey, um, is the Ritz open on Sundays?"
"Yes, I believe so, why?"
I want to speak with Camille. She did offer to help me and I most certainly need help. "I just want to go out tonight. We don't have to go if you don't want to." But I really, really want to.
"Sure, we can go. I've never been on a Sunday."
*
The rest of the day is spent in my room. When I'm not contemplating this strange and new situation about with, I'm sketching him. But it's taking me a while because every few minutes, he peeked into my room and I'd have to cover my work. Eventually I snap at him to pick a spot, so he takes this as an invitation to stay in my room. He climbs onto my bed, well aware that is ticking me off, and just lays there. So much for sketching.
I find all of my painting gear and start on a blossoming tree out the window, but now I feel twice as self-conscience as last time he watched me paint because this time I'm aware of his presence. What if I mess it up, he's going to think lowly of me, and I don't want that. But I push past this unease and start. He leaves to fetch some lunch and I throw myself onto the bed and groan into a pillow. By the time I can hear his footsteps returning, I'm back to the canvas.
I'm nearly done with my work when I feel the urge to sneeze. I turn away from the painting and let out a hard, loud sneeze. It's such a powerful motion, my hands are thrust up, and my hand holding the palette goes right into the canvas. Oliver cracks up and I want to throttle him. I grab the trash and look it over. It's pretty bad anyway. The strokes are clumsier and more hesitant. Not my best. But what a waste. I would've trashed it anyway.
Just before dusk, we dress into some nicer clothes. I change into that short red frock from last week, only with tights this time, and the same accessories, hair tied up. I'm done first and go to sit in the living room. All of the beautiful furniture still hasn't been replaced, but priority items have been. I sit on the arm of sofa, legs crossed, swinging one foot, and waiting for him to come out. I look around this empty feeling room, recalling any items I could.
"Hey, Annabelle," says Oliver. Startled, I fall backwards into the chair, keeping my legs crossed thankfully. He looks at me confused and I want to die of embarrassment. Chuckling, he holds out his hand to help me back up and the same nerves go crazy when I take it. "I completely forgot what I was going to say." He scratches his head, but shrugs. "Oh well. I guess it's not important." And he holds out his arm, which I gladly take, and we make our way to the Ritz.
As routine, we get there, he says the password of sorts and we enter, but the atmosphere tonight is unlike any I've seen here. The lights are dim, the music is smooth and the loud chatter I'm used to is more like a soft buzz. It should be depressing, but I really like the relaxed feel of it all.
"Hastings! Annabelle!" calls Camille from the bar, of course breaking the soft buzz of the room. We go over to her and she greets us with a quick hug. "So, Hastings, since when do you come on Sundays?" He looks at me. "Annabelle? You wanted to come?"
"Yes, I just felt like doing something tonight." And I need to talk to you. "What's with this place? Usually the place is swinging."
"Sundays are blues nights. A night to relax from a loud and noisy week. Follow me to my table up front." She takes me by the arm and tugs me through the place to a pair of empty chairs in the center front. Oliver pulls out my chair, like he always has, and I sit down and smile politely up at him and he takes a seat next to me. Camille sits on my other side, but pops back up. "I forgot to get my drinks. Join me," she grabs my hand and pulls me back through the maze of tables.
"Hey, um, Camille." She leans against the bar, waiting on me to say something, but I chicken out. "Go ahead and order first. It can wait." She raises an eyebrow and turns to the bartender.
"Annabelle, you want the usual, right?" I nod, and she finishes her order then turns back around. "So, what's up, Doll?"
I look at the ground, unsure how to start. "You said-"
"Camille, your drinks," says the bartender.
She hands over mine and I begin to turn away, but she pulls me back. "No, no, no. What did you want to say? You said that I said…" and she twirls her hand in circle, telling me to continue. I open my mouth, but she holds up her hand and looks around me, "Sorry, did you want something too? I forgot to ask you and Peter."
I turn to see who she's speaking to and it's Oliver, walking over to join us at the bar. I don't know why, but somehow, someway, I lose a grip of my glass and it goes falling to the ground. When it hits and shatters, I gasp, and cover my mouth, and feel another blush coming on. Oliver and Camille look at me like I'm crazy.
Oh dear God, this is going to be a long night.
And it is.
All night long, I am clumsy beyond all reason. I spill things, trip over stuff, knock over more cups, and ultimately humiliate myself a hundred times over. I'm basically blushing the entire time I'm here. Every time he touches me, even if it's his leg brushing me casually, I turn away so no one sees my face. Camille keeps asking what is wrong with me, and I lie. But then at some point, Oliver slides his hands over mine. He's done it before, never had a reaction to it other than disgust, but tonight, my nerves send a jolt down my spine and through my arm, in which I jerk it away. Everyone at the table stares at me and I want to run away. And I’d have but I'd probably trip.
"Annabelle?" he asks, looking confused, and even a little worried.
"Sorry," I say, smiling wryly. I gingerly place my hand over his, and I feel the same jolt, but I keep my hand there. When everyone looks away, I drag my hand over my face. I am a pathetic. Past pathetic.
"Hey, I'm hungry. Can you help me get some food?" This is Camille's way of telling me to go with her. "Anybody else want anything?" Peter tells her what he wants, and Oliver hands me some money to buy our usual. "Alrighty. Let's go." We walk to the bar and I lean forward on the wood to call for the bartender, but she pulls me back. "What the Hell is wrong with you tonight? And don't say nothing. That is a load of baloney. You've been acting strange all night. So just tell me what's going on."
"Nothing's going on."
"You're dropping everything and tripping left and right, and hardly speaking. You're typically pretty smooth, and love joining any conversation, but I don't know what's up with you. Is it because Oliver is next to you? Is there something going on because I'm quite fed up of that fight or whatever it is. I actually thought it blew over because you weren't being cold. You're the opposite of that. You’re literally being goofy."
I roll my eyes. Now is as good a time as any other. I take a deep breath, "Do you remember that you said I could ask you about anything? Well, can I take you up on that offer?" I look over her shoulder at that anything, and he's looking at me and smiles slightly. I smile back and blush, again, then look away shyly.
She turns to look at what I looked at, but when she faces me again, her jaw has dropped. But then she gives me a smirk. "You're kidding me, right?"
"What?"
Her eyes grow wide, "Unless you…" She winks at me and playfully elbows my arm. "That must have been some amazing make up sex last night, huh?"
"N-no! We don't do that!"
"Then why do you have that look in your eye? And every time you trip up, he had said something to you, or touched you." She gasps dramatically. "Annabelle, my friend, you are in love with Hastings, aren't you?"
"I am not!"
"It’s always either love or sex."
"In this case, it’s neither!" But I can't even convince myself. Drooping my arms and head, I mumble, "Camille, this can't be happening. We haven't known each for all that long. And you saw us last week. How does that turn into this? How is that possible? I'm too naive to fall in love. My life is too complicated for that right now."
"Well that's when Cupid usually hits you with it. When you least expect it. And it's obvious that you've got it, hard." I want to ask if he look the same, but decide I'd rather not know the answer. It's not like he's the one making a fool of himself.
Camille and I order our food and take our plates back to the table. Peter had moved over one seat and took Camille's, and she steals mine, so I'm forced to sit with Oliver. We share the seat, eating our food until there's only one piece left. We both reach for it, our hands touch and we both laugh shyly. I offer it to him, but he says I can have it, but I claim I'm full. After going back and forth with this, we both refuse to eat it. Camille kicks me softly under the table and smirks.
By eleven, we leave. I can't stop yawning. I don't care about what anyone thinks or my nerves. I hook my arm around his, lay my head against him and close my eyes. Some distance later, he clears his throat, and asks, "Hey, Annabelle?"
"Hmm?" I snuggle further into his arm.
"I was wondering what the Hell was happening back there tonight?"
"What do you mean?"
"I would say you’re drunk, but you were doing it before you even had a drink."
I stammer some, and my foot gets caught on a crack in the sidewalk. "See? That's what I'm talking about. You were all over the place tonight."
"That last one was because my eyes were closed and I didn't see the crack." But I close my eyes again anyway. "Oh!" Oliver tilts me back and picks me up. "Is this really necessary, Hastings?" I ask flatly.
"Yes. You claim you tripped because your eyes were closed and then you do it again. Stubborn." He continues to walk. "What about all those other times?"
"I don't know. I was just having an off night." That's an outright lie. "It'll never happen again." Another lie.
"If you say so." He believed that? Maybe it's the gin.
We get home, go to our rooms, we shower and head out outside with pillows and blankets in hand. We lay our stuff in the same spots as last time, a few feet away, and I am so tempted to move in a couple feet, but I resist temptation. Control yourself, Annabelle. He doesn't like you that way. I'll be lucky if he even wants to stay friends.
I lay down first, fluff my pillow and lay my head down facing him, pulling the blanket over my shoulders.
"Goodnight, Annabelle." He lies down, facing me.
We just stare at each other for a minute. I’m getting caught up in his eyes. A wry smile curls on his mouth, and his raises his eyebrows expectantly.
I shake my head, feeling embarrassed. "Oh right, sorry. Goodnight Oliver."
And wiggle around so I'm facing away. Now I can't sleep because I feel like he's staring at me. I wiggle back around when I feel the stare disappear. He's fast asleep, close to snoring, looking peaceful again.
In the smallest, most quiet voice, I barely whisper, "Good night. Sweet dreams. Love you, Oliver."