12
Wendy
"I don't want to be that friend," Tate said, and Wendy was already rolling her eyes. "But that hickey is spectacular."
She tugged her scarf up higher and tried not to blush.
Tate's laugh told her she wasn't successful.
When she'd left Ollie's that morning, she'd quickly realized there was no way she could finger-comb her hair and just roll into work pretending she hadn't showered. Not in her first year at Braswell, and not when her students' artist eyes missed nothing. No one asked her prying personal questions for the most part, but if she showed up disheveled, dress wrinkled, with a giant hickey on her neck, someone would ask her about it.
She'd passed Simone on her way into their apartment.
"How was–" Simone had started.
"Tell you later!" Wendy had called back, and tripped over herself in her hurry to her room. She'd showered, tied her wet hair up in a knot, and then blanched when she realized she needed her hair to hide the darkening bruise along the side of her throat.
In front of the mirror, she'd passed her fingertips over the mark, shivering when the sensitivity conjured images of Ollie large and heavy above her, his breath hot against her skin. She'd wound a decorative paisley scarf around her neck and hoped that would suffice.
Obviously, it didn't.
They were in the lounge on the first floor, by the main office, Keurig burbling in the background, winter sunlight pouring through the tall windows and no doubt illuminating her hickey like a beacon.
Wendy picked up her mug and blew the steam off the top, face warm with something that wasn't quite embarrassment. "Things may have...progressed last night," she admitted.
"Ha!" Tate grinned evilly and hopped up to sit on the counter beside her. Today he wore olive skinny cords, blue plaid shirt and mustard-colored vest that was an honest-to-God waistcoat. His tie was navy with little white stars on it, and somehow he pulled it off flawlessly, his sandy hair brushed neatly to the side. "Did you two crazy kids go all the way?"
"Honestly, who talks like that?" Simone asked from the sink. She was working little bits of dried clay from beneath her fingernails.
"Dashing art history professors," he said. "And you shouldn't be putting clay in this sink, by the way."
"Bite me," she returned, sweetly. She shut off the water and turned to face Wendy as she dried her hands. Now there were two sets of eyes glued to her; perfect. "Okay, so, spill."
"Is he an animal in bed?" Tate asked. "I bet so. He has the look–"
"Nothing happened," Wendy said, waving a hand through the air to stop his speculation. Her cheeks were on fire at this point.
"You made out," Simone guessed.
"Yes, and then we went to sleep. He slept on the couch," she rushed to add, and Tate made a disappointed face.
"You, my dear, are a boring source of gossip," he said, sighing. Then he perked up. "But making out means romance. And that means you talked about your undying love for each other...?"
She let her eyes flick down to her coffee, the foam on top of the cappuccino. "Pretty much, yeah." Her heart swelled, warm and full when she thought about Ollie. About his unsent letters and the adoration shining in his wounded eyes. About the sunlight touching his scars that morning, and the way he'd been so careful with her.
"You've got it bad," Tate said, warmth infusing his tone.
"Always have."
A soft knock at the open drew their attention, and Wendy almost dropped her coffee.
It was Ollie.
He was wearing his usual jeans and boots, and a red flannel shirt under his leather jacket. He had an old pair of Ray-Bans nestled in his hair, and he'd shaved carefully: his jaw smooth and bare.
She resisted the urge to launch herself at him. "What – what are you doing here?" she asked, and hoped he could hear the gladness in her voice, because it was there. It was so there.
"I..." He took a little breath in through his nose, chest heaving, hands curling into quick fists. She watched him battle his own anxiety for a brief second. Then he said, "I thought maybe we could have lunch. If you're free." He gave her a small, crooked smile.
She knew what he'd gone through to get here. Anxiety had spiked and he'd had to deep-breathe his way through the entire trip, white-knuckled but determined, fighting the false threats his mind conjured. He'd confessed to having a panic attack the night of her art show, and yet here he was, standing inside her school, which meant he'd had to sign in at the desk and – yep, there was his visitor badge on the front of his shirt – ask where he could find her. Such a simple thing, but a huge step for Ollie.
She was so proud.
"Of course I'm free," she said, and then had to mentally backtrack and confirm that there was a half hour before her next class. "Somewhere close, I can absolutely come." She sent him a smile that she injected with every ounce of reassurance and love she possessed.
He smiled back, still a little crooked, a little bashful.
Tate cleared his throat.
"Oh, right." Wendy walked to Ollie and took his hand in hers, gentle but firm. "Ollie, these are my friends," she said, pulling him a few steps forward, but not crowding him against the strangers. Her friends, she noted with a surge of gratitude, hung back and looked friendly. "Simone, and Tate," she introduced. "Tate and I were at SCAD together, and he introduced me to Simone. We're roommates, too."
"Hi, Ollie," Simone said with a little wave. "Nice to meet you."
Tate's face cracked into a wide, delighted, slightly devious smile. "You're a bit of a legend in The Story of Wendy, you know," he said. "It's good to finally put a face to the name."
Wendy felt herself blush. "Okay, he's exaggerating. He should have majored in drama."
When she glanced over at Ollie, she expected to find him shocked or uncomfortable. And instead, she caught a glimpse of his easy old grin from their high school days. "I dunno about legend," he said. "But good to meet you guys too."
Tate said, "The last time we saw you, you were sort of stalking us."
"Tate," Wendy hissed.
But Ollie's smile turned rueful. "I'm kinda fucked up in the head, yeah."
Wendy squeezed his hand, hard. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah."
Tate mouthed sorry as they turned to leave, but she waved it off. Tate was just Tate, and she knew he hadn't meant what he'd said in a malicious way. She was just glad Ollie had reacted so well, and that he was here at all.
The hall outside the break room was full of the low hush and swish of people moving during class hours, trying to keep quiet. The white brick walls were neatly papered with fliers that lifted in the breeze of the closing front doors. Braswell was a peaceful, grounding place, full of art and conversation. She hoped, as Ollie laced his fingers through hers, that some of its peace was working on him.
They pushed out the doors and started down the stairs to the sidewalk, the cold, bright afternoon raking across them.
Wendy leaned in a little closer to Ollie and said, "Did you bring your bike?"
"No." His hand flexed in hers. "I took the train. I...I thought maybe it would be good to start working normal things like that back into my routine."
She wanted to hug him, right there on the sidewalk, for being brave and trying. But she said, "No one with their own transportation prefers the train," with a light laugh.
"No." His chuckle was low and dry, but there, a little wry. "Guess not."
"There's a coffee shop just down the block that makes a mean grilled cheese," she said, and he nodded.
"Sounds good."
The silence that settled between them on the walk felt easy, companionable. She marveled at the simple pleasure of holding his hand. As close as their friendship had been, it had never included this kind of touch, and she loved it, like a teenager would.
She thought she felt him tense, a little, when they reached the coffee shop, its glass walls fogged with steam and affording a glimpse of a thick crowd inside. But his face set in a resolute expression and he nodded in response to her unasked question. He held the door for her and they walked into a wall of coffee and pastry smells, a bright spill of voices.
It had to be too much for Ollie. If LG's party – familiar place, familiar faces – was too much, then this has to be spiraling him into a full-on attack.
"We can–" she started, but he had his jaw locked, eyes pinned on the register with a determination that could only be described as military.
"No. I'm good."
And she wasn't going to argue.
~*~
They ordered coffee and fancy grilled cheese sandwiches – provolone and prosciutto for Ollie; mozzarella, sundried tomato and basil for Wendy – and managed to snag a tiny table by the window.
Wendy broke off a little bite of her sandwich with her fingers, stalling, and flicked a glance across the table. Ollie had always been one to attack his food, and that didn't seem to have changed. His face had, though, his gaze darting through the window and along the sidewalk, cautious, on-alert. As a kid, Ollie hadn't ever been worried about anything. At least not outwardly.
Hmm. How much had he been hiding before? And then his army experience had sand-papered away the veneer of cheerfulness.
She tried to come up with something benign and lunch-appropriate to ask him, worried about letting the silence sit too long.
But Ollie beat her to it.
"A legend, huh?" His eyes cut over and his mouth curved in a ghost of his childhood smile.
She shook her head and grinned. "I, um, maybe talked about you a little. Maybe a lot."
His grin widened. "There might be some guys from my old unit who know when your birthday is."
Wasn't that enough to make a girl melt?
"Did you make it to work on time?" he asked.
She nodded. "Just barely. And this" – she tugged at her scarf – "is apparently insufficient when it comes to hickey-hiding."
He snorted a quiet laugh and ducked his head. "Yeah. Sorry about that."
"You're not even a little sorry."
He glanced up at her from under his lashes, eyes jewel-toned and mischievous. "Not really."
She cursed her schedule, a little bit, that they only had a half hour. And that she'd had to leave in a hurry this morning. And that...she couldn't just hole up in Queens with Ollie for the foreseeable future.
"Hey," she said, knocking her knee against his under the table. "I'm really glad you came all the way down here."
"Me too."
She knew, in the back of her mind, that it was too easy to have an uneventful lunch. But she was thinking the interruption would come from Ollie; that someone would drop a plate and his brain would read the sound as a gunshot.
She had no idea that she would be the one to ruin the moment. But that's what happened when she glanced out the steamed window and saw a familiar figure pass by on the sidewalk, buzzed head bent against the breeze, large, violent hands shoved in the pockets of his black pea coat.
Her reaction was immediate and consuming. Fear and adrenaline flooded her veins; her sandwich turned to lead in her stomach. Her breath seized and her hand fumbled against her mug, tipped it over; hot coffee sluiced across the tabletop.
His named formed on her tongue, but her jaw wouldn't work: Chase.
Here in New York.
Following her.
After her.
There was only one thing she could do: run.