Dark Wild Night
: Chapter 16

IT’S BEEN SO long since I’ve slept in my childhood bed that it takes me a full five seconds to figure out where I am when I wake up.

It’s the glass knob on my closet door that clues me in. Every single door in this house has these giant, crystal knobs. Mom bought them on a whim during one of Dad’s deployments, and spent an entire weekend furiously swapping out the generic brass ones for these. They’re heavy, and seem to glow like an eye at the perimeter of each door. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about this old Craftsman house: everything feels so sturdy, even when the human contents seem to fall apart with the slightest breeze.

A small knock sounds on my door. “Lorelei?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

He pauses and then the knob turns and he pokes his head in. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.”

“I came to check on you but you were already sawing some pretty serious logs. I’m not surprised you didn’t hear me.”

He laughs stepping into the room and I see he’s holding two mugs of coffee in one hand. “I don’t remember the last time you slept here.”

“Me, either.” I sit up and pull my hair back from my face. A glance at the clock tells me it’s only six. Dad has always been an early riser from his days in the Marines; he considers this letting me sleep in.

“You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

Taking the coffee from him, I say, “I wanted to. It’s been a while since you liked someone as much as you liked Ellen. I want to see you happy.”

Dad looks at me skeptically. “You hated her.”

“Okay, maybe I didn’t like her, but maybe I also wanted to be here for you, jerkface.”

“I’m okay.” He grins. “Maybe you needed a change of scenery.”

I inhale the steam, and let it help wake up my brain. “Maybe.”

Dad sits on the corner of my bed near my feet and sips from his mug, staring at the wall. I can sense the looming start of a conversation, the moment when he talks about Ellen, or asks me more about what’s going on with work, with me. I feel restless in my skin, like I’m not sure I want to be here, but I don’t really want to go home, either.

To be honest, it’s how I feel about every single thing in my life right now: I want this career I’ve created but I want it to be smaller, simpler, more manageable. I want Oliver, but I don’t want to need him so much. I want to be able to breathe without feeling like my chest is bound with rope but everything is dialed up to eleven right now. And most of all, I want to know how to fix what I’ve done. The prospect feels overwhelming.

Dad’s eyes flicker to my duffel, obviously hastily packed and sitting open in the corner. “You know, we talk, but we don’t talk,” Dad starts. His voice is weak, sort of reedy, and this is always what happens when we get emotional. Neither of us knows how to do it. It’s like putting a kid on a bike for the first time. They’ll stare at the pedals and then look up like, What am I supposed to do?

That’s us, talking about feelings.

“We talk almost every day,” I remind him.

“I know everything you do, but not much of what you feel.”

I groan into my coffee. “I thought we were here to talk about you and Ellen.”

He ignores this. “You’ve been on a work bender,” he guesses, turning to look at me. “I’m serious. I want to talk to you. You’re a mess.”

My dad knows every one of my best and worst choices. He knows every part of my story and so I always assumed he knew what I felt, too, simply because he knows me. But he’s right: we don’t dive deep into our feelings. We never have. We crack jokes and use sarcasm to make each other laugh, but we don’t label emotions. I’m not sure if it makes me feel better or worse that I do the same thing with Oliver.

“Come out in the kitchen and let’s have breakfast. Let’s talk.”

I look around the room to see where I’d strewn my things as I crashed into bed last night. “Actually, if you’re sure you’re fine, I should head home. I have a mountain of work.” I close my eyes, swallowing down the bubble of panic already working its way up my windpipe.

“No,” Dad says, and he has a sharp, level tone that I’m not sure I’ve heard since I was a little kid getting into trouble. It makes my brain itch, makes me long for open air and more physical distance.

I put my mug down on my bedside table and get out of bed.

“Kitchen,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

“YOU LOOK LIKE hell, kid.”

“You said that already.” I walk past him to start another pot of coffee. “I just have a lot going on with work. Tell me what happened with Ellen.”

He settles on a barstool and spins in small arcs as he speaks. “Apparently she started seeing some guy she works with.”

“Are you using the term seeing loosely?” I ask, leaning back against the counter, facing him.

“Out of respect for my daughter’s delicate sensibilities, yes. More accurately, she was fucking some guy at the bar.”

I wince. “Did she tell you?”

He laughs, drawing out the single word with a twist in his voice: “Nope. I saw her with him when I went to surprise her after her shift. She was leaning across the bar with her tongue halfway down his throat. They looked pretty familiar.”

“Want me to punch her?”

Laughing again, he shakes his head. “I want you to make me your special eggs and tell me something good.”

I turn toward the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and a stick of butter. “I’ve got nothing.”

“Nothing?” he laughs. “How’s Oliver?”

I shrug, grateful that I’ve got my back to him as I grab the bread. “We’re doing about the same as you and Ellen.”

“Oliver cheated?” he croaks.

“No,” I hurry to say, immediately defensive. “Nothing like that, it’s . . . it’s just a long story.”

“You may have noticed I’m currently minus one girlfriend. I’ve got time.” He watches me pull two slices of bread out of the bag and rip little circles out of the middle for Eggs in a Basket, his favorite breakfast. He always watches me make this with a look of wonder on his face like there’s some voodoo involved. It’s adorable; the secret is bread and eggs cooked together in a pan. Sometimes I’m amazed he’s survived living here alone.

“What’s going on?” he presses. “You were here with him the other night and the two of you could barely keep your hands off each other. Now you’re here, sleeping in your old bed for the first time in ages. Talk to me.”

I set the eggs and bread on the counter and pull out a frying pan.

“I don’t want to talk about Oliver,” I tell him, and am blindsided by the sting of tears rising up out of nowhere. I know Dad sees me brush them away, so I mumble, “Sorry, I’m just wiped. I’m messing everything up. The movie, the new series. Oliver. All of it.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, especially not with Oliver.”

I laugh, lighting the burner. “Doesn’t sound like me? Do you remember the first time Oliver came over? You looked at him like he was an endangered species.”

“It was new,” he says in his defense. “You’d never brought a guy home before.”

“I panicked about work and told him I wanted some space. So, he went out with someone else,” I say, and brush at my eyes. “He’s mad and I guess he thought that would help.” I place a pat of butter in the pan and watch it melt. “I regret saying what I did, and now I’m not sure how to fix it.”

“But you just . . .” He pauses and shakes his head. “I’ll admit, Lola, I may be more upset about this than about Ellen.”

And now, relief. There had been a tiny piece of my brain that was stuck on the image of Dad after Mom left, and worrying he would go to that terrible place again if Ellen ever left him. Thank God he won’t.

“Now, back up,” he says. “What happened with work?”

“I missed a deadline. Not to mention three interviews I slept through.”

Dad’s eyebrows rise to the ceiling.

“I’ve never missed a deadline in my life and now I’m so distracted I’m turning books in late and unable to focus. . . .” I drag the bread through the melted butter, flipping to coat both sides.

“But—and don’t get upset with me here,” he says, holding up his hands, “I’m just trying to understand—what does that have to do with Oliver?”

My stomach twists with the discomfort of talking this out with my dad, but I’m already sort of all-in here. “Lately I sit down to work and replace myself drifting off, wondering what he’s doing, or thinking about something he’s said. I’ve been so preoccupied I thought I had another week to finish Junebug.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t.”

“It’s three weeks late now. I think I blamed it on what was happening with Oliver, instead of . . . I don’t know . . .”

He takes a few moments to let me finish before he says gently, “Instead of you just being completely, and understandably overwhelmed?” in a way that suggests the root to my freak-out is really obvious to him. “Lola, baby, your life had been turned upside down—even before all of this stuff with Oliver.”

I crack two eggs into the pan, adjusting the flame so they don’t pop and sizzle. His easy understanding makes my eyes grow shimmery again with tears. “I know.”

“You’ve been on more planes in the past few months than that United pilot who lives down the street.”

“I know.”

“Do you remember when you first started drawing?” he asks.

I think about it for a beat, wiping my eyes, and then say, “No.”

“See, that’s because you always have. Little doodles here and there, those coloring contests we’d get at the grocery store. But when your mom left, it changed. Instead of being something you did for fun, it was all you did. A compulsion. I wasn’t sleeping much and I’d walk by your room in the middle of the night to replace you hunched over your desk, working. It was your safe place. I wasn’t always the most communicative person back then, and you put all those thoughts and things you felt or wanted to say down on the paper.”

I don’t say anything, watching the eggs cook as I wait for him to continue. The yolks are this brilliant, sunshine yellow. The whites so starkly bright and slowly settling into the bread. I can practically see the heat in the pan, the way the air weaves and warps over the surface.

“You needed Razor Fish. You needed that world you controlled, where you didn’t have to say anything or risk messing it up because the characters were yours. They said the things you couldn’t. They didn’t care if you got something wrong. Razor wouldn’t ever leave. He’s your family.” He pauses. “I’m sure it’s scary to want someone the way you want Oliver.”

I give him a blank look. “Dad.”

He returns my stare, but his is softer, more knowing. Wiser. “I’m sure it’s scary how overwhelming it all is. I’m sure it’s scary to feel like you have to split your attention between two things you love. You don’t want to lose either of them. You don’t want to leave either of them. And you’ve known Razor longer.”

I look back to the pan, flipping the bread and egg over neatly.

“You did something dumb, and instead of Oliver being the strong, steady rock you’re used to, he did what you suggested and gave you a break. He went out on a date to prove a point.”

I can feel him lean closer, elbows on the counter. “Do I have the situation figured out?”

I poke at the food with the tip of the spatula, ignoring what I’m sure will be a smug smile on his face and hating the way this conversation brushes over the raw little edges left from my fight with Oliver at the bar. “Yeah.”

He stands, walking to the cabinet to grab a plate. “But at least he did it when you told him to, so you weren’t surprised.”

I cough out an incredulous laugh. “Are you implying that I intentionally sabotaged this thing with Oliver?”

Dad shakes his head. “I’m just saying you’re complicated. You’ve got relationship baggage and no matter how much you think you’ve got it all together, you don’t. I always worried you’d have abandonment issues—and you do.” I look up at him, mouth agape while I mentally compile a tirade for the centuries, but he continues: “Thing is, it occurs to me you’re not afraid of being abandoned, Lola, you’re afraid you’re going to abandon the things you love.”

Something rattles loose inside me. “Dad—”

“So you’re preemptively abandoning them. Or, if I know you as well as I think I do, you don’t let things get too deep in the first place.”

I work to swallow past the heavy swell in my throat, easing the spatula under his breakfast and sliding the food on the plate he’s holding in front of me.

A quick glance up, and my eyes snag with his.

“You aren’t your mother, baby,” he whispers.

My throat grows tight. “I know.”

“No,” he says, holding the plate with one hand so he can reach forward, cup my cheek. He forces me to meet his eyes again. “Listen to me. You aren’t your mother.”

I nod—quickly, wordlessly—blinking back tears.

“Figure out how to balance Oliver with a career you’ve wanted your whole life,” he tells me. “Because you’ll end up with neither if you think you have to choose.”

I STEP OUT of the elevator and see London at the other end of the hall. She’s in shorts and a tank top, and I can make out the ties of her bikini where they’re knotted behind her neck.

With the door locked she straightens, and sees me over her shoulder. “Hey, stranger. I tried to call but you didn’t answer.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I was at Greg’s.”

She nods and drops her keys into her small bag. “I figured. Your toothbrush was missing and you weren’t with Oliver.”

I nod, hitching my bag up my shoulder. “Ellen broke up with him so I went over to see how he was doing.”

She makes a face that perfectly captures my own ambivalence; she knows I wasn’t a fan. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay.” I chew my lip, trying to make sure I don’t sound crazy or jealous or . . . anything when I ask, “How did you know I wasn’t with Oliver?”

London’s dimples are the cutest dimples in the world, and when she smiles at me in easy reassurance, I want to hug her. “Oh, I ran into him at the Regal Beagle.”

Oliver without me at Fred’s? My heart immediately sags. “You did?”

“I went to talk to Fred about a job,” London says, “and when I came out of his office, Oliver was sitting at the bar.”

I avoid meeting her eyes by searching for my own keys. “Was he . . . with Finn or Ansel or anyone?”

London gives me a knowing smile as she crosses her arms and leans back against the wall. “Nope. Just sitting there by himself, all sad sack and pathetic. We hung out for a few minutes, and when I said you were out for the night, he asked if I wanted to hang out.”

“Oh.” The image of Oliver needing company makes me sad. I’m immediately grateful London was there, with her easy humor and ability to deflect drama. London is Drama Teflon.

Her hair is pulled back from her face and piled high on her head. She nods and the little wispy ends that have come loose move with her. “I think he just needed some company and didn’t want to drink alone. Which was fine, because we all know I didn’t have any plans anyway.” She laughs, and then tilts her head to our apartment. “He’s still here, by the way.”

My skin grows hot, my eyes moving to the door. “He’s what?”

“That boy is a lightweight, too. A couple beers and three episodes into a Walking Dead marathon and he was out. Still is.” She points over her shoulder toward the loft. “On the couch.”

I look down to the keys in my hand. I’d planned on calling Oliver when I got home, or maybe even stopping by the store, but thought I’d have a little more time to think first. “Thanks for keeping him company.”

“No problem. He’s a lot of fun. If he wasn’t yours and I hadn’t sworn off men until menopause . . .” she says, giggling as she pushes off the wall. “Anyway, I’m off.”

“Beach?”

“High tide in forty-five minutes. I’ll be back around dinner, though, if you want to hang out?”

I nod and turn to watch her go. “Yeah, I’ll have to work tonight but I’ll be here.”

London takes the stairs and I wait until she’s gone before I turn back to the door, finally fitting my key into the lock.

It’s quiet inside, still early enough that with the curtains closed the apartment is cool and dark. I slide the door shut as quietly as I can and wait, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. There’s the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing from the couch, and I set down my things before stepping into the kitchen for a glass of water, and maybe a shot of vodka.

The recycling bin is full of empty beer bottles, and my stomach warms with a familiar longing: tipsy Oliver is too adorable, all goofy smiles and happy blue eyes. I’m actually sad I missed it. But then I remember why he was here—because he needed company—and any warm fuzzies evaporate immediately, replaced by the same twisty sensation I’ve had for days.

I reach for a glass and fill it with water, swallowing it down in a few icy gulps.

It’s strange how familiar this feels. Oliver is on the couch again, one foot hanging off the edge, the other bent at an odd angle and tucked beneath his opposite leg. He’s on his back, one arm stretched high above his head, the other resting on his chest. His shirt is askew, the thin blue fabric twisted up around his torso, leaving the majority of his lower stomach and hip bones uncovered. His glasses are on the table next to his phone, and there’s a discarded blanket on the floor.

A night on the couch means he’ll definitely be sore when he wakes up, and I’m not sure if I should wake him or keep staring at him. Staring is definitely easier and my eyes are hungry after days without him.

I miss his hands, how strong and greedy they are. I miss his stomach, the firm skin, soft hair. I miss his forever-long legs, his hips, his—

“Lola?” he says, and I jump, quickly blinking back up to his face.

“Hi.”

He pushes a hand through his hair and looks around the apartment. “Hey . . . sorry, I crashed here. I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“I’m a ninja,” I say, and he gives me a wan smile. “You know you can stay over anytime.”

The offer ticks between us heavily, meaning something different the longer we’re silent. He rubs his eyes before bending to pick up his glasses and slide them on. Things have never been so awkward with me and Oliver until recently. It hurts. I mean, it twists something inside my ribs to have it be this stilted.

“London saw me at Fred’s,” he explains, bending to pull the blanket off the floor. “She asked if I wanted to hang out—just hanging out, drinks and whatnot—she was sort of insistent, actually—”

“It’s okay,” I cut in, fighting a smile. The sensation is like warm water in my veins: relief from hearing him needing to explain why he went home with another woman, even if it was with my roommate. “I caught her on her way to the beach. She told me that she ran into you.”

He nods slowly. “You didn’t come home last night.”

Oh. Did he forget . . . ?

“I was at Greg’s.”

He winces, pinching his forehead. “Fuck, that’s right.”

The relief in his voice is everything to me. “He and Ellen split.”

Looking up at me, he asks, “Is he okay?”

I nod. “He seems fine, actually. I think she was just a very available pair of fake boobs.”

He laughs and scratches the back of his head, asking with more care, “Are you okay?”

God, that is a huge question. “Yes and no.”

The silence stretches between us and I wonder if he’s done holding my hand, if this is his way of forcing me to talk. “I told Austin yesterday that there were some things he couldn’t change, and the romance angle was one of them.”

Oliver leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “And how did he take that?”

“Not very well. He said we’d talk about it more, but I have no intention of changing my mind. If they want my input, that’s where I stand.”

He nods. “That’s good, I’m proud of you. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

“I’ve also been thinking a lot. About us.”

The quiet that follows is a terrifying abyss, but I just wait, needing him to show me that we can talk about this again.

“Okay,” he says, finally. “What have you been thinking?”

“That I’m so, so sorry about the other night,” I say. “I got scared.”

He narrows his eyes and tilts his head as he studies me. He’s tired and unshaven, and it doesn’t look like the last few days have been very easy on him, either. “You don’t have to apologize for being scared, Lola.”

I shake my head. “I messed up.”

Oliver stands, reaches for his jacket on the arm of the chair, and slips it on. He puts on his shoes and picks up his phone. “You’ve worked your entire life for this; it’s understandable that you’d be protective of it. It’s understandable that you wouldn’t want to let it crumble.”

He takes a few steps toward me, close enough that I have to tilt my chin to look up at him. “What hurt,” he continues quietly, “was how you thought it would be easier to drop me. How easy it seemed for you to make that decision right there, on the spot.”

Tears prick at the surface of my eyes. “It’s not easier. It’s awful.”

He nods. “And I messed up, too,” he says, eyes holding mine. “I hate that I went out with someone else, even if I had no intention of touching her.”

My heart rips. “I want to go back to the way it was,” I whisper, trying not to break out in a full-on sob.

“I don’t think we can do that,” he says, looking down at where his fingers absently reach for a strand of my hair, letting them slide down to the ends. I feel more tears burning in my throat, behind my eyes, and my chest goes tight. “I don’t know that we should.”

“Oliver, don’t.” I reach to wipe my face, but he grabs my hand, slipping his fingers between mine.

“No,” he says with sweet urgency. “I mean I think we need to come from a more open place next time.” He rubs his fingers over my palm, massaging. “I think we need to come from a place where you talk to me instead of letting me be the one to pull everything out of you.”

I swallow, and then swallow again, trying to process what I think he’s telling me. “You’re saying we can try again?” He looks up, stark blue eyes flicking back and forth between mine. “You want to be with me still?”

A tiny smile pulls at his mouth. “I never stopped wanting to be with you. I just needed you to figure your shit out.”

I let out a snorting laugh through my tears, relief making me feel a little shaky and hysterical. I nod quickly, wiping my face, trying to get my shit together now, in front of him.

“Stop,” he says quietly. “This isn’t what I mean. I don’t mean you should hide when you’re emotional. I mean you should recognize that I’m the guy who wants to see how you’re feeling. To hear about it.”

I hiccup, managing a hoarse, “I’m feeling relieved. Very, very relieved.”

He chews on his lip, watching where his thumb rubs my cheek. “Look, Lola, I meant it when I told you I don’t need easy or perfect. But I do need to know . . .” He trails off, his brows pulling down as he frowns a little. “I just need to hear that you’re not going to do that again. It really wrecked me.”

“I won’t.” Even the thought makes something grow tight and brittle inside me. I reach forward to put my free hand on his chest, for grounding. I can feel the firm, steady duh-dum-duh-dum-duh-dum of his heart under my palm. “I couldn’t.”

Silence fills the space between us, and I know there’s so much more to say, but I sense we aren’t doing this now. Still, I know we’re going to be okay because the weight of the quiet isn’t suffocating. It’s just Oliver + Lola again, quietly putting words together in their heads.

“How are things going with Junebug?” he asks, reaching with the hand that isn’t holding mine to tuck my hair behind my ear.

I sniff, looking over his shoulder. “I’m about three-quarters done.”

“Do you like it?”

Wincing a little, I admit, “Not yet. But I will.”

“That’s a start.” Oliver squeezes my hand and then lets it go. “You can text me whenever you want, or call if you need to talk something out.”

I blink, not wanting him to leave yet. “Where will you be? You can hang out here if y—”

“I’ll be home or at the store,” he says gently.

“And me?”

I don’t know what I mean.

Or I do, but I don’t know how he can possibly answer that.

But as much work as I have to get done, I need him, too. I realize at the same time he seems to that the admission is in the question, and he leans forward with a smile.

“You’ll call me every day. You’ll answer my texts.” He brushes his lips across mine, only once and I chase him a little when he pulls away. “If you need lunch, I’ll bring it to you. If you need anything else,” he says, eyes searching, “well. Call me.”

“If you need anything, too . . .” I say, feeling like I’m tripping over every emotion rioting in my chest.

Oliver smiles. “Okay. To the writing cave you go.” He gently sweeps both thumbs under my eyes, cleaning me up. “This isn’t a pause for us, it’s just you needing to buckle down and finish. Managing this will be a part of our life. Sometimes I get you every night,” he says, eyes moving over my face. “Sometimes I have to share you for a week or two.”

He has to clean me up again because more tears fall when he says this.

Laughing, he kisses my nose, telling me, “So go work, Lola Love. I want my nights back.”