She looks up at me with an inward gaze. I can feel her heavy thoughts like a barrier between us.

“Go back to Portland.”

I shake my head before her last word. “I said I’m staying.”

“You need to go back.”

“Vivian, no, I don’t want to go back. Caroline doesn’t need me, her parents just think she does. But the truth is they’re as delusional as she is.”

“Oliver, you need to go back for you.”

“What does that even mean? Have you been talking to my mom?”

“You owe me.”

I clench my hair then rub my hands over my face, releasing a sarcastic laugh. “I owe you? Really? You’re trying to trade cutting in line for sending me back to Hell? No, I won’t. Yesterday morning, yes, I was going. Even last night at my parents’ house I planned on going. But I saw the pain in your eyes, Vivian. Hell, it’s dark in here and I still can see the goddamn pain in your eyes! I’m not going. Period.”

She rolls on top of me, our faces a breath apart. “Oli, don’t you see? The pain you see in my eyes is for you not because of you. Get on the plane tomorrow, but not for Caroline, or her parents, and not for your job, but for you, Oli. And if you can’t do that…” she blinks and her tears fall to my cheek “…then do it for me.”

I don’t want to go. When I said I was staying it was for me as much as her. But when a man loves a woman the way this man loves this woman, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. To the front of the battle line, the end of the earth, to my last breath … That’s how far I will go for her.

“For you, my love, only you.”

Chapter Thirty

Yep

Vivian

Another Monday, another school day, another day to miss Oliver. It’s been six weeks since he boarded the plane to Portland, six weeks since we made love until the sun peeked over the horizon, six weeks since he soothed me to sleep in his arms, and six weeks since he left me asleep in our bed and walked out the door without a goodbye.

After he agreed to go back, for me, I had two more requests. One, that he’d make love to me until we both fell into a post-coital coma, and two, that he’d leave without a goodbye. Missing him is like a dull pain; when I’m studying or sleeping, I don’t notice it so much. But the goodbye … it’s a slow, cruel torture.

We talk and text every day, even if it’s just a quick I love you. Oliver has been working for the firm during the day and visiting Caroline in the late afternoons into early evening. Her progress is slow but noticeable. They’ve changed her medications and she and Oliver have been able to have random conversations about the food she’s served or a show that’s on the television at the hospital. Neither have talked about Melanie or the events that led to that tragic day.

I still go to Oliver’s parents’ every Saturday night, and sometimes my parents drive out to join us. While Hugh is out rowing on Sunday mornings, Jackie comes over for coffee. This is when we have our heart-to-hearts about Oliver. She assumes Caroline is talking through Melanie’s death with the doctor in her private sessions and discussing her ongoing struggle with depression in group sessions. Oliver still refuses to see anyone or even talk to Jackie about any of it. I fear he’ll start to slip away from me and everyone else who loves him if he doesn’t.

“My mom wants to get these wedding invitations mailed out, but you haven’t given me Oliver’s address in Portland.”

“Just send it to his house. I’ll relay the details.” I set down my menu. Alex and I discovered we both have a break between classes on Mondays that hits right around lunch time. I’d planned on using it for study time at the library, but she insisted we use it for wedding planning over burgers and fries … okay, salad for her. Although at this point there’s not much left to plan.

“My mom thinks that’s poor etiquette, since he’s basically living in Portland.”

“Well he’s still making the mortgage payment here and I hope to God he still considers this home.” I slap her hand. “Why do you order a salad and then steal half of my fries. Just get the freakin’ fries.”

“Can’t. I have to fit into my wedding gown.”

“Sooo … my fries are void of calories?”

“Yep. They only have the power to make the person who ordered them fat.” She pauses mid-chew with half the fry still sticking out of her mouth. “Shit! Look at you, Flower. You’re a junk food addict with a bony ass. Everything in the universe has to find balance. So if these fries aren’t making you fat then…” she spits out the fry “…dammit! I’m not going to fit into my dress and it’s going to be all your fault!”

“My fault?”

“Yes, you’re a terrible influence on me. Would it kill you to get a salad once in a while? Skinny people die too, you know?”

“I eat salad.”

“When?” She stabs a piece of lettuce like she’s spear fishing.

“Almost every day.” I laugh. “When you don’t finish yours because you eat too many of my fries.”

She wrinkles her nose and squints at me. I giggle and take a huge bite of my hamburger, ketchup and grease dribble onto my plate.

She grabs her phone and snaps a picture.

“What the heck?” I protest through a mouthful of sandwich.

“All you celebs forget the paparazzi is just waiting to capture your embarrassing moments.”

“Are you seriously still sending pictures to Oliver?”

She smirks. “I am now.”

* * *

As I trench my way through all the required reading for this week, I get a text from Oliver. I was expecting a call or even better, some Skype-X.

Oliver: Having dinner with Brice & Mitchell. Talk to you tomorrow.

Me: I’ll be up, call me when you’re done.

Oliver: It’ll be late your time. Tomorrow. Night, my love.

And there I go … deflating like a leaky balloon. It’s one night, I know that. However, lately our phone conversations have been cut short, usually by Caroline’s parents or one of Oliver’s clients. Our messages have been less consistent, and Skype-X hasn’t happened for several weeks. Next week is Thanksgiving and Oliver has yet to purchase a plane ticket.

I have zero leverage to be angry with him or even to have a pity party for myself. Oliver is in Portland because I told him to go. I imagined him sorting through his issues with Caroline and her family, or visiting Melanie’s grave. The naive but hopeful part of me dared to imagine him getting some help for himself too. But what I didn’t envision was dinner with the partners, lunch with clients, and less and less communication with me.

Me: Love you <3

Wait.

Wait some more.

Needy.

Nervous.

Going crazy!

I read two more chapters then check my phone. Nothing. I brush my teeth and wash my face. Nothing. Then just as I crawl in bed with Rosenberg and my English assignment, my phone vibrates.

Oliver: Yep!

Yep? YEP! His response to I love you is yep?

I’m angry … really angry. Swiping my finger across my phone screen, I contemplate calling Alex, but I know she’s at Sean’s tonight. Then I consider calling Jackie. She told me to call her any time about anything. But what would I say? Hey, sorry to wake you, but Oliver said “yep.”

Yeah, she might start charging me if that’s the type of craziness I start calling her about.

* * *

This morning calls for extra coffee. I really need to treat sleep like it’s of vital importance to my body. Maybe I can catch up over the holidays. Yeah right, dealing with Bridezilla and a bachelorette party. Sounds like I’ll be getting lots of sleep.

I take Rosenberg out once more before I head off to class. Grabbing my bag, I notice I missed a text from Oliver this morning.

Oliver: Good morning. Watching the sunrise and thinking of you.

Ugh! I ignore his message until I can decipher if my mood is forgiving and cheerful or begrudging and spiteful. As I head out the door, messenger bag slung over my shoulder and my insulated cup of coffee in the side pocket, I decide to be somewhere in the middle.

Me: Okay

My unstoppable smirk shows my inward satisfaction.

Oliver: Are you in class?

Me: Nope

Oliver: Are you okay?

And here comes payback …

Me: Yep

My phone rings.

“Hi.” I answer in the most diplomatic voice I can muster.

“Have I done something wrong?”

I answer without answering. My hesitation says it all.

“Am I supposed to know what I did?”

I look ahead. My building is approximately fifty yards away, so I can either lie and play the immature relationship game—hang up and be pissed all day … still immature—or lay it all out in plain sight.

“I was disappointed when we didn’t get to talk last night, which I can live with. But then you said yep.”

“Yep?”

“Yep.”

“You said yep to me this morning.”

I sigh. “Because you said it to me last night. I was making a point.”

“When did I say yep to you last night? And what point were you trying to make?” I feel the exasperation in his voice.