Pieces of Olivia (4 page)

I texted Kara as soon as my next class finished. We had planned to meet at the Fresh Foods dining hall on the first floor of Liberty. For cafeteria-style food, it had turned out to be pretty good yesterday, but I had a feeling we would end up eating there most days, like it or not, just due to scheduling.

I thought of Preston the entire walk over, worried that he told Kara what I’d said, though even now, I couldn’t figure out what I had said that was so wrong. Maybe it was the hesitation. There should be meds for hesitation. It’s like a subconscious version of admittance that is completely out of my control and always seems to screw me over. If some genius doctor ever created a remedy, I would be the first in line to try it. Unless, of course, that doctor was Preston. Then I would run the other way.

Kara and I had clicked immediately; her upbeat personality setting off my mellow one so perfectly it was as though the housing office had a list of traits and assigned roommates accordingly. The last thing I wanted to do was push her away because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut around her best friend.

I slipped through the door to Fresh Foods and saw Kara already seated by the windows.

“Hey,” I said as I walked up.

She cocked her head at me. “You don’t like Preston very much, do you?”

My eyes went wide. “What? No. I like him. I definitely like him. He’s . . .” What? I couldn’t tell her what I really thought. I wasn’t sure even
I
knew what I really thought. “I like him fine. Why do you ask?”

“He and I had Spanish together just now, and he mentioned that you two had bio together this morning.”

“And he told you what I said.” I dropped my bag in the free chair beside Kara and slumped into the seat across from her. “I don’t know why I even asked what his major was. It isn’t like it matters. He came to sit beside me and I got all . . . I don’t know. It was weird, and I just . . . I don’t know.” I glanced up to see Kara staring at me. “What?”

She shook her head, grinning. “Nothing. I just didn’t realize he’d had that effect on you. I kind of thought you were immune or something, but clearly—”

“Oh no.” I waved my hands to stop her before she made any assumptions. True or not. “I’m not into him, if that’s what you mean. I just act stupid around him. I don’t know why. I’m sorry. I hope you’re not mad.”

“Are you crazy? I don’t care. He’s a friend. That doesn’t change the fact that we’re friends, ya know?”

I let out a breath. “God. I’m so glad you said that. I’ve been making a complete ass of myself around him, and I know you two are so close, and we live together, and God. I was so worried you were going to get pissed by default.”

She studied me as though she were trying to figure out something overly complex. “No, it’s all good. Let’s get some food.” She motioned toward the line and then turned back. “But just so you know, and Preston would be so pissed if he knew I was telling you this, but he isn’t an idiot. The opposite actually. He’s sickeningly smart. The king of never studying, yet aces the test. There were just a few years when he stopped caring.”

“Kara, is there something . . . I don’t know, I get the feeling . . . I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

She smiled. “It’s okay. He’s just been through a lot.” She looked away as though she’d said too much.

I wondered what happened to cause this tension between them. I knew better than to ask, so I changed the subject. “So, was he telling the truth about you two when you were little?” I asked as we sat back down with our lunch.

She laughed. “Oh, yes. But it was destined to never work.”

“Oh really, why is that?” I asked.

“Aside from the fact that he’s like a brother to me, he breaks all my dating rules.”

“Dating rules?”

“Yeah. No babies of the family. No trucks. Oh, and no tattoos.”

I nearly choked on my sandwich. “Preston has a tattoo?”

“A small one, but still, they’re tacky and I don’t do tacky.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at how judgmental she was being. Most people had opinions on things like tattoos, but not everyone was willing to voice their opinion so openly with people they hardly knew. I decided I’d wait until later to tell her that I too had a tattoo. I wondered where Preston’s was located. I hadn’t noticed one when he was shirtless in Kara’s and my room Saturday morning. My mind replayed his bare chest, the way his pajama pants hung low on his hips. Suddenly, the room felt hot. “So, I’m guessing Ethan doesn’t have one?”

She sighed. “He
didn’t
when we got together. He does now. He got it on Saturday, just after he moved into his dorm. I haven’t seen it yet. God, I hope it’s not huge and horrible.”

I fought back a grin and changed the subject back to Preston. I could tell Ethan’s new tattoo wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. “Okay, so Preston has a tattoo and a truck. What about the baby of the family thing? What does that mean?”

“He’s the baby of his family. He has an older brother. I can’t stand that attitude guys get when they’re the babies of their families. Their mothers end up doing everything for them, and we girlfriends suffer the results. Nah-ah. Not this girl. Only middle children or the eldest for me.” I grinned. I guessed that was mark two for me. Just like Preston, I was the baby of my family. I had two older sisters. I started to tell Kara that, when she checked her watch and nearly screamed. “Crap, I’m running late.” She took a final bite of her sandwich, downed a gulp of her Coke, and grabbed her bag. “See you later?”

“Yeah, sure.” I waved to her, before finishing up and diving back into the rest of my day. Two more classes to go. Hopefully I could make it through my last two without offending anyone or making a complete idiot of myself.

My phone buzzed as I was leaving the dining hall, and I glanced down to see
Mom
flashing across the screen. My thumb went first to
Answer
and then to
Ignore
. I didn’t want to talk to her right now. She would want to talk about my therapy session this morning and then ask me if I was ready to transfer to Columbia. In my mom’s mind, my coming to Charleston was just a vacation, a little getaway for a few weeks, and then I would get back on track. She didn’t realize, or didn’t care, that (a) I chose to come to Charleston, and that (b) you couldn’t exactly transfer in the middle of a semester. I was here now, like it or not.

I hesitated over
Answer
and accidentally clicked it. Damn hesitation!

“Olive?” Mom said.

I lifted the phone to my ear, cursing my stupid thumb. “Hey, Mom,” I said, a little too enthusiastically, but it was that or get a thousand questions I didn’t have time or the energy to answer.

“Hi, sweetie. I just wanted to check in with you. How is your first day going?”

I waited for the real question she had, but it never came. “Good. I’ve only had two classes. I’m heading to my third now.”

“That’s great. Are you enjoying it so far?”

What? Had an alien inhabited my mom’s body? “Uh, yeah. It’s great.” Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

“So, how was therapy this morning?”

And there it was. The real reason for the call. At least she had the decency to go through the niceties. “It was fine, Mom. Look, I’m running late for class. Can we talk about this later?”

“Sure. Yes, of course. I’m glad it’s good and that you’re enjoying your day. I—”

“Mom, I really have to go.”

I could almost feel the hurt coming through the phone. I hated this. I hated making her feel bad. I wished she would just focus on Cameron or Lily, my older sisters, and leave me alone. I would be fine. I just needed everyone to leave me alone.

“Sure, honey. Have a nice day. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

I ended the call and stuck my cell back in my bag, a giant helping of guilt now packed on my shoulders.

I stepped into class and slammed down my bag beside the desk closest to the door, so distracted that I didn’t realize I was five minutes late—or that the professor had stopped talking. The entire class had turned to stare at me.

“Thanks for gracing us with your presence . . .” She pulled a clipboard from the desk she was leaning against and traced a finger down the attached sheet. “Olivia?”

I nodded, my cheeks so warm they were liable to explode. “Yes. I’m so sorry. It—”

She held up a hand to stop me. “I think you’ve delayed the class enough.” She set the clipboard back on the desk.
Crap
. “As I was saying, welcome to Poetry 130. I am Lauren Rochester, your professor, but you can call me Lauren. I prefer to teach the class in a workshop-like manner. What that means is we’ll read, analyze, and discuss everything from Shakespeare to Walt Whitman to Mary Oliver, but for assignments, I’d like to see your work. I realize that may make some of you feel uneasy, and that’s okay. Just try your best. Your final will involve a complete dissection of any poem of your choosing. I suggest you start looking through your options now. During class, we’ll take turns reading from the assigned poetry list on the back of your syllabus. I like open discussion and expect everyone to participate.”

I realized that I was officially on this professor’s hate list and wanted off fast, so taking a note from my mother’s lectures on how to impress professors, I raised my hand. She hesitated before calling on me. “Yes, Olivia?”

“Sorry, I was just curious if we were allowed to read our own poetry during the class readings or only assigned works?”

She considered me. “You’ve written your own poetry already?”

“I’ve tried.”

She looked pleased. “Well then, yes.” She addressed the class. “Since this is an intro class, I assumed most of you would be new to writing poetry, but if you, like Olivia, are already a poet, then feel free to bring your own work. Just know, this isn’t a joke. No Dr. Seuss copycats allowed. Understand?”

Everyone nodded, and I leaned back in my desk, happy that at the very least, Lauren had a more positive association with my name now. The lecture continued with the normal stuff—syllabus review, attendance expectations, etc.—and as the class came to an end, I realized that I was going to really like it.

Lauren finished up, and I started out the door, when a deep voice called, “Nice work, Ms. Warren.”

I turned to see a guy walking up. My first thought—beyond why was he calling me by my last name—was that he was too pretty to be a guy. The kind of pretty that made you think Mother Nature had accidentally checked the wrong box and he was supposed to be a girl. Golden locks hit his chin, streaked with white blond strands that made me wonder if he had highlights. His deep brown eyes were waiting for me to respond, but I was too busy taking in his outfit. He was dressed in navy cargo shorts and a plaid dress shirt with a tie hung loose around the collar. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and on his feet were a shiny pair of loafers. The kind fifty-year-old men wore. It was like he’d started dressing with one look in mind and got distracted, adding another on top.

Or maybe he was blind.

“Olivia,” I said, correcting him.

He held out his hand for me to shake. “Of course. I’m Taylor.”

The name matched his face so perfectly I almost asked if he were making it up. Instead, I smiled, because that was what you did when a guy as pretty as him was talking to you. I waited for him to say something else.

“Oh, sorry, I lost my train of thought.” He looked down, and then back at me with a coy smile. “I was just complimenting you on the work back there. Not many students can start a class at the bottom of a professor’s list and end up on top.”

I laughed as I started to walk, Taylor keeping pace beside me. “Not sure about the ‘on top’ part, but I most definitely started at the bottom. I can’t believe I walked in late on the first day of class.”

He grinned. “Happens to the best of us. Are you an English major?”

I nodded. “Yeah, trying. You?”

“Only thing I can stand. I’d die of boredom with anything else.”

I stopped to look at him. “Yeah, me, too.”

“Well, nice meeting you, Olivia. See you next time?” He started down the hall, but turned back. “Seriously though, nice job. Something tells me you’re a lot more fun when you’re on top.” He gave a lopsided grin and was gone before I realized just what he had said or the innuendo of what he might have meant.

I reached my next class, which was two floors down from Poetry, to find a note on the door that class was cancelled for the day and the first class would begin on Wednesday. I left the building, wondering if I should check out the library, and nearly walked into Preston.

“Small Town. Going somewhere in a hurry?”

I stepped back, smiling. “Speaking of going somewhere.” I motioned to his outfit. He was wearing a long-sleeve UPF shirt—similar to the one I was wearing, but his was blue instead of yellow, like mine. On his head was a bandana printed with fish all swimming in opposite directions. He looked like he’d either already been on the water or wished he were there now.

“Yeah, I’m heading out to Bulls Bay. Tarpons are hot right now. Gotta cast when the catching’s good, ya know?”

I laughed. “No, actually, but I’ll take your word for it.” I started to go around him.

“Hey, wait.”

I lifted my hand to shadow my eyes from the sun. “Yeah?”

“Would you like to come?”

“Fishing?”

My expression must have given me away, because Preston burst out laughing. “Yes, fishing. It’s not as bad as Kara says. Try it. You might like it.”

“That’s pretty doubtful.”

“Well, then you can get some sun.”

I held out my arms to show the UPF shirt. “Not so much into sunbathing.”

He laughed again. “You’re difficult as hell, aren’t you? Just come on the damn boat with me. I promise you’ll have a good time.”

I hesitated. I knew nothing about fishing. Nothing. I’d made an idiot of myself enough around Preston Riggs. The last thing I needed was—

“Am I going to have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you there myself? You’ll have fun. Trust me. Do you want me to say please? I’m not against begging.”

I hadn’t realized that I was staring at the ground, combing my ponytail with my fingers. Or that Preston had edged closer to me and was now so close I could smell his clean, barely-there scent. Like he bathed in that awesome-smelling men’s body wash, but refused to wear actual cologne. Simple. Masculine. And entirely too tempting. It was the kind of smell you only got to enjoy when you were in a guy’s personal space, and I found myself wishing I could stay in Preston’s a little longer.

“Okay.”

“‘Okay’ you want me to beg or ‘okay’ you’ll go?”

I smiled. “I’ll go. But I’m not touching a fish.”

He laughed. I was starting to like his laugh. How freely he offered it, like it came more naturally to him than to others. “Oh, you’re touching one.”

“No way. They’re all slimy and ick. I’m not touching one.” We started around the building, toward one of the parking areas out back.

“Says the girl who’s never touched one. But that ends today. I’m going to help you catch your first fish, and once you’ve reeled the bastard in, you’re going to remove the hook, take a flashy picture with your prize, and toss it back. After we’re done,
you’ll
be begging
me
to go again.”

I could see the passion in his eyes, and while I seriously doubted I would ever beg him to go fishing, I was intrigued. It had to be pretty fun to get him this hyped up. Then again, we were talking about fishing.

***

We reached Preston’s truck and drove toward Bulls Bay, and he talked about fishing the entire time. Apparently, August was prime for tarpons and Bulls Bay was the perfect spot due to the schools of menhaden that blanketed the area.

“Does your brother fish, too?” I asked, not realizing that he had never mentioned he had a brother.

“Brother?” He glanced at me and then back to the road. “Oh, I see Kara’s been talking again. Girl couldn’t stop if you paid her. But to answer your question—no. His idea of fun is golf. Me, not so much. The only way I can stand it is if there’s beer involved, otherwise it’s boring as hell. The water is different. You never know what to expect. It’s a grind some days for sure, but others are crazy. So many fish I lose count. Those are the days that make the rest worth it. Fishing is exciting. There’s an end product that’s tangible. And to me, golf is nothing but work. Where’s the fun in that?”

I thought of Matt and how he lived for golf. How he played for Westlake Academy and made the sport seem so prestigious, as though next to no one could do it. Which might be true, but Preston was right. Nothing was as boring as golf.

He eyed me again. “Shit. You golf, don’t you?”

I shook myself from my thoughts. “Uh, no. I know how. My dad golfs, and my—” I caught myself from saying boyfriend and had to swallow hard to keep going. “Well, pretty much everyone in Westlake golfs. It’s one big country club.”

Preston gave me a curious look, but didn’t ask any questions. A second later, we were pulling into a storage unit packed with boats. He pulled around to the back of the complex and parked in front of a unit separate from the others.

“Be right back.” He slipped from the truck and entered a code into the unit, causing two garage doors to lift. A flat boat was parked in one spot, a large white boat in the second. The words
Gone Fishing
were printed across the side of each boat.

Preston hooked the flat boat up to his truck. I glanced around while he removed the cover from the boat, and my eyes landed on something I hadn’t noticed before—the name of the storage facility.
Riggs Storage
. Riggs, as in—

“Sorry, it’s a production getting everything setup. That’s why I never go out unless I have at least four hours to give it. Otherwise, it’s sort of a waste.” His eyes settled on me. “What?”

“It says
Riggs Storage.
Does your dad own this place or something?”

He put the truck in drive, started forward, and then spun the wheel around with his palm the way guys do. “Oh, that.”

“So, does he?”

“My dad? No.”

“Is it your brother or just some quasi-crazy coincidence?”

He smirked over at me. “Quasi-crazy? Who
are
you, Small Town?”

I smiled. “You’re seriously avoiding the question, aren’t you? Is it a secret? Are you part of the Russian mafia or something, and all the business dealings happen here so you can’t say? I guess that would make sense.”

Preston burst out laughing. “
That
would make sense? And why Russian? What’s wrong with the American mafia?”

“I don’t know. Russians are fierce. Their mafia would probably hang our mafia’s balls over their rearview.”

At that he started choking. “So now we’re talking about the mafia’s balls? Seriously, where did you come from? It sure as hell isn’t Westlake.”

I laughed. “Yeah, well. I know how to cross my legs at afternoon tea, if that’s what you mean. I just have different thoughts running through my head at those luncheons than what the girl beside me is wearing.”

Preston nodded and we settled into an easy silence before he finally said, “It’s mine.”

I glanced over at him. “What’s yours?”

“The storage place. Riggs. It’s mine.”

“You own it?”

He nodded slowly like he was waiting for me to become one of those people who asked a million questions.

“Well that explains the private unit in the back. I bet you bought the place just so you could do that, didn’t you? You didn’t want other boats anywhere near yours.”

He grinned. “Something like that.”

Before long we were cruising through Bulls Bay in search of Preston’s favorite tarpon spot. I tried to keep my focus on our surroundings or the ocean or anything other than the way the wind caused his shirt to suction to his chest. Or how he tapped his foot as we rode. Or the way he looked more at ease than anyone I’d been around in my life. I wondered how he managed it. If it was an act or if he was truly that relaxed.

“What?” he asked. I hadn’t realized that in my thoughtful effort to not stare I was, in fact, staring.

I glanced back out over the water. “Nothing.”

“Oh no. You’re not getting out of it that easy. What is it?”

I let my gaze settle on him. “You just look so at ease. It’s a little unsettling.”

He smiled wide. “Should I try for painstakingly uncomfortable? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve got that one covered.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Hell yeah, you are. You’re all wound up, and I get it. Life will do that to you. But here, nothing else matters. It’s just you and the water. That’s why I come out here. For a break. On the water, I can let myself go, forget. It’s freeing.” He turned to look at me. “If you’ll let it be.”

I felt my lip quiver and looked away. I didn’t want to reveal the truth—I had never felt free a day in my life. And it was only worse now, since I had my past staring over my shoulder, watching me like a ghost that refused to let go of its home.

He shut off the engine and the boat coasted quietly while Preston messed with the rods. We were in clear, shallow water, maybe three to five feet deep. Preston handed me a rod. “Stand there,” he said, motioning to the front deck of the boat. Clearly he intended to make it easy for me to stand and fish, but the last thing I wanted to do was end up in the water, soaked, so I’d have no choice but to take off my UPF shirt and show off the fact that my skin was disgusting. I squatted down and hung my legs over the side of the boat, allowing the water to rise to my calves. It was warmer than I had expected. I heard Preston cast his lure beside me, and then heard the spinning sound of him retrieving it.

“So what are you trying to get a break from? What has you so tied up on land?”

Preston shrugged, his forehead scrunching up. “Life. And I thought you didn’t do the whole sunbathing thing.” He nodded toward me.

“I don’t.” I tilted my head back in the sun. “I’m doing the freeing thing. How’s it look?”