His face lit up when he saw me approach. He stood from his leaning position, straightening his jacket and tie, and smiled at me.
“Hello, Penny Lane.”
“Hello, Oli Oli Oxen Free.” I smiled back.
He reached out for me and my heart sped up. He took me by the elbow and kissed my cheek, lingering there for a moment and sending a thrill down my spine.
“I’m happy to see you, love.”
My hand went for his chin and I brought his mouth to mine for a quick kiss in answer.
He stood, wrapped his arm around my waist, and presented our buzzer. “I’ve already put our names on the list half an hour ago.”
“You’ve been here for half an hour? You should have told me, I would have come sooner.”
“I didn’t want you to have to stand in whatever ludicrous shoes you’ve burdened yourself with today, knowing we had loads of standing later.” He cocked his head forward to take a gander at my feet. I lifted a shoe in the air. “Just as I suspected, utterly ridiculous.”
“I bleed for fashion.”
“Literally,” he said, examining the tip of my shoe. “One swift kick with these and the receiver would be a goner,” he joshed.
I playfully pushed him and laughed. “They’re multipurpose.”
Oliver’s eyes traveled up my legs and hips, all the way up to my face. “You look enticing, Penelope.”
“You’re not too hard on the eyes either, Oliver Finn.”
He tightened the knot of his tie. “I try.”
“No, you don’t,” I teased him. “You shower and shave and dress and are done in half an hour tops.”
He barked a laugh. “It’s a bit more than that, love.”
“You see this?” I started, gesturing down my body. His eyes cascaded down my figure once again and my whole body shivered. “This is an hour and a half. On a good day,” I eked out.
“A very good day indeed,” he flirted.
“Your Casanova is showing,” I ribbed.
His eyes became very serious. “It’s not a line, Pen.”
I gulped nothing. “Oh,” I breathed.
His right hand found my elbow and slid slowly down my arm then laced his fingers with mine.
“I have a confession,” his proper accent informed me.
I turned toward him slightly, keeping our hands together. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“I’ve been seeing a therapist.”
I was shocked by this. “Have you? For how long?”
“Five months now. It took a while for me to break open to her. I was, of course, ashamed and embarrassed, then suddenly I wasn’t.” He paused, but I didn’t interrupt. He continued, “I told her everything—starting with Brooke, how we met, how we fell in love, how I had no clue she had been cheating on me, and how she ultimately took her own life.
“I told her about my behavior after her death.” He looked at me. “I told her about you.”
I swallowed. “What did you say?”
“That I found someone I thought extraordinary.”
“I’m extraordinary?”
“Without a doubt,” he whispered.
I stared up at him, afraid to speak.
“Am I frightening you?”
“Not anymore,” I told him without hesitation and meant it.
“Are you a patient woman?” he asked.
“As a saint.” I smiled.
“I’m coming to terms with things I’ve let alone for too long now. I’m mourning the loss, so to speak. I’m learning to forgive myself for things that aren’t necessarily my fault.” He smiled that crooked, knowing smile. “Or so my therapist says.”
“Like what?” I asked him, letting my thumb slide back and forth across the top of his hand.
“I blame myself for Brooke’s death.”
I let out a shaky breath. “That’s heavy.”
Oliver’s brows furrowed. “We can talk of other things,” he offered.
“You think this makes me uncomfortable?” I asked.
“Doesn’t it?”
“No,” I answered. “This is your life, and I want to be in it, Oli.”
“And you’re certain of that?”
“Very.”
“Why?” he asked me. “Why would you want to be in my messy, complicated life, Penelope?”
“Too many reasons to mention, really, but mostly because you fit me so perfectly. You’re interested in me, really interested. There is nothing more attractive to a girl than a boy who genuinely cares for them.”
“I am and I do,” he admitted.
“I know this. Now, go on,” I prodded.
He nodded. “If I had been paying attention to her the way a husband should, I would have seen it coming. At least that’s what I feel, anyway. My therapist doesn’t agree.”
“People are very good at keeping secrets, especially explosive ones.”
“That’s what my therapist says,” he told me. “That people are only as revealing as they want to be.” He looked at me. “But it kills me that she didn’t want me to see her. I told Dr. Artiles, my therapist, that she might not have cheated if she could have only been open with me about what was causing her to drift toward the idea of it.”
“What did your therapist say?”
“That she might have done it regardless and we can’t predict false futures. We can’t argue our way into different results.”
“And?”
“And that it wasn’t my fault.”
I let go of Oliver’s hand and placed my palm against his cheek. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He smiled sadly at me. “Then why do I feel so guilty?”
“Because you cannot fix something that is beyond repair, Oliver, and I think that eats away at you like nothing else.”
He breathed deeply. “I can finally admit this out loud,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “It had devastated me.”
“Suicide is so horrid in so many ways. The soul can’t repent. Its death takes away with it all that had ever been good and places a harsh brand on everything it had ever touched. It takes all that was beautiful and tints it blue. Memories can never be remembered as they truly were. Love was never fully satisfied and sits unfinished. Love begs to be fulfilled. It is a cruel foe not just for the victim but for those that loved them.”
“Penelope, you’ve spoken all I’ve ever wanted to say.”
“My cousin took his own life,” I explained. “My family, especially his mother, were never quite the same again. It’s as if a black tide nips at our heels, screaming out his name, but every time we saunter in to find him, the water retreats. There is nothing like that helplessness. It feels hopeless.”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver told me.
“I pray for him every day. Just as you do with Brooke.”
“It’s the only power I have left,” he said.
“What else has your therapist told you?”
“That my licentious ways might be caused by PTSD.”
“I can see that,” I told him.
“Or I could just be a right bastard,” he disparaged himself, trying to make it into a joke.
“Are you?” I asked him point-blank.
He smiled and opened his mouth to tease me into changing the subject, but I interrupted him.
“Tell me,” I insisted. “Are you?”
His smile fell and he swallowed. “I don’t want to be. It terrifies me that that man is who I really am.”
“Why?”
“Because then I could never deserve you.”
“As if I’m devoid of fault?”
“You are.”
“You think and speak foolishly,” I told him. “No one is perfect, especially me.”
The buzzer in his left hand alerted us that our table was ready. Oliver gripped my hand and led me through the lingering crowd to the front where the hostess took us to our little table in a corner beside a few windows looking out onto a busy London street. We sat and Oliver ordered coffee from a sweet waitres
s we’d both had hundreds of times. I ordered tea. We knew the menu already and gave her our order.
“Never seen the two of you in ’ere together,” she commented. She eyed me with suspicion. “Aren’t you with that fair-headed chap?”
“Not since he cheated on me with a French floozy,” I quipped.
She burst out laughing. “Went for ’is friend then, uh? Good on you,” she said, walking away.
“You’re such a hussy,” Oli provoked.
“Shut up, punk, or I’ll make up some outrageous lie about you and tell her.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“Just for shits and giggles, cough up. What would you tell her then, hmm?”
I placed my elbows on the table and drummed my fingers together. “I’d say that we weren’t dating. That we’d actually just come from burying his body and this was the celebratory breakfast before we both escaped to Mexico.”
Oli cracked up. “You’re impossible, Beckett.”
“Impossibly awesome,” I joked.
He smiled. “I wouldn’t disagree.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What?” He burst with a laugh.
“Save the cheese for the party tonight, son.”
He shook his head playfully at me. His hand laid on the table between us. With unnecessary caution, as if he was still afraid of my rejecting him, he inched his hand toward mine. I didn’t dare move my fingers with his. He needed to know he had to do all the work but I wanted him do it.
With Graham, I did all the apologizing, all the groveling, all the wanting, all the work. It got me none of the reaction I was begging for in him. Simply put, if a boy wants to love you, he will. You cannot force it. Trying to only makes you appear weak, and women are infinitely more powerful than they could possibly comprehend. It starts with a demand, a simple “you come to me.” It’s the most natural course of things and I thought I could alter it, but I failed.
With that failure, though, came a clarity I will forever be grateful to. With that failure, I learned to be most sure of myself, more comfortable with who I am, and what I expected from the opposite sex. I learned I was incredibly desirable to the right boy. I learned that his willingness to climb mountains for you should be clear in the manner in which he treats you, looks at you, and works for you. It’s in the things he gives up for you, in the things he would slay dragons to get you. Love is inconvenient. Love is in the sacrifice.
Oliver’s hand found mine, his fingers sought mine, his thumb caressed my knuckles. I rewarded him with a smile.
“I am not that man,” Oliver promised me.
“I know this,” I said.
“Then why ask?”
“Because I needed you to know it.”
Oliver smiled at me.
“Well, isn’t this charming?” a familiar sarcastic voice chimed over us.
My heart beat into my throat as I turned toward its owner.
“Graham, what can I do for you?” Oliver asked casually.
I tried to pull my hand away from Oliver’s but he held tight.
“Nothing, really. Mates and I had a fast night and came here. Of course,” he said, as their mutual friends Alfie and Charlie walked to stand next to Graham, “I wasn’t expecting this tasty sight.”
Alfie and Charlie nodded at me. I gave them each a small smile. They smirked at one another when they saw my hand in Oliver’s. I tried yet again to pull away my hand but Oliver held strong.
“I’ll call you later,” Oliver said, making my stomach sink. I didn’t want him to call him. Ever. Graham was a dirty boyfriend and a dirty friend. I wished Oli could see that.
Graham laughed and looked at me. “Dismissed so readily,” he said. He smiled at me. It held all the false kindness I’d failed to notice during the eight months we’d seen one another. “You look smashing, Penelope,” he oozed. “Surprised to still see you here in London, though.”
“Thought I’d stick around for a while,” I told him. “See what kind of trouble I could get into.”
He laughed like it was funny for a very different reason other than my implied meaning and shook his head. “Trouble. Yes,” he bit out.
I held back a quip about Chloe that had been sitting at the tip of my tongue. Instead, I refused to give in to his bait, and the look on his face when I didn’t was satisfaction enough. He looked disappointed. In that silence, I let him know I never thought of him anymore. And I never would again.
“Goodbye, Graham,” I said, turning back to Oliver.
Graham stood still, seething, staring at me, but I declined to acknowledge him. He stood for thirty seconds at least, waiting, but neither Oliver nor I gave in. Quietly, he turned from our table and joined Alfie and Charlie.
“Where were we?” Oliver asked.
***
When breakfast was over, we left for Alice & Emma and chose two seats in the back, two seats in the dark.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I answered, placing my Zoe bag on the back of my chair.
“Pen?”
“Yes?”
“Last night, you said you were frightened of me.”
“Yes.”
“You frightened me as well. Still do,” he admitted.
I shifted in my seat and faced him. My hand found the side of his face, his jaw scratchy from lack of razor. “You didn’t shave this morning.”
He swallowed and shook his head. “You’re a forever girl.”
“You never forget to shave,” I said.
“What if I’m not of the forever kind?”
I looked at him, through and into him. “The forever kind don’t inherit, Oli. The forever kind choose who they want to be, which one they want to be. You choose then develop the character to keep the choice.”
“I want to be the forever kind, Pen. You make me want to be the forever kind. More than anyone I’ve ever met.”
I thought this untrue. “You were the forever kind with Brooke, Oliver.”
He shook his head. “I thought I was.”
“You were.”
He shook his head again, adamant. “I would have stayed forever, but I was never panicked I couldn’t live up to the task like I am with you. There was never an urgency to please her like I have with you.” He paused. “Does this make me a terrible person?”
My other hand found the other side of his face. “I don’t think so, Oliver. You act like there is no humanity in the choices we make.”
“I would have loved her forever, Pen, but I would have never burned for her as I do with you.” This canon stole several heartbeats from me, ones I would never get back, ones I didn’t care I’d lost. “That is the source of most of my guilt now. If I had let her find that with someone else, she might be alive today.”
“Oliver,” I whispered painfully.
“But I didn’t know, Pen, I swear. I didn’t know you could ache for someone the way I ache for you. If I’d known, I’d have let her go long before we married. Freed her to find her someone and then I would have sat quietly and waited for you happily. With the promise of Penelope Beckett, I would have waited forever.”
Depression
[dih-presh-uh n]
noun
1. sadness; gloom; dejection.
Penelope Beckett and Oliver Finn are about to get blindsided.
Oliver took me back to his house after the show. The party, which had excited me for so many days, felt like such a burden. Suddenly I wanted seclusion with Oliver. I wanted a world of two.
I helped him put up the silly luau decorations and arranged all the catered food he’d had brought in. It was all very generous. When all was up and laid out, we stood back and admired the results.
“This is very nice of you,” I told him. “Thank you so much.”
Oliver swung his hand into mine. “It’s the very least I could do,” he said, bringing our folded hands up and kissing the tips of my fingers. “I hope it’s okay but I’ve invited
my family.”
I gasped. “Of course it’s okay! I’ll be so happy to see them again, Oliver. I really loved your mom.”
He smiled at me. “As she loved you, I suspect.” He laughed. “I caught a lot of heat when we parted ways.”
I giggled. “Aww, I’m sorry.”
Oli looked at me seriously. “Don’t be sorry. How it was is how it should have been, despite what I thought or said that day.”
“So many times I wanted you to come to me. The months that followed, I had to prevent myself from calling,” I admitted.
Oli stood still. “These last few weeks, I’ve thought of you constantly. If I’d known you were in London, Pen, I would have beat down your door.”
“You’d have only needed to knock. I would have opened it for you.”
“And yet,” he countered, “this moment feels like kismet. I couldn’t have guaranteed as much had it been a second sooner.”
“Good things come to those who wait?”
“Very good things.” He smiled.
The doorbell rang and Oliver went to answer, throwing a grass skirt my direction as he did. I giddily tied it around my waist and threw on a lei, grabbing the lot to help him greet partygoers. We said hello to friend after friend. George and the oh-my-gawd girls from FACE showed. Claire came, luckily, right as Jasper had, and I kissed them both on the cheek.
“Oh, Claire,” I implored in front of him, “would you be a doll and keep Jasper close? I’m afraid he doesn’t know many here and I’ll be playing hostess all night.”
“I believe I can do that,” she said, taking Jasper’s arm when he offered it.
I winked at her as they passed, making her laugh.
“I’m hooking them up,” I whispered to Oli.
He raised a sardonic brow at this but didn’t say anything.
When his family arrived, I almost cried. I greeted each one with excitement, told them how pleased I was to see them, especially Sophia, Archie, and Imogen. His nieces and nephew had gotten so tall and mature since I’d seen them last and I told them so. Sophia squealed when I did.