Page 88 of The Time It Takes
He stands and walks around the counter to put his plate in the sink. “What did you want to happen?” he asks. When I frown at his question he continues, “When you humiliated her on the beach like that.” His words fall flat between us and I’m not entirely sure what to say to the sudden mood shift and growing tension in the air.
I wipe my hands together to rid them of crumbs. “I was angry, and it made me impulsive.”
“Well, in that case, you can save your apology for her.”
“My apology is for you. Not her.” He lifts his head to look at me, his eyebrows knitted together. “I’m not sorry I said anything, only how I did it. I’m sorry it embarrassed her to be caught, sure. I’m sorry it put a weird rift between the two of you. I’m sorry that it puts you in a tough position.”
He runs his hand down his face just before his eyes fall to my chest again. His face softens and I would throw my pizza at him if it didn’t taste so good.
“Stop doing that,” I say as I try my best not to cover myself with my hands. “I’m not fragile. I’m not delicate. So, whatever you want to say to me I can handle it. You can yell at me. We can fight. You can say all the worst things you can think about me, and I’ll swallow them. Just please, stop looking at me like I’m going to break at any moment.”
Too many minutes pass where we’re just staring at each other. He walks around the counter and when I think he’s finally going to say something, he walks right past me. I throw my hands up in the air behind his back. He walks toward the bar and starts to pour himself a drink. I slowly get up and walk toward him. He’s too focused on his task to look at me, so I walk around the bar and face him with my arms crossed.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I ask. “I told you to yell at me. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted to do since I got back?”
He clutches the bottle of whiskey so hard his knuckles turn white. I take a step closer to his side. He tenses but doesn’t move.
“Tell me how much you hate me, Ollie.” His name cracks in my throat. I need his words. I can’t keep living without them—without knowing how he really feels.
I watch his jaw tighten before he whispers, “I don’t hate you.” He throws back the glass, swallowing all of it.
“Stop lying to yourself,” I demand, my voice tight. “The truth. What is it?”
He scoffs. “Always so damn difficult,” he mutters. He goes to pour another glass but slams the bottle down instead.
I take a step back when he whirls around to face me. “I hate that you left. I hate that you didn’t call. I hate that you broke all your promises. I hate that you moved on while I’ve been here where time stands still. I hate that you left me with all the pieces of your damn soul. I hate that you left me here with nothing but the memory of you. I hate that you want me to hate you. I hate that you’re right, it would be easier that way. I hate that I don’t blame you for leaving. I hate that you came back, and I didn’t know. I hate that I’ve held it against you only in a way that makes me selfish. And I guess what I hate the most is that I still don’t understand why it was so easy for you to leave me behind.” His chest heaves on a trembling breath. “I don’t hate you, Will. How could I when I spent my entire life loving you?”
I take a few more steps back at his words as if they’ve managed to land a physical blow to my heart. Oliver lays his palms flat on the bar, letting his head sag between his shoulders.
“You knew I was going to leave for Juilliard,” I remind him, feeling the weight of the excuse I can't seem to stop using. “I was gone either way.”
His eyes dart to me and they’re no longer soft. Instead, he looks…lost. I hate that it’s my fault. “But you were supposed to come back to me.” His voice comes out uneven, but he doesn’t seem to care. He stands up straighter and towers over me. “You wanted to open a piano studio and teach, remember?”
“Plans change,” I tell him.
His eyes drop to my hand, and he grabs it, holding it between us. His touch makes all the fires inside of me burn brighter. He balls my hand in a fist, only leaving my pinky out. We both stare down at the tattoo there. He holds his pinky up beside it. The numerical III represents so much to us—something that connects us completely and entirely to one another. He runs a gentle finger over it.
“Does this still mean anything to you?” he asks.
“It means everything,” I say, even as it feels hopeless on my lips.
“Then why was it so easy?”
I think about what he’s asking carefully. He’s asking me how it was so easy for me to walk away from him even at the moment that felt as if we were all each other had left. He’s asking why it was so easy to let him go, but it wasn’t.
I shake my head as I watch his thumb run absently along my pinky. “It wasn’t easy,” I admit. “It was terrifying.” I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to say the words. “Even after losing my father, which basically led to losing my mother too. The night Ben died it ruined something inside of me. It felt like my heart had become glass and it was shattering on the floor.” I look up at him. “All of my plans were put on hold because I was afraid to lose anything else. I stopped caring the way I used to, and I shut myself down.” I grab his hand with both of mine. “But leaving you the way I did, letting you go was the hardest thing I ever had to do. You were my light, but I couldn’t let you save me anymore. So, I let you go before I could lose you too.”
I push his hand away gently and walk toward the bottle of bourbon and pour myself a glass. I take a sip as I let my words settle into the air around us. I set the glass down softly as I stare down at my pinky again. I feel him walk over to my side.
“If you’re going to forgive anyone,” I insisted, looking up at him. “Forgive her.”
His eyebrows draw together, and his throat bobs as he works on a swallow. “I’m not the one who needs to do any forgiving. You need to forgive yourself, Willow. For all the things you never became.”
I have to look away. I bring the glass of whiskey with me as I walk over to the window. The aura is different here compared to New York. It feels more peaceful being able to see the ocean. The day has faded, and the sky is now a wild orange. The streets are still busy and buzzing with life. Rain starts to fall gently against the glass, and I trace the droplets with my fingertips.
“It’s funny how when we were kids, we didn’t plan a thing, and everything seemed to turn out fine. Now that we do, everything constantly goes to shit. What they don’t teach you is that you can plan all you want, but life will happen either way. Things happen simply because they do. They feed us bullshit about things always happening for a reason when they don’t. Life just is and we just are. I’ve spent the past ten years agonizing over everything that could have been if I had just made a different choice and I’m still trying to figure out how to make it stop.”
I can feel him come up behind me, the warmth of his chest against my back. “How do you think things would be if you chose differently?”
