The Absence of Olivia(2)

Chapter One


Spring of Freshman Year of College

Nothing in the world felt worse than ice-cold soda running down the front of your body. Forget that it was hot outside. Like, blisteringly hot. Forget that there had been many times that week I’d thought about dumping a bucket of freezing cold water over my head. Having diet coke fill your bra cups, ice cubes included, was not how I wanted to cool off. Not only was the sensation alarming, you know, ice cubes in my bra and all, but I was humiliated. My white linen sleeveless shirt was now sticking to the same bra filled with soda and giving everyone in the campus café a sneak peek at my goods. Everyone, except of course, for the guy who’d run into me, spilling my soda down the front of my chest, and then continuing on his way without so much as a “sorry,” or even a “get out of my way.”

“Oh, my gosh,” I whispered to myself, leaning forward slightly and pulling the drenched fabric of my shirt away from my body, trying desperately to hide what I’m sure everyone had already seen. My purse strap slid off my shoulder, and before I could catch it, my entire purse fell to the ground, all its contents splaying across the floor in a brilliant display of girl-shit pyrotechnics. Not only had everyone seen my bra through my soaked shirt, but also now, everyone could clearly see I was on my period and had to use moisturizer for people with oily skin. I tried to keep in both a groan of embarrassment and the tears that were currently pooling in my eyes.

“Here, take my shirt.”

I heard him before I saw his face, and even in my state of absolute embarrassment, I noticed his voice. Heard its deep timbre and felt the way my body leaned toward it before my head tipped up and my eyes found his. I saw his face first. I saw the way his jawbone was prominent, as were his cheekbones. I saw the blue of his eyes and the way his blond eyebrows only made them look bluer. I saw his lips that were a shade of pink that, alone, would seem feminine, but coupled with all the maleness of the rest of his face, seemed to fit him perfectly.

Then my eyes wandered and I realized his chest was bare. His chest was bare because he was offering me his shirt.

“Here,” he said gently, motioning for me to take it from him.

I finally regained the use of my arms, and opened up the plaid cotton shirt he offered and pushed my arms through the sleeves. I did so while keeping my head low, but not low enough that I couldn’t see his absolutely and ridiculously muscled chest. He had more abs than I’d ever seen up close and in person. More breadth to his shoulders than should have been physically possible. He was wide in a way I couldn’t have ever imagined. But he was also lean. There was no fat on him. He was tight and long and huge.

“Thanks,” I mumbled as I tried to give him a small smile. I probably looked like I had tasted something bad. Instead of buttoning up the shirt, I just wrapped it around me, and stood there in front of him, huddled like a loser, feeling the soda squish from my shirt and drip down my legs.

Suddenly, his face was gone from my sight and I realized he’d bent down to pick up my belongings. My tampons.

“Well that guy was a big *,” he said, grabbing my purse and opening it up, reaching for all my girl things laying on the floor. I dropped to my knees as quickly as I could and reached for the first tampon I could see, trying desperately to get to them before he did. Luckily, it looked as though he was aiming to collect everything except tampons, so I shoved them in my purse and tried to pretend like I wore hot strangers’ shirts every day while flinging feminine hygiene products on the floor.

When everything had been collected, we stood up, both still holding on to my purse, him shirtless, me trying not to stare. He finally let go and I watched as he raised a hand to his too-long hair and ran his fingers through it.

“He should have at least apologized,” he said finally.

“Who?” I asked, confused.

“The guy who totally ran you down and then took off.”

“Oh, right. Him. He was probably in a hurry.”

“That’s no excuse for being a douchebag.”

“You know what? I agree. That was kind of a douche move.” I laughed and then laughed a little more when I saw him smile. “Um, thanks, again, for the shirt.”

“No problem. You were a little, uh, on display.”

“Oh, you noticed?” I asked him this question in a totally innocent way, hoping that perhaps, even though I felt like everyone’s eyes had been on me, no one really saw much. But when I saw his face turn red, the blush creeping down his neck, I knew he’d seen more than enough.

“Hard not to,” he said, blushing even deeper, but this time the corner of his mouth tipped up in a lopsided grin I liked way too much.

“What dorm are you in? So I can return your shirt after I wash it?”

“It’s no problem; you keep the shirt,” he said easily.

“Oh,” I said, a little dejected, thinking he didn’t want to tell me which dorm he lived in because he didn’t have any interest in seeing me again. I wasn’t a bad looking girl. I liked the way I looked and tried hard to look my best each day. I was satisfied with my body, only really longing to be a little taller. But I had great hair and knew my boobs and butt were assets the opposite sex found attractive. I didn’t flaunt them, but they weren’t a hardship to have. I had an hourglass figure and was proud of it. So when he’d basically seen my chest through my see-through shirt and didn’t want to see me again, I was a little confused and more than a little hurt.