It's One of Us(57)
A thought of Park at the police station, forlorn, watching her leave like he knew she might not come back. She’d had to steel her heart to walk away. Now she wants to murder him.
Before, when she was consumed with conflicting emotions—one minute wanting to hurt him, the next, kiss him—she blamed it on the hormones. Her body was warring with itself, why not her mind, too? That’s what happened when they were doing the shots for the first round of IVF. “Menopause in a bottle,” Brigit Blessing had warned with a saucy grin. “You’re going to get a dose of what it’s like, and trust me, it will be hard to keep your mouth shut. I’d advise you learn how to count to ten before you speak.”
Too right it was hell. Olivia had prided herself on not becoming a harpy, though the urge was overwhelming. A fine-grained rage simmered inside her at all times.
Now she is consumed with the flames of anger. She wants to take the brakes off her tongue and lash Park around the edges until he is ripped and bloody. She wants to scream. To hit. To unleash herself.
But she swallows it all down. It’s not right for her to lose control. The shots, that was different. She was being injected with medications that made her irrational. This is real. She doesn’t have the buffer of medication as an excuse.
Benedict’s voice pops up. “This fury is an emotion you’re allowed to feel. Anyone would feel the same if they were in your shoes.”
Olivia’s own inner monologue argues back.
Ah, but you’re not in my shoes. You have no idea what this is like. What he’s done, it’s betrayal on an epic scale. Isn’t it?
Is it? Who betrayed who first?
Olivia is hit by a memory, her prom dress discarded in the back of the limo, the shy, warm strength of Perry’s arms. The pain she’d felt in the moment of their first joining was sharp and welcome, because it was something taken away from Park. He would never get this honor, and she was glad.
The pain of the repercussion of their trysting was her own punishment. Taking a couple of pills would have been so much easier, but according to the sketchy clinic, she was too far along. Instead, she’d had to do it the old-fashioned way, surgically, a full-blown D&C, and she knew in her soul she would never, ever be the same again. It was as horrible as she feared it would be. After, as she lay among the sister brethren of the morning’s surgeries, packed full of gauze, dazed—regretful even—at what she’d just done, the nurse had given her a prescription for birth control pills like she was an idiot who didn’t know how to prevent a pregnancy. When Olivia declined, the woman pushed the script into her hand and said, “Take it. I don’t want to see you here again. You’re better than this.”
The nurse’s derision was a harsh, horrible moment to cap a terrifying ordeal.
You’re better than this.
What a message to give a mournful teenager. It certainly struck home. Olivia vowed never again. She wouldn’t be a victim. She wouldn’t exist for the whims of a man. She would stand tall, succeed, be strong.
And look where it’s gotten her. With a man who is hiding parts of himself from her. She is a fool. Love has room for secrets, yes, but not lies. And not telling her about the child he’s aware of, pretending to both her and the cops that he knew nothing about his donor children, is the worst lie of all.
She’s been driving in circles as she replayed these awful memories, and realizes she’s closer to Lindsey’s house than her own. Maybe Lindsey has talked to that crisis management chick, and they have a plan in place. Maybe they’ll do a quick bit of late afternoon drinking. It’s almost five o’clock, and God knows she needs a drink.
Strong she might be, but made of kryptonite, no. Sometimes, a girl just needs her bestie and a huge glass of wine.
The white Tudor looks as relaxed and friendly as she could have made it and still stick to Lindsey’s modern aesthetic. Olivia loves this place; knows she did a good job on it. It’s elegant and functional, and Lindsey always keeps it show house ready. Olivia uses it in all her portfolios.
She pulls into the driveway, mounts the stairs, rings the bell. Nothing.
Pulls out her phone. I’m on your doorstep. Where are you?
The answer comes immediately. At your place. You should come home, now. Park says his office is trashed. Not from the break-in, something today.
Three dots.
Honey, are you okay?
Home. Olivia has exactly zero desire to be home. To help Park find his way out of this mess. Serves him right.
She ignores the text, ignores the vibration and ring that come moments later, too. She puts the phone into her back pocket, swipes the notification off her watch face, and is down two steps when the door opens behind her, and a deep voice says, “Liv?”
She freezes on the stairs, grabbing onto the handrail.
His voice. Vertigo. Her world spins, a kaleidoscope of possibilities. The offers, the joys, the regrets, smash cutting into this moment. His voice again, softer, aching.
“God, it is you. Aren’t you going to say hello?”
She turns into the face of the sun and is blinded.
Perry has grown since she’s last seen him. He’s two inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, but it is all muscle, easy to tell because he is shirtless, skin gleaming, and his hair, longer than she’s ever seen it, even in photos, runs in wet rivulets over his shoulders. He’s bigger than Park, fitter, too. Park’s physique, while still trim, has begun to blur around the edges lately—too much stress, too many bottles of wine, a sedentary office job. Perry is an outdoorsman, and it shows, long, ropy, all the way down to the grooves of muscle that disappear beneath the folds of the white towel hitched low around his hips, being held with a single hand. Not that she’s looking.