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“That’s not in your job description.”
“You’re right, it’s not. It’s in my human description. That’s what humans are supposed to do. We’re supposed to look out for one another.”
I wondered if she knew she was too good for the world we lived in. Not many people like Emery Taylor existed. Especially in my world. The entertainment business was built around the concept of people looking out for themselves.
“You don’t really think that Alex’s death was your fault, do you?” she asked me.
I tilted my head to lock eyes with hers, and I knew she saw it, because she slightly gasped. She saw my hurts, my demons that were sitting at the forefront of my eyes. She then turned to face me fully, crossed her legs, and squeezed my hands again. She linked our fingers together, and her warmth melted the frozen pieces of me.
“Oliver, it wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. As if she’d known the story I’d been telling myself for over seven months now. As if she saw my guilt-ridden soul and knew the words I needed to hear.
I was so close to falling apart, but I didn’t want to do that in front of her. I didn’t want to turn into any more of a pathetic fool in front of the first woman who’d made my heart feel things that I hadn’t known hearts could feel.
“If you want, I can give you the name of my friend. She’s a retired therapist, and she helped me through the lowest points of my struggles. Without being able to talk to her, I would’ve crumbled completely.”
I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. “She helped you?”
“Yes.”
“You trust her?”
“With my life.” She squeezed my hands lightly. “How can I help right now, though?”
Every time she spoke, I felt a wave of comfort. Every time she touched me, I felt somewhat okay.
“Just stay with me for a while?” I asked, feeling stupid for saying it. Feeling insane for wanting it. But knowing I needed it.
“Of course. But can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you talk to me during the day? I know we’ve been having our nightly phone calls, but it feels different during the day. Almost as if you try to make yourself more distant.”
“Sometimes I don’t know how to be in the same space with you,” I confessed. “You make me nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because somehow you make me feel better, and I’m not certain if I’m allowed to feel better.”
“Oh, Oliver,” she sighed. “If there was one person on this planet who deserves to feel better, it’s you.”
I gave her a sloppy smile, unsure what to say. So, like an idiot, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “It was supposed to be ‘War,’ by Edwin Starr.”
She arched an eyebrow at me, confused. Of course she was confused. My thought made no sense.
“You sang the Bee Gees when you were giving me the Heimlich. I believe you’re supposed to sing ‘War,’ by Edwin Starr, and thrust at the word Huh.”
Her smile grew ten sizes bigger as she covered her face in embarrassment. “Oh my gosh, I knew something was off!”
“I think the Bee Gees is for CPR.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when I give you mouth to mouth next time,” she joked.
Even though it was a joke, the thought sat in my mind as my stare fell to her lips. Those full lips . . .
“So, uh, maybe we should move to the couch. Watch some television or something?” I said, tearing my thoughts and my stare away from her lips. She agreed, and we took a seat.
She sat close to me. As time went by, it felt as if she was growing closer. We watched a few movies. Well, she watched them, and I watched her. Every time she’d laugh, it felt like a burst of sunlight.
I didn’t know when she fell against me. I didn’t know how long we stayed pieced together. I didn’t know how long my arms lay against hers and how long hers were wrapped around me, but I did know that I liked it. I liked the feeling of her smooth skin. I liked the honeysuckle smell of her hair. I liked the way she held on as if she had no plans to let go.
I liked the way that she stayed.
17
OLIVER
Dr. Preston wasn’t what I expected her to be. When she showed up to my house, I was expecting to find a woman in a business suit with a briefcase. Instead, I got a very vibrant woman with a wildly bright outfit. She wore thick-framed glasses, and I could almost feel her energy bursting from her being.
“Hi, Oliver?” she asked, holding her hand out toward me. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
I shook her hand. “Yes, Dr. Preston, it’s nice to meet you too.”
She waved a dismissive hand at me. “Oh, no. No ‘Doctor’ needed, really. Just call me Abigail. Can I come in?”
