Dear Heart

6. Wendy. Ollie.

 

6

Wendy

Jim Beam was dreadful, but it got the job done. On her third round – was it a double or a triple? – Wendy felt the last tendrils of stress turn loose in her muscles, and she slumped, boneless, down onto the arm of the couch, using her own arm as a pillow. She was staring at Ollie, had been for the past half hour, and she'd decided it was a pretty perfect activity.

He had his head leaned back against the chair, eyes trained somewhere on the ceiling, and the ambient streetlight glow coming in through the high windows skimmed down his bristly chin, and the exposed line of his throat. He looked carved from rich golden stone in this light, even his hair, stern and monochromatic. A scant film of bourbon glazed the bottom of his glass; she could see her own numbness in the half-moons of his eyes, the way the drink had fuzzed all the sharp edges of the world. They weren't drunk, no, but settled right in that perfect state in which everything made sense, and nothing hurt.

Sometime – tomorrow probably – she would know that getting tipsy was the worst possible idea. But right now, she was glad for the quiet, and for Ollie, and for the chance to stare.

"Are there particular things that trigger your panic attacks?" she asked. "Like the car backfiring yesterday?"

He shrugged without lifting his head. "It could be anything. Loud sounds. When I get too hot." His fingers tapped on the glass in his hand. "Footsteps, sometimes," he said, voice growing faint. "Footsteps are bad."

She made a mental note. "Does it help to have company?" She cringed, not daring to hope that she somehow made any of this better.

But he said, "Depends on the company," and his head rolled toward her, expression raw, his eyes a little wet. "You make it better, but not everyone does."

Wendy swallowed. She thought about the tension she'd seen in him last night, this morning, just a couple hours ago. "You don't have to say that if you don't really mean it. My feelings can take a hit." She offered a quick smile. "I can go if you want me to."

He didn't even pause to think it over. "I'd ask you to move in here with me if it was appropriate."

She sucked in a breath.

"You make it better, and I'm not just saying that."

Such a simple thing, to admit that her presence was a comfort. Ten years ago it would have delighted her, but she would have squashed it down so it couldn't harm their friendship. Now, after ten years apart, the admission slid along her nerves in a caress that left her breathless, excited in a way she hadn't been for so long.

She cleared her throat and said, "You got any good movies worth watching?"

His brows lifted, and his mouth looked ready to smile. "The Thing?"

"Which version?"

"Original, of course."

She smiled into her arm. "Sounds like a plan."

~*~

Ollie

He'd seen this movie at least a dozen times, but it had been a while, and so he intended to actually watch it, let himself get sucked in, the way he did these days. Back in the day, it had been for pure escapism reasons. That part, at least, was the same, but now escape wasn't merely pleasurable, but necessary. After Iraq, fighting space aliens in the artic with flame throwers seemed like fun.

He could see the TV from his chair, but the view was best from the couch. And the view was the reason he gave himself for getting up, crossing the rug, and going to sit beside Wendy.