Dear Heart

12. Wendy

12

Wendy

"I don't want to be that friend," Tate said, and Wendy was already rolling her eyes. "But that hickey is spectacular."

She tugged her scarf up higher and tried not to blush.

Tate's laugh told her she wasn't successful.

When she'd left Ollie's that morning, she'd quickly realized there was no way she could finger-comb her hair and just roll into work pretending she hadn't showered. Not in her first year at Braswell, and not when her students' artist eyes missed nothing. No one asked her prying personal questions for the most part, but if she showed up disheveled, dress wrinkled, with a giant hickey on her neck, someone would ask her about it.

She'd passed Simone on her way into their apartment.

"How was–" Simone had started.

"Tell you later!" Wendy had called back, and tripped over herself in her hurry to her room. She'd showered, tied her wet hair up in a knot, and then blanched when she realized she needed her hair to hide the darkening bruise along the side of her throat.

In front of the mirror, she'd passed her fingertips over the mark, shivering when the sensitivity conjured images of Ollie large and heavy above her, his breath hot against her skin. She'd wound a decorative paisley scarf around her neck and hoped that would suffice.

Obviously, it didn't.

They were in the lounge on the first floor, by the main office, Keurig burbling in the background, winter sunlight pouring through the tall windows and no doubt illuminating her hickey like a beacon.

Wendy picked up her mug and blew the steam off the top, face warm with something that wasn't quite embarrassment. "Things may have...progressed last night," she admitted.

"Ha!" Tate grinned evilly and hopped up to sit on the counter beside her. Today he wore olive skinny cords, blue plaid shirt and mustard-colored vest that was an honest-to-God waistcoat. His tie was navy with little white stars on it, and somehow he pulled it off flawlessly, his sandy hair brushed neatly to the side. "Did you two crazy kids go all the way?"

"Honestly, who talks like that?" Simone asked from the sink. She was working little bits of dried clay from beneath her fingernails.

"Dashing art history professors," he said. "And you shouldn't be putting clay in this sink, by the way."

"Bite me," she returned, sweetly. She shut off the water and turned to face Wendy as she dried her hands. Now there were two sets of eyes glued to her; perfect. "Okay, so, spill."

"Is he an animal in bed?" Tate asked. "I bet so. He has the look–"

"Nothing happened," Wendy said, waving a hand through the air to stop his speculation. Her cheeks were on fire at this point.

"You made out," Simone guessed.

"Yes, and then we went to sleep. He slept on the couch," she rushed to add, and Tate made a disappointed face.

"You, my dear, are a boring source of gossip," he said, sighing. Then he perked up. "But making out means romance. And that means you talked about your undying love for each other...?"

She let her eyes flick down to her coffee, the foam on top of the cappuccino. "Pretty much, yeah." Her heart swelled, warm and full when she thought about Ollie. About his unsent letters and the adoration shining in his wounded eyes. About the sunlight touching his scars that morning, and the way he'd been so careful with her.