Dear Heart

15. Wendy

15

Wendy

Wendy was the sort of person who always intended to keep a tidy bedroom, but somehow never managed, efforts sidetracked by artistic impulses. She owned the world's actual worst mattress, carefully disguised beneath a plush pillow-top mattress pad and layers of colorful, cozy quilts. Above it, a corkboard mounted to the wall, studded with art show flyers and programs, her syllabus – laminated for posterity's sake – and a hundred little doodles, on notecards, Post-Its, and stray Starbucks napkins. Her dressing table, the one she'd had since childhood, was draped with old towels and currently housed her paints, brushes, and various half-full cups of cloudy, paint-swirled water. Her latest WIP rested at a careful angle against the wall, the Brooklyn Bridge in half-sketch, half-dark muddy oils. A jacket sleeve was caught in the closet door.

Chase had always hated her room. She thought he must have wanted her to live in some sort of sex palace or something. He got up in the middle of the night once, fumbling toward the door for the bathroom, and knocked one of her water cups over. It ruined the rug – her rug – and somehow he'd been the one angry about it.

But she didn't need to think about Chase now. She didn't want him intruding on any more moments with Ollie.

Ollie who, behind her, said, "Looks just like it always used to," with an obvious smile in his voice.

She turned around to see the smile, the wistful, sweet curve of it as his eyes tracked across her walls, the artwork pinned up, the inspiration photos and magazine tear-outs, the clutter, all of it. "Like what?"

His eyes came to her, smile tugging a little harder at the corners. "Like your head's full of color. It always was."

Well. If that wasn't enough to make a girl's stomach flutter. That was the thing about Ollie: he didn't give her the sorts of compliments boys gave girls. He gave her the words she needed exactly. Tailor-made compliments, stitched from their shared experiences, his knowledge of her.

Self-conscious again, she gestured to the small room around them, its four-paned window, fogged with radiator steam. "This is it."

"I like it."

"It's tiny. And there's paint everywhere."

"So?" He shrugged and sat down on the side of her bed, completely at ease. At home. More relaxed than she'd ever seen him since their reunion. "Don't mean it's not nice."

She felt herself grinning, and sat down beside him, close enough for comfort, far enough for a semblance of propriety. He'd been so skittish, she wanted to let him make the first move. If he wanted to. Unless he wanted her to –

"Tell me about Chase," he said, tone so light that it took her a beat to acknowledge the actual words.

Then she sucked in a shallow breath. "Yeah. Um. I don't really want to."

"Right. So tell me anyway."

She glanced over at him, the calm persistence shining in his eyes. She wanted to be angry that he was pressuring her like this, but more than that she was proud of his steadiness. "I don't actually have to tell you, you know."

His gaze softened. "I know."

"It's not going to make you feel any better, knowing all the details."

His throat moved as he swallowed. "I know. But I think I have to hear it."

She sighed and scooted back across the bed until her shoulders were against the wall.

Ollie scooted back to join her, their shoulders overlapping.

"Last chance to just make out instead," she offered, trying to smile, and he smiled back, softly, but made no move to kiss her. "Okay. So. Chase."