Dear Heart

22. Ollie

22

Ollie

Wendy dragged a chair from the table and set it angled toward the TV, though he had no intention of watching it. She surfed around until she found SportsCenter, and kept the volume low, going to the table where she'd left the box of hair dye.

"I didn't know your exact shade, so I guessed," she said, opening up the box and snapping on the nitrile gloves inside. "I went with Dark Golden Brown."

Ollie shrugged. "Sounds good as any." He hadn't cared about "exact shades" when he'd bleached his hair. He'd just been going for different, wanting to look at a face in the mirror that he didn't associate with war, and panic, and blood. It hadn't worked, obviously.

"Alright, sit," Wendy instructed, walking toward him, armed with a bottle of hair color. Her expression was a blend of warmth, affection, and the kind of sympathy he didn't want. But he sat, dutifully, skin prickling in anticipation of her much-wanted touch.

And then there it was, the amazing sensation of her fingertips sliding through his hair. Parting it, running through it, pressing against his scalp. He wished she wasn't wearing gloves, but her fingers were warm; he could feel that, at least. He knew he leaned into her touch, like a cat asking to be petted, and he didn't care.

"Hmm," she hummed, a pleasant buzzing in her throat he thought he could feel in her hands. "Look at your roots. A hairdresser would have a fit."

"That's why I didn't go to one," he tried to joke, voice low, and rough...and broken.

"Don't worry, I'll get you all fixed up."

A cold liquid sensation hit his scalp: the dye going on. She worked it into his hair with her hands, and it felt delicious. He tipped his head to give her better access to his hairline.

Wendy said, "You knew Chase was there at the studio," and it wasn't an accusation, but it wasn't a question either. She knew. She was giving him a chance to explain himself to her.

He swallowed. "I did." He had to tell her, he figured. He didn't want to, God no, but keeping the truth from her was no way to continue this relationship...whatever it was going to be going forward. "I, uh...I've kinda been stalking him on Facebook."

"Okay." Somehow, there was no judgement in her tone.

"After you told me his name, I looked him up. His profile was public, so I could look at his photos and stuff without Friending him. And I saw that he was in Brooklyn. He was looking for you, Wendy."

"Maybe."

"Why else would he be here?"

A beat passed, and she admitted, quietly, "He was looking for me."

He closed his eyes a moment, willed the touch of her circling fingertips to penetrate his skull and soothe his mind. He didn't want to ask what he was about to, but knew he should. "How did you leave things with him?"

"Ollie," she said, part-chastisement, part-regret. She wanted to answer about as bad as he wanted to ask.

"No, I'm serious."

She heaved a deep sigh that sent cool rushing across his damp scalp. "I ran." And then the words just started pouring out of her, her fingertips digging in hard, nails scratching him through the gloves. "He – he hit me, and it hurt, and Tate thought I should go to the ER and get checked for a concussion. And I looked like some kind of prize fighter or something – I had this black eye – and I just...I couldn't. I couldn't stay in that city one more second. I had to get out. So I ran. I ran, and I didn't look back, and I didn't leave a note, and I just..." Her breath caught in her throat, a quiet sob. "God, why don't you hate me for being so weak?"

"Hey." Something in his chest seized, his lungs cramping up. Her hands had stilled on top of his head and he reached up to take them into his, despite the wet, cool, slippery dye. He pulled them down to his chest, pulled her forward, so she was hugging him from behind. She nuzzled her face into the side of his throat; he felt the flicker of her lashes, the warm dew-drops of her tears.

"I could never hate you." His voice was all gravel. "Don't ever say that."

"I'm weak," she whispered, full-on crying now.

"If you're weak, then what am I?"

She pressed a wounded noise against his neck. "You went off to war."

"So did you, baby. So did you."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. The skin on his throat that had been consumed by scar tissue felt different from the rest; it experienced sensations in a strange and muted way. But he felt her breath there; as damaged as he was, Wendy could still touch him. Even in his darkest, most wounded places. "I'm sorry I wasn't here," he said, eyes stinging. "I should have been here."

"No, no, you had to. You – Damn it, I wish I could have helped you back then."

"Yeah. Me too."

And that was their impasse, wasn't it? They hated themselves for going off and doing what they had to do to survive – even though it meant separation. Not being there for each other. Ollie loathed himself for that.

You can't change the past, his dad would have said. You just have to do the right thing going forward.

And he hated that that was all he could do.

No.

No.

He could do more. He could be more.

He turned his head, until his lips brushed her forehead. They were so close, folded together like hands, tucked into each other's faces, necks; noses and eyelashes overlapping.

"I need to tell you something," he said. And it terrified him. It threatened to send him to the floor and into the fetal position. But he said it. "I need to tell you about...about the war."

"Okay." She gathered her composure with a shuddering breath. "Okay. I want to listen."