Separate Like Stars Page 17

  “Look, I’m not trying to start an argument, but a few minutes ago, the back and forth between you and Marie. Do you want to talk about it?” She watches me for a few seconds before turning her attention back to her burrito, the act unsurprising. I know Olivia likes her cooked foods to be piping hot and her refrigerated items ice cold.

  “If I say I don’t want to talk about it, will you drop it?” I can see it in her eyes; she doesn’t want to let it go. But I also sense her hesitation, that she knows she’s on thin ice right now, and she’s worried that it’ll break. “Look, I’m not a fool. I know there is some truth in that article. I mean the pictures…I know they aren’t fake. But just because the world thinks it has some magical insight into my relationship, it doesn’t mean that I owe anyone an explanation. Neither does Addison,” I add, somehow managing to keep my tone even.

  “What about all the other times?”

  “Olivia,” I quickly warn her. This isn’t a matter that involves or concerns her.

  “All right,” she answers, lifting her hands in surrender. “I only asked because I want you to be happy. If the relationship works for you, then the dynamics are no one else’s business.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, letting the conversation die. I watch Olivia as she takes another bite of her burrito, her nose wrinkling in mild disgust. It’s her tell that it’s no longer warm enough for her to be interested in eating it.

  “Would you like to see the renovations?” she asks before cleansing her palate with a drink of water. “They aren’t complete, but I think you’ll see a big difference. I’d also like to keep catching up with you. Maybe we could walk there together?” she hopefully adds. I take my time mulling over her suggestion. On the one hand, I need more exposure to Olivia before dinner tonight. I’m not an actress, so there’s no way that I’d be able to fake any form of civility with her. On the other hand, should I really have to approach Olivia like she’s an acquired taste, one that I may or may not grow to like on some level again?

  “Sure,” I answer when I realize I don’t have enough time to examine all the angles. A glance at the clock also tells me that the flower shop won’t be open for about another hour. Olivia’s lips curl into a smile that I’ve surely witnessed a million times before as she slides out of the booth and drops some cash on the table. I follow suit, allowing her to lead the way out of the diner. We begin ambling along the sparsely populated sidewalk, the late morning sun warning that it’s going to be one of those dog days of August. “I need to grab my bike,” I inform her as I slip my sunglasses over my eyes.

  “Okay,” is her only response as she changes her course for the bike rack along the side of the building. We turn for the old antique store after I unlock my bike, Olivia remaining unusually quiet as we eliminate the first of six blocks.

  “You’re being awfully quiet,” I observe after we cross the street.

  “I’m nervous,” she meekly admits. I look over at her, my forehead apparently displaying enough creases that I don’t need to ask for clarification. “I’m worried that I’ll say or ask something that will make you decide that there’s no room for me in your life,” she elaborates, her eyes never looking away from the dark lenses covering mine.

  “I can’t think of a single instance where you didn’t throw caution to the wind,” I muse as I try to blow the dust off of my memories of her.

  “This is too important.” She’s too impatient to wait for me to think of a response though, and quickly continues. “Look, I don’t regret taking that chance when I moved to Paris. Professionally, it was the best opportunity I could have hoped to receive. However, I have so many regrets about staying there for so long. I barely saw my mom during the final years of her life, I was foolish and lost you, my relationship with dad and Kurt started to disintegrate, I didn’t meet my nephew until after my niece was born. I’m sure there are other reasons,” she concludes, her eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I tried to reconnect with you when I got out of rehab. I was still in love with you, and although I harbored no hope of rekindling our relationship, I just wanted to hear your voice, or receive a message directly from you that told me how your life was going. I was putting my life back together, and I wanted you to be one of those pieces.” She remains silent once finished, allowing me precious moments to absorb what she’s just shared.

  “There was a time, before your mom passed, that I would come home and Kira would have a friend or study buddy over. Every time I walked through that door and saw an unfamiliar pair of shoes or a strange coat, there was a part of me that hoped you had come back.” I don’t know why I divulged that secret to her. I never told anyone, not even Kira, who I didn’t want to feel as though she wasn’t allowed to have a guest in our apartment.

  “And after?” I sigh and scratch along the back of my neck with my free hand, knowing that I opened this can of worms. Maybe it’s for the best that I get it out. Perhaps it will help put an end to the anger I feel towards Olivia.

  “After…I still hoped, maybe even more than I had before, until that phone call. After that, I told myself no more.” I pause, mentally scrambling to come up with an example for her. “Did you see the first John Wick movie?”

  “Yeah,” she drawls, her tone relaying her confusion.

  “So you remember how he buried all of his stuff in the concrete floor when he got out?” Olivia nods that she does as we continue to walk, drawing near the soon to be restaurant. “That’s pretty much what I did after that call. Everything from you went into a box that I taped shut and haven’t opened since. I mentally encased everything in concrete so it couldn’t slip out and ambush me. Your return has broken up that concrete.” I pause to think of another analogy but decide to stick with the already established one. “I always believed that one of the most overlooked aspects of that film was John’s emotional journey. I know it’s supposed to be a classic revenge tale, but they are still present. He’s grieving the loss of his wife and then the last gift she gave him, the puppy. He’s angry that they stole his car, killed his dog, and that he’s being pulled back into a life he wanted to leave behind. He’s forced to deal with the betrayal of people he thought would be on his side. I know it’s not the perfect analogy, and most viewers would never look deep enough to see past the action and violence, but it’s there and it’s the only thing I could think of off the top of my head as a means of trying to help you understand.”

  “What did you do with the box?” she asks, stopping to allow a few cars through the intersection. We aren’t in a hurry. If we were, we would have been to du Pays at least five minutes ago.

  “I mailed it home and told mom to burn it. I didn’t want it in the apartment, tempting me, reminding me of everything I thought we had.”

  “We did have everything you thought we did. I never betrayed you,” she reiterates, her hand reaching out for mine before she realizes what she’s doing and quickly drops it back to her side.

  “I know, but it’s how it felt at the time. Perception dictates a majority of what we feel emotionally,” I try to rationalize. “Anyway, mom didn’t burn the box. She stashed it in the third bedroom that we always used for storage. I found it there when I moved into the house.” I remember the angry phone call I made to my mother as I glared at the box, the lone occupant of the empty room, reminding me of a past I took so many measures to forget. Olivia stops us outside the entrance to her establishment, standing between me and the door, prohibiting our progress.

  “What would you have done if I had shown up?” she asks, her keys jingling in her hand.

  “Before the call, I would have taken you back. After…it would have been ugly. Probably a lot uglier than it’s been thus far.” Olivia doesn’t display any reaction to this before she turns and slips the key inside the lock, opening the door for me to enter.

  “You can bring your bike inside. I’ll have to get a bike rack before we open,” she adds as I enter the building whose windows are covered in that white film that prevents people passing b
y from looking in. My initial reaction is one of awe as I take in how much space the building houses now that the tightly packed counters and rows of antiquities have been removed. Even now I can picture the dimly lit, overpacked store, with is busy shelves, stuffed display cases, and walls covered in wares from floor to ceiling. Olivia and I once challenged ourselves to stay at the shop until we had looked at everything. Not just a cursory glance over a section at a time either. We had to really look at the items contained within the walls. We spent nearly four hours on the upper level before hunger won and caused us to admit defeat. I also realize that the smell in the place is different. Gone are the telltale aromas of dusty paperbacks, the various stale vintage perfumes, the scent of old clothing and dust, lots of dust. In its place is a lemon-scented floor cleaner, the aroma emanating from a nearby bucket. Without asking for permission, I head over to the stairs and scale the two dozen risers leading to the upper floor. I find the area equally empty, the stacks of books and magazines, the drinking accessories where we found our vintage cocktail shaker, everything that once occupied the space is gone.

  “The stairs don’t squeak anymore,” I inform Olivia when she finally joins me.

  “I know. I had the guys repair them.” She turns to me with the mischievous smirk I knew so well painted on her lips. “Why? Were you planning on trying to get a little frisky up here?” she asks, both our minds holding the same memory of those squeaky stairs and how we utilized that loud squeak whenever we decided to risk a little public affection.

  “It’s all sorta surreal. I mean, I never would have guessed that antique shop had so much space. But now…” I indicate the downstairs and upstairs areas with my hands. “Are you really planning to fill all of this open space?”

  “That’s my plan. I’d like to utilize the upstairs for those diners seeking a more intimate atmosphere. The spacing between tables will be greater than downstairs, the lighting will be significantly dimmer, with a reliance on candles, children will not be seated upstairs.” I turn to look into the room, the stark contrast between past and present highlighting itself in my mind.

  “May I?” I ask, turning back to Olivia in time for her to nod her permission. I step onto the black, grey and silver patterned carpet, the abstract design perhaps covering the old cracked beige tile floor that saw years of traffic in the antique shop. The fluorescent lights have been replaced by hanging light fixtures that drop from the ceiling and sit suspended over each of the tables. Chrome framed chairs with black seats are arranged around each table. I run my hand over the top of one of the custom-made tables, the black body with the chrome top a perfect match to the carpet and the deep purple accent wall. It’s easily the most modern setting in town.

  “What do you think?” Olivia asks from behind me. “Is that accent wall too much?”

  “No, I really like it. Everything works well together,” I answer, looking around again.

  “But?” Olivia asks, seeming to have read some unspoken thought of mine.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit fancy for Jupiter Falls?” I ask, returning my focus to her.

  “Perhaps,” she admits with a sigh. “Let me ask you something though. Where do you go if you live here and you want to go out on a nice dinner date?” I continue looking at Olivia, knowing that she knows there isn’t a nice dinner spot in this town. “Exactly. You have to drive an hour in either direction to go somewhere in the city. Would you bring Addison here on a date?”

  “Of course,” I easily admit. Although Addison is only here a few days a year, I add in my head. “It’s a risk though, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But I’ve done my homework. The people in this town want a nice dining establishment. They want to be able to go on a dinner date without traveling for an hour. I’ve locally sourced everything that I can. A local steelworker made the tables. The light fixtures were purchased through the local hardware store. I’m incorporating the people of this town as much as I can, from food and beverage sources to fixtures and labor force. I want them to feel like they are a part of it, to give them some imaginary sense of ownership or investment that will drive them to return that investment by dining here.” She frustratedly runs her fingers through her wavy locks before letting her hand fall to slap against her thigh.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a wet blanket. I really do hope du Pays is a huge success for you.”

  “But?”

  “No but,” I answer as we stare at each other. “I don’t harbor some hope that you’ll fail.”

  “Even if failing meant that I’d be gone again?” she asks, her gaze unflinching as she waits for a response. I try to think about how I’d feel if she were to leave again, but I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around the fact that she’s back. If she were to leave, would everything go back to the way it was a week ago? Would I revert to not thinking about her, not looking at her house, not recollecting memories we made all over this town? Or is it too late for that no matter what happens with du Pays?

  “Would you leave if this didn’t work out?”

  “Wow. Don’t pull any punches,” Olivia reprimands me before turning and heading back down the stairs.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I call as I chase her retreating form. She turns to look up at me from the foot of the stairs, stopping my descent.

  “I understand that you’re unhappy that I’m back, but why did you agree to come here if being around me is so difficult?” I don’t need the clear view of her eyes to know that she’s hurt, I can hear it in her voice.

  “It wasn’t a loaded question,” I assure her as I descend two more steps. “Look, I’m still processing you being back, so I have no idea how I would react if you were gone. That’s the truth. I really was inquiring what your plans were if this doesn’t work,” I explain as I halt my descent two steps from the foot of the stairs.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m focused on trying to make sure everything here is in order and perfect. I’m so absorbed in trying to make sure that I don’t miss something that will sink the ship before it even gets going, that I haven’t stopped to worry about what I’ll do if I fail.” She turns and looks around the barren lower level, looking for more of those possible leaks that aren’t there. “I’m not going back to Paris though,” she informs me when her eyes meet mine again. “I want to be here, close to my family. It took a lot to get things back on track with them, I don’t want to lose that,” she adds before a lengthy silence lingers between us. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the place.” I pause for a moment to take in the newly refinished hardwood flooring from my vantage point on the stairs, the beautiful dark veins of the Tigerwood creating unique patterns throughout the length of the dining room.

  “So tell me about your life in Paris,” I manage as I descend the last two steps to catch up with a patiently waiting Olivia.

  “Be honest, what do you think of the floor?” she asks when I’m back by her side. Okay, I think to myself as I turn to face the bar area. “I’m going to answer your question, I’m just curious about your thoughts on the flooring,” she informs me as I take in the black marble bar top, seated on top of a cherry stained bar. The absence of any liquor, barstools, or shelving giving away how much more work still needs to be completed.

  “I like the flooring, but I’m guessing you assumed as much since you know I’m fond of abstract designs.” Olivia smiles, but I’m still too distracted by her evasion of answering my question to pay it much mind.

  “I know you used to prefer abstract art, but people change,” she shares as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Come, I’ll show you the kitchen and get us something to drink,” she commands as she turns away from me, angling towards a set of double doors, which presumably lead into the kitchen. “What would you like to know about Paris?” she asks as she steps through the swinging doors, holding one open for me to enter the kitchen.

  “I don’t want to know about Paris. I asked about you,” I correct her as I take in
my new surroundings. Flawless stainless steel surfaces reflect the fluorescent lighting that seems too bright when coupled with the black tile flooring. Burners, a griddle and a grill all line the longest wall, each housing three storage drawers beneath their bases. Shelving units, side by side refrigerators, and prep tables round out the space. I watch as Olivia crosses the room to one of the refrigerators and pulls open the door, swinging it wide enough for me to see the drink offerings inside.

  “I’ve kept a supply of beverages here for the work crews. Would you like anything?” she asks as she grabs a bottle of her favorite root beer for herself.

  “A water would be nice, thanks. I see that root beer is still your favorite,” I add when she passes the bottle of water to me.

  “I don’t know. I went years without it since I couldn’t get it in Europe. It’s still good, but it doesn’t seem to taste the way it used to.”

  “That’s because we’re getting old. We’re losing our taste buds,” I joke as Olivia takes a sip of her preferred beverage. She had some at the house, and now she has some here. It might not taste the same, but I know she still enjoys it.