Kaleidoscope Hearts (3 page)

I nod, taking a sip of my drink.

“What happened? Oh. My. God. What happened when he saw you there? Did he know you would be there? Did you know he was here? Victor didn’t even warn you? Holy shit!” Mia says, practically squealing.

“This is why I didn’t want to bring it up.”

She shoots me a look. “Spill. Right now. I want to hear every single detail of what happened. Is he still hot as fuck?”

“What do you think?” I say, letting out a short laugh.

“I think he’s aging like fine wine. Does he still have the long hair? His hair was so hot,” she says, fanning herself with her hand.

“His hair was so hot? Yeah, it’s still long. Not as long, but long enough,” I say before I realize the way that sounds—not because of the actual words—but because of mental images of me threading my fingers through it.

“Well, the whole package was hot. What was it like though—seeing him again?” she asks.

“For him, I guess like old times. For me, I don’t know. It was . . .”

“Like old times pre-Oliver or post-Oliver?” she asks in another interruption.

“Easy on the questions, Columbo.”

“You can’t tell me something like that and then hold back. Just humor me!” Mia whines.

“Fine. Seeing him was . . . uncomfortable. I felt like I was being ambushed, even though he was just standing there with food in his hands. He brought sandwiches and sushi.”

Mia searches my face. “So he knew you’d be there.”

I shrug. Obviously, he knew I’d be there if he brought enough food for me to sit and eat with them, but I don’t know how far in advance he knew I’d be there. It’s not like sushi is difficult to find in Santa Barbara, but still. Victor and Oliver don’t really care for sushi. It’s my favorite food. I can eat it all the time and anytime.

“I didn’t question it,” I tell her quietly. “We didn’t really talk about much other than his residency and my sculptures.”

“He asked about the hearts?” Mia asks in a whisper.

I nod.

“Did you tell him why you make them?”

“Of course not,” I say, scoffing. “I’m not that brave.”

We share a small, pathetic, commiserative smile before she drops the subject. “So, what are you up to this weekend?”

I start telling her what the rest of my weekend looks like, and we ease into a conversation about that instead. Anything to get away from the topic of Oliver Hart.

I START PACING the studio, placing blank canvases on each easel, as I make my way around the room. Saturday night is Ladies Night here, and tonight I have a group of bachelorettes coming over as the first stop of their party. The maid of honor already came by earlier with wine she’d wanted me to chill for them, and a CD of music she wants to play. Aside from doing a presentation in the beginning of the party, I don’t get involved with anything. They usually pay to have fun and talk shit with their friends. The last thing they want is for me to tell them what strokes to use on their creative masterpieces.

At seven o’clock, I go to the bathroom and check my make-up. I feel good. I’m wearing a red shirt with black bows on the sleeves, black pumps and ripped skinny jeans that I couldn’t even dream of fitting my ass into this time last year. At the sound of footsteps, I pull myself away from the mirror and into the open space, walking toward the front of the gallery with a smile on my face, as I make ready to meet and greet. I stop dead in my tracks when I find Oliver standing in the room, looking at one of Wyatt’s paintings.

He’s not in his scrubs today, so I guess he has the day off. He’s wearing jeans that hug his narrow hips perfectly and a blue button-down shirt. He’s thrown on a charcoal gray suit jacket over it, and he looks totally GQ, as Mia would say. I guess he’s on his way to the group date Vic mentioned. He’d said they were going to a sports bar tonight, which for them is code for: We’re taking out the girls we’re currently fucking so they don’t accuse us of only wanting sex, and, let’s do this as a group at a sports bar so they know we’re not serious.

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

Oliver gives me a onceover when he turns to face me. “You look better every time I see you. How is that possible?”

I don’t let myself react the way I know he wants me to. Instead, I focus on the painting he’s looking at. The one with the dark eye with butterfly wings for eyelashes. The one that watches the way Oliver is looking at me, and eavesdropping while he flirts.

“I was in the area and wanted to stop by to see the place. I hope that’s okay,” he says, as he walks toward me.

“You’ve never wanted to see it before,” I say, keeping my voice quiet, but the words scream inside of me. He’s never made an effort to come see the studio—not even after I sent him an invitation for the grand opening of the gallery portion a few years back.

Oliver’s gaze pins me with something serious and intense—something that makes my insides rock—but I push back against the current. I push back against everything that draws me to him like a magnet as he takes one last stride and stands directly in front of me.

“I should have,” he says, his voice a low purr that begs for me to close my eyes. I don’t give in, though. I turn my face to look away—back to the eye that’s still staring at us, judging. I swallow before I speak again, to make sure my voice sounds steadier than I feel.

“Why’d you come now?”

“Are you almost done here?” he asks, looking around.

“Actually, I’m just getting started. I have a bachelorette party—” I’m not even finished speaking before I spot a blonde in a short black dress pulling the door open. Her five friends follow closely behind her, all wearing black except for one wearing a short white dress and a tiara. I smile at them. “There they are now.”

“Hi!” Gia, the maid of honor I’ve been in contact with, smiles and greets me.

“Oh my God, does this come with eye candy?” one of the girls says. “Is he our muse for the night?”

Oliver chuckles and flashes them a smile that makes all but one blush ridiculously. On principle, I assume she’s not into men, because that smile makes every female swoon.

“Unfortunately for you, he’s not. This is my friend Oliver, and he’s on his way to a date,” I say, meeting his amused eyes. “You girls can go on to the next room, and I’ll be with you shortly. Gia, your stuff is on the table.”

“Thank you so much,” she gushes as she walks past. All the girls follow, but their eyes never leave Oliver. I’m about to ask him to stand here as an exhibit one of these days. Maybe that’ll get me the movement I’ve been lacking around here.

“So . . .” I say, turning to him again.

“I came by to see if you wanted to join us tonight,” he says, dropping his voice an octave as he reaches out and twirls a loose curl around his fingers.

“Why would I do that?” I ask quietly, taking a step back so he has to drop the strand of hair he’s holding.

“Because you need a night out,” he says, as his eyes flicker from my eyes to my lips.

I take one more step back, suddenly needing more than just a little distance between us. “I had one yesterday.”

“Not with me.”

The memory of the last time he said those words to me floods my brain, and he smirks like he has front row seats to the show inside my head, where he has the lead role.

“I have to go. They’re waiting.”

Oliver nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He does this thing where he looks down at his feet and lifts his head just slightly so that he’s looking at me through his lashes. It’s sexy and alluring and makes me feel uncomfortable about the way my heart stirs at the sight. I look back at Wyatt’s painting again in an effort to squash that feeling, but it doesn’t leave. It stays there, marinating in my core between the slice of yearning and the dash of guilt that sit there.

“Maybe another time,” he says, his gaze still on mine.

“Maybe.”

“The place is really beautiful, Elle. You’ve done a good job.”

“Thanks. It was mostly Wyatt’s doing, though,” I respond. Oliver’s smile drops. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows his pride and nods.

“You both did a great job,” he says. “Did Vic give you my number like I asked him to?”

“I haven’t really seen much of him,” I say, which is a lie. I saw my brother this morning and last night, and he didn’t mention Oliver’s number either time.

“I thought maybe he gave it to you, and you just hadn’t used it.”

“Why would I use it?” I ask, looking back when I hear the girls erupt in laughter from inside the studio.

“It would be nice if you did for a change,” he says, shrugging.

My mouth drops. “It would be nice if I did?” I repeat.

We stare at each other in silence, me waiting for him to correct himself, him waiting for me to challenge him about what he said. Neither of us bites. We both know this is too much to cover in just a couple of minutes, and personally, I’d rather not cover it at all. I remember the bachelorette party I have waiting for me in the other room, and clear my throat.

“Okay, well, I’m sure I’ll see you around. Have fun on your date tonight.” I give him a small awkward wave as I pivot to walk in the other direction.

“Would you be interested in coming by the pediatrics unit in the hospital once or twice a week?” He smiles when I turn back around and raise an eyebrow, urging him to continue.

“I was thinking maybe you could paint with the kids or something. I know you like that sort of stuff,” he suggests. Visiting the hospital would mean being somehow connected to Oliver again. As if he senses the doubt in my thoughts, he soldiers on, “I’m busy finishing up my residency, so I wouldn’t be able to help much, but I have a friend that can help you iron out details.”

“Sure. Give me a call and let me know what day is good for me to drop by.” I turn one last time as a grin splits my face, and walk into the room full of overly excited, buzzed girls. Then it hits me: Oliver put this smile on my face. Memories of all the previous times he put a smile on my face bombard me all at once, and suddenly, as I look around the room at the happy women before me who are celebrating life and love, I feel like crying. But I don’t. Oliver doesn’t have the right to make me cry. Not anymore.

ON SUNDAY MORNING, I wake up to the sounds of metal clanging and groggily get out of bed to find the source of commotion.

“What are you doing?” I ask over a yawn.

“Shit! You scared me. I still haven’t gotten used to having you around,” Vic says as he bends to pick up a pan off of the floor.

“At least you’re wearing clothes,” I say, glancing at his white and blue basketball shorts. “What are you doing?” I repeat.

He sighs. “Okay, this is awkward.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “There’s someone in my room, and I’m trying to make breakfast.”

I cover my mouth to keep from laughing at the thought of Vic making any kind of food worth eating, and peek my head around the wall, looking toward his room.

“And I’m not sure if she’ll be dressed,” he adds.

My eyes widen. “Maybe you should tell her I’m here.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking I’ll have to . . . you’re kind of cock blocking what I had planned,” he says, looking around the kitchen.

I cover my ears. “Don’t speak. I’m going to shower and go have breakfast with Mia.”

Vic’s eyes light up in laughter. “You don’t have to.”

“Shh! Don’t speak.”

I go upstairs and pick out my clothes before going into the bathroom and getting ready as fast as humanly possible. It hadn’t really occurred to me what sharing a place with my brother would be like. I switch on my phone as I slip out of the house, thinking about the desperate email I’m going to write my real estate agent, and I see two new text messages from an unknown number.

This is my number- Oliver

I program it into my phone before I read the next one.

Jen wants to know if Tuesday is a good day for you to swing by the hospital. She was able to get you an empty room that you can use for art.

After looking at my calendar for the week, I’m able to move some things around—not that I have much going on these days.

I respond.

Tuesday is great. Tell her to give you a time and where I should go when I get there.

I don’t expect a response from him because it’s only nine o’clock, and most childless humans our age are asleep at this time, but my phone buzzes as I’m pulling into the coffee shop I frequent.