Mr. Holland Said We Were Just Sleeping Together

The phone buzzed against the nightstand like something alive.

I didn't move. Oliver's arm was heavy across my ribs, his breath warm and even against the back of my neck. Sunday morning. The curtains were still drawn. I could feel the shape of last night in every sore muscle, every tender spot on my skin.

The phone buzzed again.

I reached for it without lifting my head. The screen said Mom.

"Geraldine." Eleanor Cooper's voice was already dressed, already caffeinated, already three steps ahead. "I'm picking you up in thirty minutes. We're going to the Holland estate."

"It's Sunday," I whispered.

"Oliver has a formal introduction today. His mother asked me to bring you along for support. You know how he gets — he'll need a familiar face in the room."

"A formal introduction," I repeated. The words didn't land right. They sat on the surface of my brain like oil on water.

"Thirty minutes. Wear something appropriate."

She hung up.

I lay there for five seconds, maybe ten. Then I turned my head just enough to see Oliver's face on the pillow beside mine. His jaw was slack, his dark hair pushed back, one hand still curled loosely against my hip. He looked like a painting of someone who had never hurt anyone.

"Oliver." I kept my voice low, almost a breath. "My mom just called. She says we're going to your family's house. Something about a formal introduction — she wants me there to help you through it."

He made a sound. Not a word. Just a low hum in his chest, the kind of noise a cat makes when you scratch behind its ears. His arm tightened, pulling me back against him. My spine pressed into his bare chest.

"Help me pick something to wear," he murmured into my hair. "And fix your hair before we go. It's a mess."

I went still.

Not the kind of still where you're thinking. The kind where your body understands something before your mind catches up.

Oliver's eyes opened. Slow. Green and sharp, even half-asleep. He looked right at me, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

"You didn't actually think I was going to marry you, did you?"

The sentence landed clean. No malice in his voice. He said it the way you'd correct someone who mixed up a date on a calendar.

I sat up and swung my legs off the bed. The sheets fell away from my shoulders. Cool air hit the marks on my collarbone, my neck, the places his mouth had been hours ago.

My bra was on the floor by the window. I picked it up, turned my back to him, and tried to hook the clasp. My fingers wouldn't cooperate. They kept slipping, the metal catching and releasing, catching and releasing.

The mattress shifted behind me. I felt him before I saw him — Oliver on his knees, his chest close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His hands came around, steady and practiced, and fastened the clasp in one motion.

His thumb paused on my left side. Right on the small mole above my hip bone.

The exact spot he'd pressed his lips to last night, whispering something I'd been stupid enough to believe.

I pulled away and walked to the vanity without looking at the mirror. I already knew what I'd see. The red marks trailed from below my ear to the dip of my clavicle, a map of everywhere he'd been.

"The introduction is with Abigail Floyd," Oliver said from the bed.

My hand stopped. The lipstick hovered a centimeter from the corner of my mouth.

Abigail Floyd.

I knew that name the way you know a scar under your sleeve. Oliver had mentioned her exactly twice in all the years I'd known him — once drunk at twenty-one, once sober at twenty-three. Both times his voice had changed. Gotten quieter. Younger.

She was his college senior in the art department. She'd gone abroad before he ever said a word to her. I had filed her away as ancient history, a ghost from before me.

"She just got back from Vienna last month," he continued. He was smiling. I could hear it. "Geri, I'm genuinely nervous. I haven't seen her in four years. What if I say something stupid?"

I pressed the lipstick to my mouth and drew a careful line.

"You'll be fine," I said.

"You think?" He was behind me again. Gray sweatpants slung low, no shirt, arms circling my waist from behind. His chin rested on my shoulder. In the mirror, we looked like a couple. We looked like something real.

"Don't get the wrong idea about us," he said to my reflection. "You and me — we grew up together. You're like a brother to me, Geraldine."

The word sat between us like a stone dropped into still water.

"I mean, I could literally list every coat you own. That camel one, the black trench, the oversized gray thing you wear when you're sad. I know what you wear underneath all of them." He ticked the items off like inventory. "The La Perla set, the Calvin Klein basics, that ridiculous lace thing you bought in Paris. See? I know you too well. There's no mystery left. No spark."

He squeezed my shoulders once — friendly, firm — and stepped back.

"That's what makes you safe," he said. "And that's why it could never be you."

I capped the lipstick. Set it down. Picked up a hair tie and pulled my hair back in three quick motions, hiding the worst of the marks under my collar.

"I'm leaving," I said.

"Already? You could help me with the tie situation. I can't decide between the navy and the —"

"I said I'm leaving."

I grabbed my coat off the chair and my bag from the floor. The weight of the bracelet on my wrist shifted as I moved — Oliver's family heirloom, a delicate chain his grandmother had given me at sixteen, back when everyone assumed we'd end up together. Back when I assumed it too.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

One look back. Just one.

Oliver stood in front of the open closet, holding two ties up to the light. One was navy. The other was a dusty rose — soft, almost pink. The kind of color you'd pick to impress someone. The kind of color you'd never wear for a brother.

The door clicked shut.

I walked to the elevator and pressed the button. My reflection stared back at me from the polished steel doors — coat buttoned to the throat, hair pulled tight, the thin gold chain wrapped twice around my left wrist catching the overhead light.

Below the collar, hidden, his teeth marks were still warm against my skin.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened.

Through the lobby windows, I could see my mother's black sedan idling at the curb, exhaust curling in the morning air.

She was already waiting.