“So how was it?” Lola asks, oblivious to my inner anguish. “Was he a good kisser?”
“That sounds childish,” I say and wrinkle my nose.
“Still,” Lola says, excited. She moves to sit on the edge of the tub beside me. “I bet it was amazing and you felt ten years younger. No, wait, twenty years younger. Oh my, how old is this guy? I’m not going to have to bail you out of jail when his mother finds out, am I?”
I punch her arm, and we laugh.
“Shut up, Lola,” I say, trying to sound serious. “I feel awful. What could have come over me to hook up with a total stranger on the night of Dad’s funeral?”
“He’s not a total stranger,” Lola says. “He brought you an orange juice that time you spilled your coffee while you were ranting and raving about that nurse who wouldn’t listen when Dad first took that bad turn.”
“That was him?” I ask. “I forgot about that. How did you remember it?”
“I’m not a sieve,” she says. “And there was only one guy working in that department anyway. It has to be him. I can’t believe you made out with the orange juice hottie.”
“I’m glad I’m making your day.” I pretend to scowl at her.
“You always do,” she says and holds my hand. “Look, people handle grief the way they handle it.”
“I know you’re right,” I say, “but it’s just not me.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
I nod. Lola works her magic over me, telling me not to hate the part of me that has found a way to bear this for a moment.
“Don’t torture yourself over this,” she says. “There are worse things that you could have done. I’m just joking, you know. I know you aren’t the type to go home with some random guy.”
“He wasn’t that random,” I say, finding a smile. “And yes, he was a very good kisser.”
I see my guilt hovering by the toilet. I stand up and try to leave the bathroom but Lola stands up with me and holds out her arms to me. I sink into them.
“It’s ok,” she says.
“I know how Jack feels now,” I mumble into her hair.
“That’s just the guilt talking,” she says.
I look over to the toilet, but my guilt isn’t there. I pull my face out of Lola’s hair and find him standing right next to me.
“So,” Lola says, pulling back, unable to contain herself. “Is he going to ask you to the prom?”
I want to be mad at her, but it’s suddenly really funny, and when I laugh, my guilt turns into a thin mist, barely seen.
“Will Dad approve?” she asks, and we stop laughing.
“Of course not,” I say. “Dad never liked any of our boyfriends. He was right about every one of them.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “What do you think he would have said about Chris?”
“He would have ribbed you mercilessly,” I say, smoothing down her morning hair. “Then he would have told you to cut the guy some slack.”
“You think he would have liked him,” she says.
“Not that he would have told you,” I say. “But yes. Chris is good to you. And Dad would have approved.”
“Do you think you’re going to see this guy again?” she asks. “The Orange Juice Hottie?”
I shrug. I’m not really sure what last night was. It didn’t feel like a one-night stand—opportunistic and shallow and over before it gets started. This felt like a beginning—not the physical parts, but something deeper.
Lola touches the sleeve of my black dress. “You better change,” she says and winks. She runs her hands over my hair, dark, but not as deep and radiant as her own. She tries to sort me out so that I’m presentable. “You’re so cliché right now. Last night’s dress, hair a mess. This just won’t do in our movie, it’s way too predictable.”
“So what happens next?” I say.
“You change clothes and come to breakfast,” she says, hoisting herself up on the counter, thinking. She’s telling our story this time. “Mom is none the wiser. You think about Orange Juice Hottie all day. You find out his phone number, call him but hang up when he answers. Then you wander around his block until you accidently bump into him when he’s checking his mail.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t think I’m going to let you write my movie anymore.”
“Too cliché?” she asks. “Too ‘stalker in the bushes’?”
“Too desperate and sad,” I answer and hope that she’s not right.
“Anyway,” she says and opens the bathroom door. “You’ve got to see what Mom’s been setting up on the dining room table. Clean up and get down there.”
Lola leaves me in the bathroom, and I run a shower. I can still feel Oliver’s touch, and I’m afraid that the water will wash him away. I was crazy. Impulsive. Totally out of character. But Lola’s right—maybe that’s a good thing. My character is too sad right now, and I want to be someone else.
This is the part of the movie where the lead shucks off some past heartache and flies to Italy where she will start a new life and find a new man and attempt to be a better version of who she once was, only to find out, of course, that she is who she always was. But now she’s just overseas and doesn’t understand what anyone is saying. But it’s not all bad. Her new man is gorgeous, and she has all the free olives she could ever want.
I towel off and
