Page 72 of Lotus

I think it’s an appropriate time to use the wordfuck.

“Fuck.”

Gabe is going to kill me.

S E V E N T E E N

HE’S STANDING ATOP THE FROST-TIPPED GRASSwith Athena snuggled against his chest, facing the line of trees that fence in his backyard. I’m standing at my office window.

Watching him.

Gabe told me about the ‘Raccoon Debacle’ that happened four days ago after Oliver left my house looking like I’d knocked him to the ground, then kicked him for good measure. It was the first time in my life I found little enjoyment in watchingThe Big Lebowskias we sat in silence on opposite ends of the couch, the only reel playing in my mind being what transpired in my bedroom.

I want to be more.

Those blunt, undiluted words have kept me up every night since, sinking deeper and deeper into untapped parts of me. I’m used to people skirting around their feelings, dancing around truths. I’m accustomed to picking apart riddles and rhymes. Peeling back the lies.

But Oliver Lynch doesn’t know how to lie.

And I’m fairly certain my own truths were revealed in the way my body reacted when our groins connected on my bed, his arousal pressing into me, his hands roving and curious. But my mouth betrayed me, my fear won out, and I told him we werejust friends.

Lying is a learned art, and I’m teaching him well.

My eyes glaze as I stare at him through the ice-crusted glass. The temperatures have plummeted over the last few days, adding to the chill that has already been lingering on my skin. Oliver is dressed in a russet-colored fleece coat, Athena’s little head poking out through the zipper as he pets her fondly. His tall, broad frame is an endearing contrast to his delicate manner, and it’s just one of the many things that attract me to him.

Attraction.

It’s a deadly word—one I’ve been adamantly trying to avoid for the past few months as my feelings for Oliver continue to heighten and swell. There’s a decipherable difference betweenattractiveandattraction, and I’ve been straddling that line every time I straddlehim.

There’s no denying the pull between us, or the sparks that flicker and scald like tiny embers when our eyes collide, ocean on sunset. While heismy friend—my best friend—he’s also so much more. He always has been, even as a memory.

That same month he was taken from me, I told him I was going to marry him one day. I planned our wedding, documenting it in myLisa Frankjournal, from the dress I’d wear, to the floral arrangements, to the beachside honeymoon in Maui.

Leaning out my window on a sweltering summer morning, I asked him if he wanted to marry me, too. Oliver replied, “Who else would I marry?”

Our future was set in stone. Life wasgood.

And then he was gone.

In a flash, in a blink, without warning, Oliver was ripped from my hands. As the fireworks burst to life overhead, something inside me died that night. Ifeltit. The loss was crawling all over my skin like little fire ants, stinging and biting, leaving scars that would forever brand me. And even though he’s back now, so perfect and beautiful, I’m not convinced I’ve ever fully recovered from that loss.

Oliver wasn’t the only victim that day.

My ribs ache, my heart stretching twice its size as I bore holes into him. Oliver still stands in his yard, holding that raccoon in the same tender fashion he holds every piece of me.

I decide to join him. I’m far from presentable in my wrinkledCranberriest-shirt and sweatpants, makeup-less, my hair in the messiest of messy buns, but I throw on my puffer coat and boots and make a quick exit out the front door. My breath is visible as it hits the frosty air, and I stuff my hands into the warm pockets of my coat, approaching Oliver while the grass crunches beneath my soles.

Maybe he hears me. Or maybe hefeelsme the way I feel him.

“It’s a hell of a thing,” he says, still facing away from me as I come up behind him. His breath escapes in icy puffs.

I’m at his side, our shoulders kissing.For warmth. “What is?” I wonder.

Oliver strokes Athena right between the ears, his gaze twisted with sorrow as he watches the animal’s claws latch onto the front of his shirt. “Letting go.”

A swallow builds and stretches my throat. Those same eyes drift to me, the sorrow still visible, glittering with multiple meanings. I reach for his free hand and lace our fingers together, as if I’m trying to physically counter his words. “Will she be okay? It’s so cold.”

“She’s a wild animal. She’ll adapt to the elements.” Oliver lowers his gaze to the ground. “We all learn to adapt.”

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