"See the moon, see the stars
From your lonely seat in lonely cars
You can be, oh, so mean
I just can't see no in between
You know what the sun's all about
When the lights go out"
-The Black Keys
"Olivia."
She refused to turn, refused to let herself acknowledge the presence next to her. Her eyes stayed on the road, watching the asphalt illuminated by her headlights.
"Olivia, look at me."
"No." Her answer is short, solid. But she still wants to comply, to see him and feel him.
"You can't ignore me forever, you know. I'll just keep coming back." She can't see it, but she hears the smirk in his tone. He's right, and he knows it.
"I'm driving," she blurts, desperate for an excuse, something to get him to leave her alone. Even just for a little while. "You're distracting me."
He doesn't reply, and she lets herself glance at the passenger seat. Empty.
She heaves a sigh of relief. Her eyelids droop slightly, the exhaustion of the busy day finally creeping in. She manages to get herself home, but she knows she'll collapse into bed the second she enters the apartment.
She turns off the ignition of the SUV, and lets her head fall against the steering wheel.
"Okay, you're not driving." The voice makes her jump, shooting up straight in her seat. She turns, seeing him now.
"What are you doing, trying to give me a heart attack?" she shouts, her voice reverberating through the vehicle.
"No, just trying to help you see the truth." His voice is smug, but she can't help that her heart pounds when he appears to her.
"What truth?" she asks, knowing the answer but insisting on denial for as long as possible.
"That you are not from this world. That you need to go home," he says, and leans in towards her over the center console. "That you belong with me."
She scoffs, unable to fabricate a response but not wanting him to have the last word.
He turns out of her gaze, and glances up and out of the windshield. "The stars look different here," he says quietly. "The moon, too. They seem farther away, somehow."
She looks where he does and finds herself agreeing with him, but says nothing.
She turns back to watch him again, taking in every detail of him. She won't admit it, but she does feel the love for this man that he so often speaks of. She understands how she could fall in love with him, his rugged charm and wicked sense of humor, and his complete and utter insistence on their belonging together. She would never tell, but she savors their meetings, however sparse they may be.
But, maybe, he already knows all that.
When his eyes meet hers, she is struck, as she always is and always will be, by how blue his irises are. The color of the sea, frozen with flecks of smoky gray and a ring of green just around the edges.
A memory floods her, one that doesn't belong.
"Ninety-two percent of Caucasian newborns have blue eyes. Yours were green."
Peter smiles, as if she'd said it aloud. "See, you remember something. He leans in more, and Olivia swears she can feel his warm breath hovering over her lips. "You remember me."
And then he kisses her, soft and gentle, and she leans in to kiss him back. She closes her eyes and loses herself in the contact, simple but weighted with something deeper.
She feels his hand on her cheek, a warm palm she knows isn't there but damn it, she'll enjoy it while she can. Their lips break apart, but not far. His hand brushes up, tucks some of her red hair behind the crook of her ear. "You remember me," his voice whispers, echoing in her mind over and over again.
When she opens her eyes, she's leaned over towards the very empty passenger seat.
She sighs again, this time more of disappointment or longing. She climbs out of the car and heads in the direction of her apartment.
When she's inside, she walks the familiar path to her bedroom and flicks on the lamp beside her bed. Her eyes scan the room, finding it recognizable enough. She undresses at a leisurely pace, content to sleep only in her underwear.
Sliding under the covers, she clicks off the lamp and stares into the black nothingness of her ceiling. She'll dream of him tonight, almost guaranteed. And, not for the first time, she'd be content if the sun happened not to come up.
