Ch. 10 Peak
Peter's heart was threatening to squeeze its way up his throat, out of his chest, through his stomach, whatever it was trying to do it didn't want to be near him. His left hand gripped the wrought-iron railing until a normal person would have cringed, but Peter did not notice. He stared at the ground, jaw working as he tried to ride out the pain, pins prickling at his eyes. He had agonized over telling Olivia the horrible truth, knew that he would be broken if she denied him, but this, oh this was worse than losing Walter. Because he knew that his father, in the way parents love their children unconditionally and forever, would never choose to leave him. Olivia had that choice. Peter rose his head to call her name.
The door was open. Olivia had left the door open. She expected him to follow her; she wasn't done with him yet.
Peter flew up the stairs and halted in her doorway, where her crutches were propped against the hall table. The living room was dark but he heard the noise of splashing water in the kitchen. He hung his head as he realized she was probably cleaning out the pan of spoiled beef, and when he looked up she was standing in the door between the kitchen and living room, staring as if trying to imagine a scenario there. Her eyes trailed over the askew coffee table to the two empty glasses, frozen on the floor since they had been sent flying. Peter figured she must have noticed the crooked picture next to her bedroom door, seen there was a struggle. He watched as she limped over to the coffee table, and in the same motioned straightened it and swooped up the whiskey bottle. Ignoring the glasses, Olivia spun off the top and took a long pull. His heart leapt as, even in the darkness Peter saw her relish the taste. She rubbed her ace-bandaged foot over the rug and said wryly, "I guess she won't be paying to clean this." Olivia took another drink. "And to think I did all of her laundry."
Peter moved forward to pick up the glasses and set them on the coffee table. "Olivia, I'm sorry." He heard the sounds of swishing liquid again. He startled at her next words; she sounded as cynical and gruff as her alter-ego.
"Yeah, Peter. I know you are."
He raised beseeching hands in her direction, his voice insistent, "She was never it for me, never what I'd been expecting, nothing at all what I'd loved about getting to know you." He swept his arms to the side. "The night that all this happened I was coming to talk to her, about just ending it all, just working together. Even though I didn't understand it, I wasn't in love with her." Peter felt the pain in his chest condense into a hot point, and he sank quickly to the couch, head in his hands. "I was in love with you."
There was a long moment while Peter dug his palms into his forehead, waiting. He heard the bottle being set down on the coffee table, and then from directly in front of him, he heard her say, "You haven't even welcomed me home."
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