Chapter One

Michael Tate was reading a book in the break room of the corporate office of COCA-COLA CO when Eric, one of the engineers, sat down in one of the chairs adjacent to the table Michael was sitting at. Eric pulled out his phone and began laughing almost instantly, as was common practice whenever Michael attempted to complete a few pages in the 15 minutes he was allotted twice a day.

“You ever see this?” Eric asked, reaching across the table to show Michael his phone. Michael sighed in a silent capitulation and closed the book on either side of his right index finger to keep his place in the story and feigned interest in the meme being shown to him by the 40-something year-old and offered a phony sort of chuckle even though he didn’t find it funny. “That’s funny,” Michael said in response. Then he reopened his book and regathered the line he was reading before being interrupted, and read a few more words before Eric started talking again.

“Yeah the lights on the third floor have been acting up,” Eric said. Michael kept reading despite lacking focus for comprehension. He was more concentrated on having his head down and looking at words rather than actually reading them, knowing Eric sought any type of engagement. “Same shit happened last week,” Eric continued, “I had to get on the switchboard and spent all morning lugging my fucking toolbox around. My wife told me I need more exercise so I’ve been taking the stairs instead of the elevator lately. Problem with that is I fucked up my leg a couple years ago, my right one. Well it’s actually my knee.”

“It’s always good to stay busy,” Michael said, hoping to put a nice bow on the conversation such that he could continue his book for the last five minutes of his break.

“Yeah I was off working on a chipped block on my truck. Goddamn Ford dealership was trying to charge me four grand and I told that sumbitch I’d just do it myself,” Eric droned on. “Problem with that is I hyperextended my right leg, I don’t know how, but my leg got caught when I went reaching in to check the engine mount. I ended up fixing the fucking thing, that’s the point. But I ended up having to go to the doctor. They gave me a bottle of Vicodin so it wasn’t all bad. I can still feel my leg being all fucked up, even to this day. That’s what happens when you get old, you don’t recover from things as easily.”

Michael gave up, folded the top-right corner of the page he was reading and closed the book. “All right well good luck with the lights,” he told Eric, and exited the break room and traveled (via elevator) back up to his cubicle on the fourth floor. Quality Control Specialist, that was the title engraved in miniature writing on a metal triangular prism about the size of a twelve inch ruler beneath MICHAEL TATE that rested at the head of his desk. A glorified paper pusher would have, in Michael’s head, been a better description. He was making $48,400 a year on salary in his first season out of college where he studied Economics and Statistics in hopes of working in the front office for a major league baseball team.

The month was July and the Georgia sun hid behind the overcast sky. Michael left the corporate office at COCA-COLA CO to a thick wave of moisture in the air; he looked down at his white button-down shirt that was stuck to his torso and felt immediately the sweat accumulating in his armpits. He understood what he was signing up for when he left the friendly confines of Southern California, but that didn’t make the humidity feel any less miserable.

Michael got in his car and made the 15-minute trek from Atlanta to his apartment in Stone Mountain. The clouds evaporated and the sun reappeared, then the clouds returned, then the sun came back, and then out of nowhere a torrential downpour released itself all over Michael’s car and in every direction surrounding him. He turned on the windshield wipers and they managed to clear the rain for about a quarter of a second at a time until the next onslaught made itself known and this process repeated itself about a thousand times over the course of his drive back to his apartment. When Michael inevitably made the left turn into the complex and parked his car the sky had decided in that moment to turn off the rain, and by the time he stepped through his front door the sun was already out again.

The majority of the time, in the 27 days Michael had spent in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia, involved doing very little outside of work. Mostly he played video games and spoke on the phone with his parents and friends from back home, and if there were instances to leave his apartment they had to do with buying fast food or alcohol.

That was how time was moved for Michael. The activities he enjoyed most were private and independent. He felt no need to be social. His life was back in California and everything he was doing in Georgia was a means to an end, a way to get back to where he wanted to be in a better position than when he left. And every day was a sacrifice that needed to be made, a small step that had to be navigated up, and down, and through.

The following evening, a Saturday, Michael made the decision to take his book with him and walk to the nearby park that he passed every day on his drives to and from work. Letters To A Young Contrarian, the tiny and tattered thing, was carried in his right hand. He was flummoxed by the passerby who greeted him with a “Hello” on the sidewalk as he paced with his head down, wondering if people in Georgia were just that friendly or if California really was the bubble that people say it is. At any rate he continued walking.

The park was heavily populated by all ages of people and an assortment of plush green trees. That was the first thing Michael noticed about Georgia when his plane descended and ultimately touched down at Atlanta’s massive airport: trees. California from a birds eye view was mainly desert and mountains and, in the bigger cities, such as Los Angeles, where he flew out of, perfect straight lines. Georgia on the other hand felt like whoever designed it was more focused on circles that created a bunch of small communities. And trees. There were a lot of trees everywhere.

A baseball game was soon to start, so Michael ditched his idea of reading and found a nice spot at the top of the bleachers. He sort of folded his copy of Letters To A Young Contrarian and felt it bulging under his back left pocket of the blue jeans he wore as he sat on the bleachers. The home team warmed up and the pitcher, a small kid of about nine years old, threw a handful of pitches to get his arm loose. Michael sat atop the bleachers and thought about how nice this was, little league baseball, and remembered what it felt like to be on the other side of the equation, playing. He missed it.

“Let’s go, Jordan!” one of the parents yelled as the leadoff batter came to the plate. Michael studied Jordan’s mannerisms, the way he tapped the plate before every pitch as a timing mechanism. He wore eye black even though the sun was on the verge of disappearing; the lights on the field were ramping up. Jordan smiled at the pitcher when the count got to 3-0, and the fourth pitch, also a ball, allowed Jordan to trot over to first base with a walk. Parents clapped and shouted “good eye” and cheered.

The second batter stepped up to bat but Michael maintained his eyes on Jordan, whom he figured had to be one of the best players on the team. On the first pitch to the second batter Jordan stole second base and pointed towards the bleachers, as if to show this was expected, and then on the second pitch Jordan stole third base and did the same thing. Then the batter grounded out on a little dribbler to the second baseman, allowing Jordan to score, and when he got to the dugout and took off his helmet he yelled over to some of the parents on the bleachers: “Too easy! This is too easy!”

Michael smiled at the top of the bleachers; he wished he knew who any of these people were. He was simply at a random baseball game featuring, presumably, a bunch of nine- and ten year-olds, in a state where he had never seen a baseball game. He couldn’t contain himself, however. He saw a young woman sitting a handful of feet away from him on the top row of the bleachers, and said, in a voice low enough to where most of the other parents, not knowing which kid belonged to which parent, might hear him. “Kid’s pretty cocky, huh?”

“That’s my nephew,” the young woman said, “And yes, he is.”

“Oh shit,” Michael said, laughing kind of incredulously, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“No it’s fine,” the young woman said, smiling back. “His mom and dad work nights and we’re all neighbors so I have to babysit him on the weekends. I hear it all.”

Michael didn’t know what brought him to this exact moment; he didn’t intend on leaving his house this night, or any other night, for that matter. But he was here now. “I don’t mean to be rude but my name is Michael Tate,” he said, offering his right hand to the young woman. “I just moved out here from California and it seemed like a nice night to go to the park.”

The young woman smiled again, thinking Michael was kind of corny for trying to shake her hand, because it wasn’t something guys her age tended to do. But she accepted it. “I’m Olive. Olive Parker, if we must be so formal. Why did you move from California?” she asked.

“I just graduated from college and I’m working for Coke,” he proudly responded. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here, if I’m being honest. I got sort of placed at this job because one of my professors convinced me that I had to start somewhere. I guess this is my somewhere.”

Olive was curious. She was curious about a lot of things. “Don’t count us out so soon,” she said. “It can actually be quite lovely out here. Maybe you will find yourself a reason to stick around.”

The rest of the game was background noise as Michael and Olive shared the top row of the bleachers talking about nothing in particular. They spoke of the weather, how Michael was not used to the humidity or the sharp and sudden changes; Olive asked him if he had found a church to attend, and he said (as politely as he could) that Sunday service didn’t interest him; he asked her about her story, and she told him she graduated high school a couple years prior, went to college for a year, and was still trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life.

Then before leaving Michael asked if he might be so bold as to get her phone number. “Is that what this was all building towards?” she asked, playfully giving him a hard time. “You could have just asked in the second inning and already been on your way,” she said, laughing.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of a full first date with you.” They both smiled some more.

Michael went home that night not knowing whether or not he should abide by the usual rules of not appearing too desperate. He couldn’t help feeling excited, about Olive, about the potential of seeing her again. He did not want to ruin anything before it got started. Sportscenter played on the TV in his bedroom while he stared at his phone, eyeballing the name OLIVE that featured an area code that until that point had not been present in his phone. “Olive,” he kept thinking to himself, in his head. What a pretty name, he thought. He just wanted to keep thinking it, over and over, and saying it. That was now, to Michael, the only name that mattered.

Chapter Two

Olive Parker was the apple of so many eyes in Stone Mountain, Georgia. At the time she met Michael she was working at the flower shop that her parents’ owned and operated; after graduating high school two years prior she briefly studied psychology at the University of Georgia before returning home to live with her parents.

Standing a petite five feet and three inches tall Olive had long auburn hair that ran down nearly to the small of her back. Like many women in Georgia she was publicly very graceful; she spoke softly and had a classic air about her that reminded so many of the older generations of a different era, one they were more comfortable and familiar with. This led her to be the focal point of many projections of wandering imaginations. Boys wanted her to be their girlfriend, men wanted her to be their wife, parents wanted their daughters to be more like her or if they had a son, wanted their son to be with a girl like her.

But the truth of the matter, especially as Olive grew older and more desirable, is few ever got close enough to her to give themselves a chance at such a future. Attention was not a factor in her life that she had to work for or seek; it was always there. Rather she developed a type of radiance that could only be compared to the sun, or some high-impact smelting contraption such as a blast furnace. Making eye contact with her from as close as a dozen or so feet away would strike fear in the boys and later the men who got so bold as to even look in her direction. Early on in her teenage experience she showed great humility and did not understand this dynamic. By the time she reached high school she no longer questioned it or fought it; in fact, with time the opposite became true. She embraced it. It was the power she used and held over everyone.

Those handful of courageous souls who were up to the task generally ended not only in failure but great personal misery at that youthful age. Making a pass at Olive Parker required not only confidence, which can at times be manufactured, if not faked entirely, but more than anything it was ego. It took someone with an abnormal degree of self-importance to convince themself that they belonged in the same conversation with her, let alone a similar ballpark or league or arena.

Despite the eyeballs she attracted and felt on her seemingly at all times post age-12, it is an indisputable fact that she did not encounter her first real, serious relationship that involved more than a few pecks here and there and an occasional session of making out until late in her second year of high school. The power she had harnessed and cultivated up to that point gave Olive her own confidence, which allowed her to be as picky and as much of a prude, as many of her classmates viewed her, as she wanted to be.

Naturally this never stopped any of her contemporaries — high school boys and girls alike — from confirming or denying the plethora of rumors that generally found their way swirling around her. One of Olive’s favorites arrived around Christmastime when she was a freshman, that she was at the time dating a college football player at Georgia Tech. She rarely bothered with exhausting any energy at all by way of quieting any of the noise that followed and surrounded her at most times. Privately she didn’t mind any of the attention. After all, she was very used to it.

This is very likely why Michael’s sudden inclusion into her orbit offered with it so much intrigue from Olive’s perspective. He did not come from the greater Stone Mountain area, and until that brief moment on the bleachers had no idea who she was or where she came from or any of the history that she carried with her. He was just a random guy from California engaged with her in small talk. Her favorite aspect, which she felt some vague sense of insecurity about while it was happening, was that she put next zero effort into the way she looked. She wasn’t trying to impress anybody that day. She was simply going through the motions of watching her nephew play a Little League Baseball game.

* * * * *

Following a mostly uneventful weekend — sans meeting a new friend — Olive woke up to a text on Monday. It was from Michael. “Good morning,” it said, “This is Michael Tate. I’m at work right now but was wondering if you might be interested in going for a walk at the park after I get off. No pressure!”

The message made Olive smile, for whatever reason. Did she find it cute how serious he sounded? Was it that she didn’t know if she would hear from him at all? Or was she simply interested in the mystery of him being from Southern California and not having the chance to run into those every day? She didn’t know.

“Thanks for taking like a million years to respond!” she said. “I’ll be off at my job at 6:00. If you pick me up from my parent’s house I’ll show you around the city. Just let me know.” A handful of minutes later Michael confirmed that, yes, of course he was interested, and for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening the two relayed text messages back and forth like an endless game of ping pong.

When Michael made it back to his apartment, after work, he realized how little thought he had put into Olive actually saying yes. He hoped, of course, that she would, but he hadn’t considered, through the distraction of talking to her all day, all of the particulars that would go into the night. He did not know what to wear, or if he even owned any clothing items that he considered worthy of her. He didn’t know if he should comb his hair or keep it disheveled, as he tended to do in every situation when he was not working.

He went to the restroom and shaved his face, even though his face didn’t really require any shaving. He took a shower knowing that the warm and humid Georgia evening would almost immediately dismantle such an effort. He applied lotion to his face. Then he looked at his bereft closet that featured mostly white button-down shirts that he wore to work and found, even though he wasn’t aware he even had it, a black button-down shirt. He coupled that with the one pair of blue jeans in his possession — the only non-work pants he ever wore — and studied himself in the mirror through every angle that his neck would allow him to examine, before agreeing with himself that this was absolutely as good as it was going to get.

At 6:45 he parked his car in front of Olive’s parent’s house and sent her a text saying he had arrived, not knowing if the proper etiquette — in Georgia — was to ring the doorbell. Second-guessing was a staple to the young Michael Tate and always had been, but especially so on nights like these when he actually cared. He waited in his car as Olive exited the front door and locked it behind her. In the twilight of the July summer Michael was struck by how gorgeous she looked; a white crop top, blue jeans, and white heels. He exited his car to open for her the passenger-side door when she surprised him with a firm hug that he was not expecting, and that was when Michael noticed her red lipstick and red blush and he was instantly mesmerized from seeing a woman who looked so completely different than the t-shirt and shorts with no makeup girl he had spent so much time with on the bleachers two nights before.

“Look at you,” Michael said, peering over at Olive as she put on her seatbelt. “What?” she asked, smiling over at him in a way that showed he obviously didn’t know who she was or what she was all about. “You don’t like it?” she asked again.

Michael smiled back and sort of shrugged as if to reiterate that he had no idea what he was getting himself into. Then he said “I don’t know where I am or where I’m going so I need you to be an excellent co-pilot tonight, my dear.”

Main street in Stone Mountain appeared to Michael like a foreign little street in a California city that he and his parents stopped through to get gas on their way to a vacation destination when he was a young boy. There was one bar, one hotel, a police station, a fire station, and a gaggle of assorted mom and pop shops that featured a place to buy clothes, a bargain store, a visitor center, and, yes, a flower shop.

“You can park here,” Olive said, in front of the generic lot that didn’t have any designated parking spots. Michael parked the car and again looked over at Olive, transfixed by the juxtaposition of seeing such a stunning looking woman against such a humble backdrop. It did not make any sense to him. But sense was not something that Michael needed in the moments when he was with Olive, even early on; all the stats he relied on and all the weighted metrics he studied and sometimes needed to use made no difference. He convinced himself, at times like these, especially, that he just liked the way he felt by being with her, and nothing else mattered.

They exited the car and she took him for a tour of main street. The sun was setting and the lights lit up the sidewalks as they strolled. “I was thinking we stop in at the public house and get a couple drinks. It’s right up there,” Olive gestured, nodding her head, “Where all those guys are standing.”

“Are you 21?” Michael asked. “You don’t look like you’re 21.”

Olive glanced at him to the side and pursed her lips. “When did that ever stop a girl?” she asked. And so she produced the fake I.D. that she had used at this specific bar dozens of times before, and Michael showed his (real one), and a few minutes later the two were sitting in a booth. Michael ordered a Jack and Coke. Olive ordered a tequila sunrise. And they spent the two hours on repeat finishing their drinks and carrying on in small talk. Where he worked, how he ended up there. Where she worked. How she ended up there.

They left after three drinks apiece and walked some more on main street. Somewhere in the midst of the walking and talking Olive reached for Michael’s hand, which he happily accepted, felt her tiny fingers meshing perfectly within his, enough so that he felt something in his stomach, or his heart. He knew not where it came from or what it meant or why, even, in this specific interval in time, he had found himself in this place with this particular woman, but he chose not to fight it or think about it. Alcohol was one of the few things that seemed to quiet all the noise in his head.

“Are you trying to sit down for a bit?” Michael asked, pointing her hand that in that instant was still being held by his, at a bench about 20 feet ahead of them. “I’d love to,” Olive said.

As they sat Michael began to come to, taking in the surroundings of main street in Stone Mountain, Georgia. The night had arrived in full throat; the stars were shining above his head and the lights of the city street overwhelmed all the nothingness that surrounded them. He looked over at Olive, who was evidently quite tipsy, and she looked back at him with eyes that were resigned to the moment.

“So tell me, Mr. Michael Tate,” she said, “Have you ever been in love?“

Initially Michael was taken aback by the question, since it was so far removed from anything else they had been talking about over the course of the night. But by then his inhibitions had been taken away from him. He did not know the right answer to this question, and simultaneously he also believed that if he was ever going to say his truth, to be the most honest version of himself, saying the types of things he would never be able to say to just anyone, it would be here, right now, to Olive.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “Or at least I thought I was in love.”

“Okay,” Olive replied. “Tell me about it. Who was she?”

“I was 17,” Michael told her. “It was the end of my junior year. She was graduating, a year older than me, obviously. Her name was Jennifer, everyone called her Jen. I called her Jenny because I always thought Jenny sounded the prettiest, and it was the one she liked being called the least. I wanted to call her what no one else called her. She hated me for it.”

“So what happened?” Olive asked. “How did y’all get together and why didn’t it work out?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “It was a bunch of shit. I remember when I was a freshman I thought she was so pretty. I always had a crush on her. And I knew her as one of those girls who always had a boyfriend. I didn’t care because she was out of my league. I was really shy back then. She had no reason to know who I was. And plus, all I really cared about was going to UCLA. The way I saw it was if I went to my dream school and graduated and made a lot of money that I would be able to get all the Jennifer’s in the world.”

“Okay,” Olive interjected. “Are you always this bad at answering questions?”

“All right, I got you, I’ll get there,” Michael responded, sheepishly. “So my junior year I was doing this project in one of my history classes. It was an advanced class for juniors but it was a regular class for seniors, if that makes sense. In California there are too many kids and not enough teachers in big cities like I’m from. That doesn’t matter. The point is, we were randomly assigned partners for this particular project, and of all the people in the class Jennifer and I were assigned to work with one another. I’m pretty sure she always knew that I liked her, from the few interactions we had. But I think everyone liked her so maybe it didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Michael Tate!” Olive implored. “Get to the fucking point.”

“Okay, okay,” Michael let out. “Long story short. We hit it off immediately. We started dating. I lost my virginity to her. It seemed like all my friends, and pretty much everyone I have ever known, anyone who was even a kind of friend, who I knew on Facebook, places like that, reached out to me to tell me she was some major slut. That she had slept with this person and that person. That she was still sleeping with this person and that person. Every time I brought it up to her, or when she felt like things were rocky between us, she convinced me that it wasn’t true. That people were jealous of me. That people hated that I was happy. Things like that. She was very convincing. I gave her the benefit of the doubt because I had no choice. I was in love with her.”

“I know what you mean,” Olive said. “That is the way people are. It’s always something.”

“So I turned my back on my friends. I didn’t want to hear it anymore,” Michael said. I let my life be about Jenny and no one else. I trusted her, even when everyone around me said something different. That was my downfall. That I decided everyone else was crazy.”

“But it was actually you?” Olive asked. “You were the crazy one?”

“I don’t know if I was crazy,” Michael said. “But over time it definitely got to me. I can’t deny that it did. I had never cared about anybody like that. She was everything to me.”

“So how did it end? If she meant so much to you why didn’t it work out?” Olive was curious.

“Like I said, I don’t really know. One day we were there, and the next day we weren’t. I think Jenny got tired of me questioning her, questioning our relationship. I kicked myself for it, in retrospect. I wish I had had the self control to make it work, but she was my first love. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I think she kind of liked, in the beginning, anyway, that I was as innocent as I was. That I was a virgin. To her, I think she wanted a restart, and she saw me as a blank slate she could work with.”

“So, what ever happened to her?” Olive asked. “Do you still keep in contact with her?”

“I don’t, actually,” Michael said. “It just hurt too much after the fact, if I’m being honest. The last I knew she was with some guy who was in his 30’s and all of my friends said they told me so and this and that. It is what it is, I guess. I didn’t want to deal with her and I didn’t want to deal with anyone who ever knew her or had any association to her. It just makes things easier, you know?”

Olive squeezed Michael’s hand and said: “I’m sorry. You can never really choose who it is, you know? Or when it happens. It sounds like you have a good head on your shoulders, though.”

“I don’t know what I have,” Michael said. I just want to do better the next time, if there is a next time. It would be nice to choose who and when, I think.”

Michael then walked Olive back to his car, drove her home. He escorted her to the front door of her parent’s house and they hugged one another. Somewhere in the front of Michael’s mind he wondered if it would be the appropriate time to go in for a kiss, and somewhere in the front of Olive’s mind she wondered why he didn’t even attempt one, as Michael wished her a goodnight and walked back to his car to make the short drive back to his apartment.

Chapter Three

Five feet and ten inches tall. Pale skin. Dark brown hair. Skinny to average build. Precise at ironing work shirts and work pants for his daily duties at COCA-COLA CO in Atlanta, Georgia. Alarm is set for 7:30 in the AM but Michael is always awake. 30 minutes of cardio on the treadmill that he folds out and folds back in beneath his queen-size bed. 9:00 in the A.M. arrives but Michael is sitting at his work station by 8:45 such that he can perpetually maintain order. That is what one of his professors at UCLA once told him, quoting John Wooden, that luck favors the prepared man.

Papers organized parallel and perpendicular on his desk. Manilla folders carrying documents that will eventually end up in the hands of his three immediate bosses that he must answer to. Color-coded spreadsheets are opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and closed in different tabs. An expert at using Microsoft Excel, an expert at giving solid unbreakable eye contact and firm handshakes, an expert at staying up to date on the latest sports news, these are all things that Michael uses to succeed in his current environment. Initials here, signatures there, break time with a book, more work, lunch, break time with a book, more work, end of day.

Trees, everywhere there are trees. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones. Driving from the very corporate building at COCA-COLA CO all Michael sees are trees. He passes through main street of Stone Mountain, Georgia and looks at the flower shop that Olive works at as he passes. He looks down at his phone to a text message he has yet to answer. Opens it. Texts back to let Olive know he just passed the flower shop. Is she having a good day? Has she been thinking about me as much as I have been thinking about her? When will I see her again? Would I be too forward to ask her out again? And why am I still here? If not for Olive, what am I still doing here? Michael privately wonders all of these things.

Shifts the car into park. Exits said vehicle that his parents bought for him when he was in high school and shipped to him long distance from California via transcontinental bullet train and locks the doors and hears it go beep beep while walking away. Do not look back, ever, he tells himself. Key enters keyhole, rotation, twist the knob until it opens. Locks it. Small work bag gets thrown onto the cheap brown rustic-looking couch. Keys and wallet and phone get placed on the checkered composition-notebook-looking granite countertop besides a slew of dirty dishes and pieces of silverware that were too lazily maintained to make their way into the kitchen sink over the last two nights. Text message from Olive. Phone gets carried from the kitchen countertop to the restroom. Shower begins to run. “Did you at least wave at me as you passed the flower shop?” the text reads.

Michael smiles. Thinks about what he should say even though he did not wave. Oh, he has it. He figures it out. Has to shower first before responding, though. Heat blasts and scorches and then caresses his skin; lavender-scented body wash; it’s not yet Friday so no shampoo. Olive surrounds him even though she isn’t there. He imagines what he wants to do with her next. No, not that. Have to do this one right, he thinks to himself. Cannot, one hundred percent, cannot, blow this one. Do not jump the gun. Just be yourself. But what if being yourself is not what she wants? Maybe be someone else. California is a big state. Lots of people. Lots of places. Lots of things. Be anybody in the world.

No time to dry off. The towel is right there but so is the phone. Double tap to light up the home screen. Water spreads its way across the phone, in droplets, small puddles, actually. Might as well grab the towel and wipe it off. Shit, if the towel is good enough to dry off the phone then it is damn well good enough to dry off the person. The text message can wait thirty seconds. All right, there. All dry now. Phone gets picked up. Okay, it’s time. “Damn, a wave would have been really nice. I didn’t think of that. I flipped you off, instead.”

Accomplishment. There it is. Back to the room for Nike underwear and Nike shorts and a plain white shirt featuring a small teal and gold Perry The Platypus on top of the left breast pocket that his parents got for him as a gag for his 18th birthday. Socks. Shoelace-less shoes. Comfort in the evening time of another night in the small apartment complex of a young man named Michael Tate in Stone Mountain, Georgia.

Video games. MLB 2K27, signifying the year that Michael was playing it in. Another text message from Olive. Excitement at seeing the name light up on his phone. Olive. Olive. Olive. “I expected nothing less,” it says. Another smile escapes the face of the young Michael Tate. Thoughts transpire. Responses are contemplated. Damn it, slider low and away, out of the zone. Strike three. Why did I swing at that? Inning over.

Text message. Thoughts. Is now the time? If it’s not now, then when will it be? Can’t play MLB 2K27 forever. “I would rather flip you off in real life, out of respect,” it says. Short break. Three up, three down, time to bat again. Time to expand upon this 3-0 lead in the fourth inning. Let’s fucking go. Another text message. “And how do you plan on doing that?” it says. Excitement ensues. Why is this girl so sexy? She probably isn’t even trying to be, Michael thinks. He pictures Olive in his mind. Then he picks the controller back up. Puts it down again.

“Oh I don’t know,” his text message begins. “Maybe while you and I are in Atlanta tomorrow night.”

Minutes pass. It’s 5-0 now. Fly out to the warning track with the bases load. Shit, that would have made it 9-0. God damn it. Why hasn’t Olive texted back? Did I come off too strong? Why do I always do that? Should I send another one and end it with a “haha” or “lol” so she knows I’m not being so serious? But will that sound like I’m being too desperate, or too insecure? Fucking hell. Might as well just wait this one out. Vodka and whiskey are in the kitchen. Should probably go fuck around and see what those can do. But this shutout needs to be preserved. Will the alcohol throw off my ability to pitch a shutout? Can’t risk it. After the game.

Phone lights up. 7:02 on the home screen. Excitement, again, ensues. “Hey, I heard you are living in Atlanta now. Is that true?”

From: Jenny.

Chapter Four

The following day Michael executed his usual routine; Olive inevitably texted him back in the middle of the night, or morning, as it were, at 4:58 in the AM, apologizing for falling asleep so suddenly, and saying, yes, of course, she would like to go out with him in Atlanta that night. That allowed Michael’s run to be even more powerful and motivating, it made his drive to work that much more enjoyable, it made every step he took at work just a shade more intentional, with his head high and his chest out.

That night he picked Olive up at her house at 7:00 on the dot. He wore the same blue jeans as he had the last time they spent a night out, only this time he wore a black T-shirt with it. Olive, dazzling as she seemingly always was, wore a short black dress with wedges to let Michael know that, yes, her toenails were painted black to match closely enough to her dark brown lipstick.

In Atlanta Michael found a restaurant to take her to; having experienced her in public recently enough and how she interacted, how she grabbed for his hand, how she was seemingly interested in him, Michael was comfortable enough to swing his arm around her waist as they walked down the street after he parked his car.

They entered the restaurant and were seated in a semi-circular booth such that Olive was seated first and Michael scooted himself close enough to where their thighs occasionally glanced at one one another. The menu was brief and pretentious. Olive ordered cajun-shrimp and one of the fruity drinks that was showcased and Michael ordered the filet with a Jack and Coke. The server did not ask for I.D., which Michael and Olive gave each other a look over and giggled amongst themselves about once the cocktails arrived.

Food was delivered and second drinks were ordered. Then food was finished and third drinks were ordered. By now thighs were not occasionally glancing; they were conjoined. Michael’s hand made its way onto Olive’s kneecap, which was greeted by her hand on top of his. Guests began clearing out, one party after another. Michael could not help himself from keeping his eyes on Olive as the dim lighting and faded contemporary jazz music washed out in the background. Everything was suddenly a blur.

“All right,” Michael started. “You asked me last time if I had ever been in love. Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn for what?” Olive said, playfully. “I never agreed to telling you any of my secrets.”

Michael laughed. He looked up at the large chandelier hanging in the middle of the restaurant, made up of glass disguising itself as sparkling white crystals. “Oh, but you did,” he said. “You can’t just go around starting fires without putting them out.”

“Okay, fine,” Olive acknowledged. “But does that mean I can do what you did and not really get to the point? Can I just say things and pretend like I said something?”

“No, you are going to tell me the straight truth. Just like I did,” Michael said.

“Yes sir,” Olive said, gathering herself. “My story is pretty simple. I fell in love with the quarterback of my high school’s football team when I was a sophomore. He was a senior. We were together for three years. I was towards the end of my freshman year at UGA when I found out he had been cheating on me for pretty much our whole relationship. He was out in Virginia playing football. We were kind of long distance. But yeah. For a while I thought I could get back at him, but that didn’t work out. I couldn’t do school anymore, so I just went home and cried most of the time.”

“How is that possible?” Michael asked. “I don’t even know who he is, but I know he can’t do better than you.”

“You are sweet for saying that, but… I am complicated,” Olive said. “I think I always knew, but I was living, in my head, all those cliché country songs. You know the ones.”

“I don’t really listen to much country. I’m from California,” Michael responded, letting out a wry smile.

Olive pretended to chuckle. “No, you know.” And yes, Michel knew. “Small town girl, quarterback, stand by your man, all of that,” Olive said, sighing. There was a brief lull in the conversation. Michael could tell Olive was still affected by her ex-boyfriend, so he didn’t want to press on about it too much. But he still wanted to know where she was coming from.

“So are the two of you still in contact? How complicated is it? Do you see him anymore?” Michael asked.

“He comes back to see his family during the holidays, and we have spent time together since the breakup, so yes,” Olive said.

“I see,” Michael said. “Are you still in love with him?”

“Definitely not,” Olive responded, firmly. “But I never really had closure with him. Something about first love, I guess. I don’t know how to describe it. That’s why I’m so complicated.”

“You don’t have to,” Michael affirmed. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. I’ve had a great time with you tonight. Let’s get out of here and I’ll get you home.”

The drive back to Olive’s was quiet. Michael and Olive held hands, and when they reached the final stoplight before reaching her parent’s house Olive rested her head on Michael’s right shoulder and it was the happiest he had been since touching down in Georgia. He walked her back to her front door and offered her another hug, only this time he placed his hands on either side of her waist, pulled her back in, and they shared their first kiss.

Driving back to his apartment Michael noticed the moon shining off in the distance. It looked round and full, illuminating the whole sky, it seemed. Pride and a sense of accomplishment exuded from every step he took. Olive, he thought to himself. Olive Parker. What a pretty name.

Chapter Five

For the remainder of the summer Michael and Olive were in constant contact. He woke up a lot earlier than she did but maintained wishing her a good morning and looked forward to hearing from her wishing him one two or three hours later. Whenever her nephew, Jordan, had a baseball game at the local park, Michael and Olive sat in the top row of the bleachers, just as they had when they first met. July turned into August, and then August to September. Leaves changed color, from green, to yellow and orange, to brown, before falling off and waiting for the following spring to arrive.

One late October evening, after many dates and many days and nights spent together texting and video calling, Michael could no longer contain himself. He invited Olive to come over after a night of dinner and drinks, something that his shyness and honor and respect that was stewing around in his stomach precluded him from doing until that moment. Olive agreed and set down her clutch next to Michael’s work bag on the couch. It was not the first time she had visited his apartment, but it was the first time that she was there after they had already been out doing something.

Michael turned around after locking his front door and saw Olive standing there, in the middle of his living room area, in between the coffee table and the TV. He listened to the wonderful sound of her heels clicking and clacking against the hardwood floors. Keys were thrown on the couch, hands were placed on Olive’s waist, and up and down the curvature of her back. Michael pulled her in closely, whispered in her ear, for the first time, “You know how much I love you, baby?”

Olive’s heavy and shallow breath made all the noise Michael needed to hear. “I know,” she whispered back to him. He pulled her in, even tighter, and kissed her as hard as he ever had to that point. No more words were said. Michael wrapped his arm around her waist and took her to his room. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. That is all that could be heard.

They kissed some more. He laid her down in his bed and sprawled out on top of her. More kissing. He undid the top button of her pants, pulled them off painstakingly because they were so tight on her. Red underwear. Then he pulled her up and took off her red University of Georgia sweater and black shirt that stay hidden beneath. Red bra. The two of them smiled at one another and kissed some more. “You are so fucking beautiful,” Michael told her.

“Go slow,” Olive whispered, moaning and whimpering in ecstasy as Michael crossed her threshold and plunged himself until the two climaxed together. They laid in bed, talking about nothing that mattered. How happy he was that she came into his life. How happy she was that he found his way into Georgia.

This was what life became for Michael Tate and Oliver Parker. They talked seemingly all day, every day, they spent countless hours together over many months, and every so often, when the stars aligned, when responsibilities were at a minimum, they would spend their nights together at Michael’s apartment. It was never enough for Michael; if it were up to him he would be with Olive all the time. Every moment of every day acted merely as a vehicle to deliver him into Olive’s arms, where he would again be at peace with the world.

While life was as good at it had ever been, Michael convinced himself, at no point did he feel like it was a slam dunk one hundred percent no doubt about it that Olive felt entirely the same way about him that he felt about her. One could easily argue that this specific detail is what most fervently kept him in such strong pursuit. Innumerable times in his youth he was something of a prize to be sought after by so many young and willing high school girls and college students of the opposite sex. His prospects in life were always destined more or less to be well above-average compared to his male contemporaries. And he wasn’t the worst looking guy in the world.

But the moments when he was truly engaged, infatuated, even, took place when Michael was on the opposite end of such a tragic paradigm. The reason it ended up working with Jennifer — for a time, anyway — was directly a result of him being the party on the chase rather than the one being chased. Michael so desperately desired being in control of every scenario pertaining to him, from the time he was a little boy until the moment he found himself in currently, whether it had to do with working towards the goal of inevitably going to a prestigious university, to the women he sometimes found himself with, to the events he would attend, to even the socks and underwear he would put on the following morning. His day-to-day life never occurred by accident.

It was only realized in the times he was not in control that offered Michael a reason to be. When he could not call his shot, and be the alpha and the omega simultaneously. Olive, to a much stiffer and destructive degree, exposed him to this ironic worldview where he could not simply, as he had done, and as he had been so frequently, in power of every decimal point and every T that got crossed and every I that became dotted. She kept him aware at all times, in all situations, because as Michael was finding out, Olive was, to him, the real prize.

By nothing other than sheer default this obscure and fateful recognition humbled Michael Tate. It was not the worst idea in the world, he thought, because the truth of the matter was that he did genuinely love everything about Olive and, to be frank, he had already gone too far. By now there was absolutely no turning back. He neither asked for nor expected anyone with the gravity of Olive Parker to enter into his life and have the impact that she so clearly had on him, but at the same time his pride and arrogance reminded him that he had succeeded and won in just about every aspect of his life and, while the goal here was a steep one, in his eyes, and mind, it was nothing that he couldn’t overcome.

* * * * *

In December, Michael and Olive were at the park, walking around, doing nothing important. They ended up next to the baseball field, the one they met at, as was intended during the walk by one of the two parties. “Listen, Olive,” Michael said, seriously. “I have been putting off asking you this for longer than you know.”

“Okay?” Olive said, pretending to be perplexed even though she had a good feeling about what question was to come. She braced herself.

“I don’t know how I am supposed to do this,” Michael said, “But I mean, you know how I feel about you, right? Are we going to do this or are we not going to do this?”

“Do what?” Olive asked. “What are you trying to say?”

“You know what I’m trying to say,” Michael said, suddenly embarrassed. “Are we going to be official, exclusive, girlfriend boyfriend, whatever you want to call it, or are we going to just keep doing what we’re doing?”

Olive felt embarrassed, too. She did not know what to say. She enjoyed all the talks, all the time spent, all of the everything that her and Michael had, and deep down inside of her she knew this question was going to come, eventually. But still in this moment she was somehow not ready for it.

“Michael,” Olive began, “I have told you how many times that I am complicated. I really am. I was not lying when I told you I was complicated. You know that I love you and care about you. But I can’t be in a relationship with you. Not right now. I am still trying to figure myself out.”

Michael wasn’t surprised. He knew somewhere, in the hidden crevices that he chose not to journey in and through and around, for it only made him doubt himself, and question everything else about the world surrounding him, that Olive did not add up. How she arrived in his life, how much time they spent together, and how he never received, from her, the signal that such a question he posed on this particular afternoon, would be met with the answer he wanted.

But he needed to know. He had nowhere else to go and no one else to run to; Olive had no competition in Michael’s universe. He simply made a decision to gather the information he needed in that moment.

Silence befell the two of them in front of the bleachers. Temperatures hovered in the 40 degree range and somehow it felt much colder as neither knew what to say to the other. “I didn’t mean to make it awkward,” Olive said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael responded, “It’s not a big deal, really.”

“I mean, clearly it means something to you,” Olive gleaned. “Of all the time we have spent together I haven’t seen you this quiet, ever. Do you need the label? Will that make you feel better?” She asked.

Michael sort of rolled his eyes and feigned a smile as he turned away, hands in the pockets of the snow jacket he had purchased a month earlier when the weather started to change. He didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to say,” he told her. “I just don’t know what we are doing here if it’s not that.”

“If it’s not what?” Olive asked, pretending not to know what he meant. She just wanted him to be the one to say it, even though she understood.

“You know what I’m saying, you don’t have to play dumb,” Michael said, coldly. “We talk all day, all night, we see each other a few times a week. Why do I have to explain why I asked you what I asked you?”

Olive was taken aback. She certainly felt the pressure Michael was putting on her. Over the last handful of months she had never heard him speak so sternly. It was upsetting, and she knew, instinctively, that she did not have the answers he wanted to hear. So she just shrugged, looked over at him in the eyes, the defeated eyes of somebody she cared about. It hurt her.

“Can you just take me home?” she said. “We’ll talk more. Don’t hate me, please.”

Michael walked Olive back to his car, looking at the trees dejectedly as Olive reached for and grabbed his hand. He felt the warmth of her palms and fingers as he had so many times before, but met her grasp with a limp grip of someone who did not want to show any affection.

The car ride during the 10-minute drive back to her parent’s house was deafening. Neither knew what to say to the other, so they said nothing at all. Aggressive hip-hop played through the stereo for a little while before Michael hit the power button and there was nothing but silence. He dropped her off and she exited the car. Before closing the passenger-side door behind her she said: “We will talk more, okay?”

“Okay,” Michael said, and Olive closed the door behind her.

When Michael got back to his apartment he popped open a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels and poured himself a large glass on the rocks. He clogged around until he found himself sitting back on his coach. Before turning on the television set and mindlessly watched NFL highlights he picked up his phone, scrolled back a handful of months, and texted Jennifer.

“It’s been a long time, Jenny,” he wrote, “But yes, I am in Atlanta. I’ll be home next week for Christmas.”

She responded a couple minutes later.

Chapter Six

Conversations between Michael and Olive grew terse over the next week, before he flew back to California. He did not know how to continue on, merely going through the motions knowing he wasn’t receiving the payoff he felt was warranted, and she more or less laid low, waiting for him to get over it, such that the two of them could continue on. It didn’t quite work that way.

On December 23rd Michael left his apartment and walked to his car. It was naturally cold outside. A wave of light snow seemed to be suspended in midair before falling in silence to the ground and dissolving shortly thereafter. Michael paid attention to inconsequential minutia of that sort; he enjoyed taking in the sights and sounds, not knowing how long he would maintain his status in Georgia.

He made the drive to Atlanta’s massive airport and parked his car, confirmed his flight and waited in line at the TSA roughly a half-hour before preparing to board the plane that would take him to LAX. Olive was on his mind, but each time he opened his phone there was a new text message from Jennifer, whom he had been in regular contact with. The two of them had plans of seeing one another, a prospect that gave Michael both a sense of excitement and anxiety at the same time.

His parents were there to greet him in Los Angeles at 3:30 in the afternoon. It was an overcast day in Southern California and 74 degrees. Since his body had been conditioned for the cold so long it felt like summertime. Michael spent the majority of the next week in shorts and T-shirts while his friends and family members were bundled up during 50-something degree nights.

It gave Michael a sense of relief to be home, but he had a hard time enjoying himself over the duration of his Christmas vacation due to feeling a certain impending dread of knowing he had to return to Georgia within the week and come to some sort of resolution, eventually, with Olive. Whatever was coming, he could not stop it. No matter how hard he attempted to push those thoughts and emotions to the back of his head, and out of his stomach, they had a way of arriving back to him whenever he was alone.

Ironically, he thought, the thing that gave him the most anxiety — seeing Jenny — was actually what he looked most forward to. For it was to be the one thing that would be a worthy distraction. To Michael, there would be no time to dwell on Olive when his first love, Jennifer, the girl who broke his heart, who he had neither seen nor spoken to until very recently, over various text messages and a spattering of short phone calls, was right there in front of him.

The night before returning to Georgia, a Tuesday, Michael got in his dad’s black SUV and drove out to Upland, a 30-minute drive from his parent’s house in Anaheim, to pick up Jennifer for dinner. For the occasion he haphazardly threw on a black T-shirt and wore black jeans, didn’t bother combing his hair as if to show how casual the moment meant to him. He parked the massive vehicle in front of the house Jennifer was renting with a couple of her roommates and got out to knock on the door. He texted her to let her know he was there.

Jennifer opened the door and sort of blushed before throwing her arms around Michael, who could not deny a feeling of extreme excitement. “Okay, okay,” he said, in an attempt to just get on with it. He pretended like he wasn’t happy to see her. “I mean, Jesus Christ, look at you.” Jennifer gave a sharp look into his eyes through the sheik designer glasses she wore. “You didn’t forget about me, did you?” she asked, with a certain valley-girl type of seductive tone, as she clutched her purse. “Do I look okay?” she further enticed.

Michael’s heart raced a few beats, no, several beats faster and harder than normal. There, standing on the porch as Jennifer angled her body in the doorway, as if to show off while Michael glanced up at down at her outfit. She wore a short tight black dress with red heels to accentuate her legs, along with all the other features Michael once loved so much.

“Yeah, you look okay,” he said. “Decent.” Jennifer punched him on his bicep and then grabbed his arm while the two walked to his dad’s SUV. They drove to a nearby steakhouse and got seated in a booth that seemed like it was miles away from the next closest dining party. Michael liked that; it made him feel like he could speak at normal volume without having to whisper if in fact he needed to say something that might embarrass him if he thought other people had the potential of listening.

“So,” he asked, “What the fuck have you been up to?”

“Oh you know,” Jennifer responded. “Just living life. I told you I am working at a hair salon now. Not everyone can be a super important professional businessman like you.”

“Ah, yes, super important,” Michael said. “Two hundred thousand dollars worth of student loans so I can do busy work for a company whose product kills people. That’s me, baby.”

Michael quickly finished his first Jack and Coke. The anticipatory angst from knowing he was going to see Jennifer had at this point subsided. Once he was there, sitting next to her, seeing her face-to-face, more than anything he felt content. Somewhere swirling inside of him were something like four years worth of nostalgia and dormant feelings of love that he knew he wasn’t capable of feeling for anybody else. He wanted to keep this night simple. And simple, to Michael, was having a conversation.

They ordered dinner. They ate it. They continued to drink, and talk. He told Jennifer that he fell in love with a girl in Georgia, explained the origin story and what had recently transpired. Jennifer was many things, and she certainly had an agenda, and was unapologetically open to owning it, but she was a very good listener. She empathized very well. And she also knew exactly who Michael was, what made him tick.

“So what are you gonna do?” she asked him. “Are you going to give up on her, or are you just going to see where life takes you?”

“Honestly,” Michael said, having just been delivered a fourth drink, “I don’t see how I can stay in Georgia. I don’t like my job. It’s not what I thought it was going to be. I’ve really just been hanging in there, going through it, passing the time. If Olive doesn’t want what I want, then Georgia isn’t for me. I would rather find something to do out here.”

Jennifer was enthused, in a selfish kind of way, but she didn’t want Michael to know that. “Why? You’re just going to give up? This was your dream, this is what you have worked so hard for,” she said.

“I think I’ll make it no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing,” Michael responded, with the confidence of all the whiskey that was running through his bloodstream. “It’s not like working for fucking Coke was ever my destination, you know that.”

“You’re right,” Jennifer said. “I just want my Michael to be happy. You worked so hard. You were such a good student,” and at this point her hand made its way to his thigh. Her tone changed. She leaned over and began to whisper in his ear. “You used to fuck me the best. You’re such a good man. I always knew you would make it,” she finished.

Michael appreciated her bluntness, and certainly felt it. He looked over at Jennifer, who tilted her face in a kind of submissive fashion, as she continued to run her hand up and down, from his thigh up towards his crotch. “You’re bad,” Michael whispered. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You can do anything you want,” Jennifer responded. The entire conversation was in whispers at this point. “You know I didn’t wear any panties tonight,” she said, grabbing for Michael’s hand and leading it under her dress so he could feel the warmth and wetness that lie. “Jenny,” Michael said, sighing with a sort of helpless resignation to the power Jennifer always exerted. A sensation of guilt passed over him. Even in the somewhat inebriated state he was in, Olive was present in his mind. Michael was not cheating on her, but he still felt like he was.

The rest of the evening transpired predictably. Michael went home with Jennifer and the two of them shared a passionate, aggressive, night in her bed. When they woke up they did it again before he rushed back to his parent’s house to gather his belongings in time to drive to LAX and make the 11:30 AM flight back to Atlanta.

On the plane ride Michael tried to focus on reading Crime and Punishment, but a lingering headache from drinking so much the night before and the realization that he would soon be back in Georgia and have to confront Olive, at some point, thwarted his best attempts. He instead managed to corral one of the stewardesses to purchase a miniature-sized bottle of Jack Daniels, which he dumped into a small clear plastic cup that was filled with Coke. When that was finished, he fell asleep. By the time he woke up the plane was descending in Atlanta.

Chapter Seven

On his first morning back in Georgia Michael woke up to a text from Olive. “Can’t you just talk to me?” it read. By that point it had been a full week since Michael had communicated in any capacity with Olive, even despite the fact that he hadn’t gone more than 10 or 15 minutes without thinking about her during the entirety of his stay in California.

He got back to his normal routine. He went on the treadmill; he got to work nice and early; he organized his desk and arranged the day’s duties before getting started. Every so often he would glance back at his phone, contemplate writing Olive back, thinking he was ready, believing he knew the right thing to say after such a long layoff. But it wasn’t until late that afternoon — 4:30, to be specific, shortly before he would gather his work bag and head home — that he decided the time was right.

Impulsively he picked up his phone and texted, “Okay, what would you like to talk about?” He immediately felt childish and somewhat petty, knowing Olive would receive the message in exactly the petulant tone with which he sent it. But it was too late now. The remainder of his work day and extent of his drive home would be spent overanalyzing why that message, specifically, was the best he could do. It ate at him, for the rest of his day and the rest of his night, and the next day, and the next, which were filled with the mundane work he executed at COCA-COLA CO and the video games he played to distract himself from Olive and the alcohol he consumed at much larger volumes and more consistent rates to numb his pain.

Each night he got drunk he tried to find a way, intellectually, to make sense for what he felt the way he did. Olive is just another girl, he tried to tell himself. I went home and slept with Jennifer without even having to put in any effort, he thought. I went to UCLA for Christ’s sake; why should I care about some small-town girl? He thought all of these things.

But when the night came, and he was all alone, Michael had nowhere to hide. When he was lucky the alcohol would put him to sleep, annihilate him straight into oblivion. He would wake up, of course, and proceed with another day filled with the same thoughts, and actions, and inactions. And every day he would hope for two things and two things only: the first was to have an appetite, to trick his brain for long enough to allow his body to accept the food he was so hungry for. The second was sleep. Give me those two things, he thought, and he could figure out the rest.

The unfortunate part for Michael was that most days did not work out so easily for him. Hunger was something he was used to, but his nerves would not cooperate with actually being able to put food down. Trying to sleep was the worst of it; midnight would roll around, and then one o’clock, and then two o’clock, and each time he stared at the small digital clock resting on his bedside stand thereafter would do nothing but deliver more anxiety at the thought that he would be getting on the treadmill on, like, three or four hours of sleep.

In the middle of January he had finally had enough. The pride he felt for holding out and waiting for Olive to get back to him had run its course. During his lunch break he scrolled through the contacts in his phone and decided to call her, on a whim, as was the purest version of Michael Tate, and to his surprise and dismay he was not able to leave her a well-worded voicemail; she answered after just one ring.

“Mmyellow?” she said.

“Olive?” he responded.

“Yes, this is she,” Olive said flatly, “Who may I ask is calling?”

“Olive,” Michael reiterated, relieved. “I hate to have to call you, but I fucking miss you.”

“Oh yeah? You’ve got a funny way of showing it, mister.”

“I texted you back. What more did you expect me to do?”

“I don’t expect anything, Michael. You just do as you please and I have been here the whole time.”

“So what’s going on, then? Do you want to see me one of these days?”

“I’ve wanted to see you this whole time,” she pleaded. “I wanted to talk to you when you were in California but you didn’t respond to me. You didn’t even wish me a Merry Christmas. You didn’t even get me anything. I hate you.”

“I did get you something, so fuck off,” he joked. “I just haven’t known what I’m supposed to say. You know? What was I supposed to say?”

“You can say whatever you want,” Olive said. “You can do whatever you want. Like I’ve said, I’m just here.”

Michael was frustrated by Olive, especially when she spoke to him like this. All he wanted was her perspective on the matter, her truth, her feelings, but she had a knowing way about her that generally always put it back on him. All of his high-level education and experience with various women and interpersonal skills were completely useless when dealing with Olive.

“All right then,” Michael said. “When are you free? Let’s do something.”

“It’s up to you,” Olive told him. “I get out at the flower shop at six tonight. Come pick me up whenever you want.”

Michael’s senses were flooded by thoughts and feelings of Olive for the rest of his workday. His adrenaline spiked and then subsided when his brain was able to focus for a few minutes at a time on random and necessary tasks he had to complete, then it would spike again when Olive re-arrived in his mind. This process repeated itself seemingly dozens of times between 12:15 PM Eastern Standard Time and the point when Michael parked his car at the apartment complex he lived at to settle down and shower and change his clothes. He took a generous shot of vodka before grabbing the keys off the counter and took a few deep breaths on the walk to his car and executed with his right index finger the push to start and made the devastatingly short yet excruciatingly long ten-minute drive to the house that Olive lived at.

He called at 6:55 PM EST to let her know he had arrived, and as Michael ambled a handful of feet towards the front door she came out and approached him in simple and comfortable sweatpants-and-hoodie attire. Michael reciprocated unknowingly with a snow jacket to combat the low-40-something degree January temperature and some jeans and hair that was not so much as combed as to appear respectable. The two of them stood there and looked at one another with dueling conflicted happiness for being in the same time and space together for the first time in roughly one calendar month and combined it with a certain distinct confusion for not knowing how the other would respond to the moment. Michael let off a shy and sheepish grin as if to let Olive know everything was okay, at least for that instant, and Olive continued the approach that she had started that ultimately led straight into Michael’s arms. He wrapped himself around her to feel her tiny body mesh into his, like a baseball fitting into the webbing of a glove, and when Olive tucked her angelic face into Michael’s chin he let her know, as if she needed to hear it, as if she didn’t already know, that “I’ve missed you.”

There would be no dinner date on this evening. Instead they made a walk around the neighborhood. With Michael’s arm around Olive’s waist, he noticed the cracks in the unkept Stone Mountain residential area pavement. The trees were barren of all the leaves that had long since exercised their natural life cycle and broken off and died and blown away. The crisp air hit their faces like a stone and the breaths they took and words they spoke were accompanied by whiteness that Michael always thought was novel since his upbringing in such a warm climate rarely produced as much. He wasn’t sure what to say so he kept exhaling through his mouth, and Olive had thoughts but waited for Michael to provoke her. The silence ran its course. Words eventually would have to be spoken.

“So what are we doing here?” Michael asked, rubbing the small of Olive’s back.

“Well, you called me,” Olive stated, as a matter of a fact. “What’s on your mind?”

Michael removed his hand from around her waist, stopped applying affection to her back. “You, Olive. You are always on my mind. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you,” he clarified.

“You can do anything you want,” she responded.

“Well, no, obviously I can’t. You don’t want what I want.”

“I never said that I don’t want to be with you,” Olive said. “I just can’t right now. If that isn’t enough for you, right now, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

Michael’s adrenaline was peaking. He could feel his legs stiffen, his arms as heavy as boulders dangling on either end of his body, his brain focused on what to say next but he couldn’t find it, and no longer could he see his breath (even though it was there) or feel the cold (even though it was). He did his best to maintain his balance and walk in a way that he imagined a normal person would walk. Then he opened his mouth again.

“Are you seeing somebody else, or… what is it?” he asked. “Why do I feel like you love me as much as I love you even though I know that can’t be true? Why do you make me feel so confused all the time?”

Olive knew in some way that this night in particular, this meeting, this rendezvous, would boil down to a question, or a series of questions, very similar to what Michael just asked. She chose her words carefully, which she had become quite the expert at over the years from all the attention she had become so accustomed to receiving.

“I’ve been as honest with you as I can be,” she told him. “I do love you, and I do want you in my life. But I know I can’t give you what you want.”

It made Michael happy every time Olive reassured him, gave him confirmation, and at the same time it only added to what brought him here, where he had to ask questions. Where he had to know. It was the only answer he ever wanted out of Olive, but he never knew how to pry it out of her. She was so difficult, he thought.

“Why?” he asked. “Who else is there?”

Olive contemplated lying to him in the gentle white-lie nature that got her point across while simultaneously giving her the plausible deniability of saying in retrospect, at a time down the road, that she didn’t actually lie, but she quickly negotiated that against the fact that she truly did love Michael, and care about him, and that he deserved better than that.

This dichotomy in Olive’s mind immediately welled her eyes with tears, knowing that she didn’t want to say what she was about to, that she didn’t want to hurt Michael but knew she would, that nothing would ever again be the same between them, that this was the juncture everything up to this moment had been leading to since their first interaction on the bleachers, where the river eventually runs into the sea. She took a breath and braced herself.

“I’m still seeing my ex-boyfriend,” she said, through a broken voice, crying. “I’m so sorry, Michael. I do love you.”

Michael’s stomach dropped, just as it had dropped so many times over the last month wondering what the source of his dismay could be. He knew it was something. It had to be. He wondered so many times if that was the case, if Olive was had been spending time with her high school love, quarterback, some school in Virginia, but he had always thought about every other possible scenario so nothing particularly surprised him. He was upset, for obvious reasons. But a wave of clarity came over him and he refused to let his emotions get the best of him. Above all things, he wanted to portray the image that he was unaffected by this revelation.

“All right good,” he told her. “That’s good. I fucked Jennifer while I was home. So I get it.”

Olive at this point was crying, steadily, not from the news of Michael and Jennifer but from the cathartic nature of being honest with him and telling a truth that she wished she wouldn’t have to tell. Michael stood by her side, coldly, with his arms crossed, wishing he could give her comfort and also feeling a strange sense of hatred, like he didn’t want to comfort her, that he wanted her to feel bad. He didn’t like that about himself, but he didn’t like anything that was happening right then and there.

“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “Everything is fine. I’m going to leave here soon and you won’t have to deal with me anymore. You were the only reason I have stayed in this dumbass place as long as I have. I’ll be better off figuring things out in California without you.”

“That’s not what I want,” Olive said, making her best attempt at gathering herself.

“Well what do you want?” Michael asked.

“I want you in my life,” Olive reiterated. “I love you.”

Michael and Olive turned around, didn’t say anything to one another. He walked her back to her front porch, offered her a hug that she accepted and they just stood there, embraced, for enough time that made them both sure that how they felt about one another was real. It wasn’t what Michael wanted, to go out this way, and it wasn’t how Olive had envisioned the night going. He assumed he could find a way to convince her that he was the one, and she believed she could maintain what they had forever, and they were both wrong. “I’ll always love you,” Michael said, and kissed Olive on the forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said in return. He turned and walked back towards his car, not looking back, started the engine, and drove home.

The next day Michael turned in a very well-written two week notice to his bosses at COCA-COLA CO of Atlanta, Georgia, and on February 2nd, 2028, against the wishes of his parents, and the professor at UCLA who used his connections to procure such a job to get his foot in the door at a major company such as COCA-COLA CO, Michael boarded a flight headed for Los Angeles, California, which he was on, and in a city which he arrived at on a particularly chilly winter afternoon.

It was a Wednesday. He checked his phone. It was 3:33 PM. He wore a T-shirt and blue jeans.

Chapter Eight

Impulse took Michael Tate away from what was supposed to be his future in Atlanta, Georgia. It drove him away. His mind wouldn’t, and couldn’t, allow him to exist in such close proximity to Olive, whom he never had to see if he chose not to. It made no intellectual sense to him once he arrived back in Anaheim, California, to live in the room he grew up in at his parent’s house, where he had nothing but time to think, and dwell, about the mistake he made by leaving, why he would do that over something as simple as a girl.

But he would not be able to take any of it back by that point, and he knew that. The financial burden he put on his parents to pay for him to go to school in hopes that he would one day turn into the type of breadwinner he expected to be, and that they expected of him, also weighed heavily on his mind. He felt that he was letting them down, that he was letting himself down, and lurking around in the backdrop of it all was the fact that he remained deeply in love with Olive.

That became the most debilitating factor in his life. He abandoned all manner of the routines he cultivated in college and continued in Atlanta; no longer did he wake up early and run; he had no job and no particular interest in seeking one; most days he would arise from slumber around noontime and contemplate picking up his phone to unblock Olive, but his pride demanded in the moment he turned his back to walk away from her porch that he was, in his mind, turning his back forever.

And so a wave of depression enveloped every ounce of Michael’s being. Without routine he found most of his comfort laying in bed all day playing video games, and falling asleep. Occasionally he would muster the energy to visit for a bit with his parents once they got home from work, but even that made him grow tired and bored and ashamed not only for leaving Georgia because of a girl but that this specific girl was also the only thing he ever wanted to talk about. Michael’s parents did everything they could to empathize and make sure he was seen and heard. But they also knew the only elixir that could truly help him was time. None of their collective advice or life experience were capable of penetrating someone who felt as if they were living in a completely unique situation.

Several months passed. Michael evolved past spending his days within the confines of his room and ended up reconnecting with some of his old friends from high school, which he used in turn to establish new relationships with seedier individuals who had the means of acquiring substances that would bring Michael closer to his own demise. It started with long nights of drinking and smoking weed, which were able to mask the pain of his existence for certain stretches. Then he got his hands on cocaine for the first time, felt the the excellence of his heart beating through his chest, grew numb to reality. Ecstasy was the logical next step in his journey with drugs, then acid, then mushrooms. Since he was unable to sustain such highs in a practical sense, he developed a fondness and love for recreationally using painkiller medication, from Vicodin to Norcos to Oxycodone to Morphine, the latter of which turned his lips purple and made him feel so sick that he convinced himself for one night that he didn’t want to ever feel that way again. When he woke up the following day, he took another one.

There were many instances when Michael thought about what he was doing with his life, the harm he was inflicting on himself. It wasn’t uncommon for his depression to spiral further and sort of exacerbate upon itself, which is to say that the unwavering sorrow he felt in his soul was the reason he found and was heavily using drugs in the first place, and also keeping him down and compounding his own sadness. By the time he realized this particular power struggle raging inside him it was too late. He was hooked, and the only thing that could bring him to feel some sense of normalcy were the recreational painkillers he digested with so much regularity.

But he was never unaware. The synapses within his brain continued to fire. The thoughts continued to flow, which he lamented was the root of most of his problems. Time back then moved at a different pace for Michael; every morning he waited for the starting gun to pop so he could rush to his stash of goodies in his dresser to get his day started; every afternoon was a waiting game for him to find out how soon the morning pills would wear off so he could take a couple more; every evening was a game of chicken with his parents hoping they would retire for the night as soon as possible so he could ingest more and more and wait for them to course through his veins so he could sit around zombified to the cadence of diminishing returns having been high all day.

When he got low on Vicodin, which was the easiest for him to get his hands on, he would contact his drug dealer and get more — as addicts tend to do. Michael never took any risks, though. Not when it came to his pills. In the same way he would pump gas in his car when it got a shade below half of a tank, he generally re-upped on painkillers when he had about 20 pills — more or less four days worth — left. He learned early on that this was the way it had to be, given how unreliable some of his connections were. It wasn’t worth the panic or the headache for him to study for a final exam the night before, or the day of. He was always prepared.

He hated himself for everything he had done and everything he was doing. He felt the shame all the time, leading him to continue and grow his tolerance by the weeks and months. In a way to curtail his habits he at a few points ventured to try only one pill per sitting, rather than two or three, but he never got much of a bang out of it. It only reinforced the idea that if he was in on something then he was in on it all the way. As a result he tended to overcompensate and go even harder afterwards. Life felt so much like a trap for Michael Tate, even when he sparsely made attempts at being better.

Summertime came and went. By autumn Michael had lost 40 pounds, turning his average-muscular frame into a shell of itself. All his color was removed and seemingly overnight he looked a translucent kind of pale where he was all bones.

He feigned to his parents that he was looking for work at some of the local restaurants in Anaheim, but he never put forward a serious effort. He was high during every interview, a fact that may or may not have gone unnoticed. By the time he told the story to his parents — showing them he was earnestly trying — he lamented that the reason he didn’t get the job was because he had no prior experience in the food and beverage industry.

In November Michael ran out of money. During his nine-month stint in Georgia he was able to save close to ten thousand dollars, which he was proud of, but even without having to pay for rent or groceries or much of anything else while being back home he blew almost every penny on the drugs and booze that turned him from an upstanding college graduate and worker into what cannot be classified as anything less than a junkie.

* * * * *

Whether it was guilt, or regret, or a genuine sort of love, Olive’s spirit was broken when Michael left. She tried to call and text him during the brief two-week window before he exited her life, but these attempts were in vain. She spent the coming days in the flower shop wondering where he was, how he was doing. Maybe he went home and got back with Jennifer. Perhaps he found some peace by being away from her. She wanted him to be happy, even if it meant she wasn’t.

Her ex-boyfriend, Jesse, came home ahead of his impending graduation from Old Dominion to visit during his spring break at the beginning of March. Without the conflict of Michael being in the picture they spent much of that time together. He told her he had tryouts to play on the practice squad for a few NFL teams, but when all of those fell through, months later, Jesse convinced her to move with him to Canada when he became the third-string quarterback for the Edmonton Elks of the Canadian Football League. In July, 2028, they arrived.

Olive still thought about Michael often; she found her own level of happiness by being with Jesse, but in the back of her mind she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was out of convenience, and some old feeling that she was trying to chase. In her private moments she still sent text messages Michael’s way, just to tell him she hoped he was happy. When she didn’t hear anything back, after several attempts spanning a few different months, she finally convinced herself that he had moved on, let her go, and that she would be better served focusing her attentions on her new life in Canada.

Jesse wasn’t making very much money playing football, but he didn’t really have to. Healthcare was free, Olive’s job at an ice cream parlor paid for their rent all by itself, and everybody was just so damn nice all the time, she thought. She went to all of Jesse’s football games even though he didn’t play a single snap, people around town knew her and knew that her boyfriend played for the Elks, and this was in a sense the type of life she once upon a time imagined — being the pretty wife of the football-playing husband.

But there was another part of Olive that longed for the soap opera she found herself in when Michael was in her life. Not so much the drama, and needing conflict. Just having someone there who she felt like understood her. Jesse was self-absorbed and chasing his own dreams. He had a long history of proving what Olive meant to him; it’s what made her leave the University of Georgia and delivered her back to her parent’s house. Michael’s dreams in some way coincided with hers, and she missed that. Olive knew that beyond the surface, despite what the child in her wanted with Jesse, that she was much more the star of the show than Jesse could ever see.

In November Jesse proposed to her, and she said yes. The wedding was to be the following spring, in Georgia, where he would have a collection of his teammates from high school and college in the wedding party and she would be dressed in white, looking immaculate for everyone in Stone Mountain, Georgia who always assumed this as the logical conclusion. She saw this image in her head. She smiled thinking about it.

And then she thought about Michael, wondered what the wedding would look like if he was the groom. Thought about whether or not he would care that she was engaged. No, she told herself. He was probably off doing great things.

Chapter Nine

Michael woke up on a Friday afternoon in early December. He could hear raindrops spattering against his window and as they fell to the wet concrete in the backyard. Like so many Californians he loved the sound of rain because it wasn’t such a commonplace occurrence, and it also gave him a warm feeling of nostalgia from his time in Georgia where it rained at a significantly higher frequency.

He got out of bed wearing some boxer-briefs and a thermal and shuffled towards his large black dresser to get into his sock drawer to see what was left in the quickly depleting stash of drugs he had left. There were three plastic orange containers, two of which held a small assortment of the slow-acting but long-lasting Tramadol — making him wonder why he didn’t simply combine the six pills into one container instead of having two in one and four in the other — and the other featuring a dozen Vicodin. He poured the Vicodin out into his hand to see there were exactly 12 pills in total, and he did the math of how long that would last him. If I take two right now, he thought, two after I eat, and two at night, the Vicodin will last today and tomorrow; if I take one Tramadol right now, he thought, one after I eat, and one at night, that will last two days as well. Four days total. That’s all Michael had left before his pills were gone. He had no money remaining. This was it.

A helpless panic set over him. Even the thought of being without his relief in a few days sent a shockwave of terror through his system. He felt it in his stomach and in his arms and grew impatient and enraged. The walls were closing in on him.

He sat back on his bed and took out some zig-zags and rolled himself a joint, hoping to calm his nerves. He told himself to breathe, that everything was going to be okay. I’ll just ask my parents for some money, he thought. I’ve never asked them for any money. They’ll have to give it to me. They want me to feel better, too.

Once the joint was rolled he went in his closet and plucked the heather grey Los Angeles Dodgers hoodie off the hanger, his favorite, and put on some black sweatpants and black shoes and left his parent’s house to go for a walk while he smoked. The rain poured down on him, on top of the hood that he pulled atop his head. In no time at all his grey sweatshirt turned a sort of damp charcoal color. His sweatpants were soaked. His socks filled with moisture and he could feel the squish inside his shoes with each step he took.

But he was able to shield the joint that rested in his right hand; he tilted his face forward every time he took a rip from it, so as to preserve the integrity of the greens that lie within. His brain suddenly calmed as he turned the corner, to traverse around the block. He had taken this route many times, by himself, with his friends when they were little kids, on his way to the nearby corner store. Every direction he looked was a reminder of time gone by. These houses, these sidewalks, these street signs, they had always been there. They were there before he was ever born, they were there as he grew up and would be there long after he was gone. Michael could not shake this idea.

The rain continued pounding. The joint was now extinguished and he was soon to arrive back at his house. The route he took down the street, and around the corner, and around another corner, and around another, ultimately led him home. Just as it always did.

He threw his wet sweatshirt, his wet sweatpants, his wet socks, and his underwear into the hamper. He opened his sock drawer and took out a fresh pair of socks, got out a long-sleeve T-shirt, some underwear, and took those items with him to put on after his shower. He hoped for some clarity, something that would convince him otherwise, as the hot water scalded his cold skin. None of it came. He had to do this, he thought. Four days is all he had left. There was nothing else for him to do.

That evening when his parents returned from work Michael spent time with them just as he did most other nights. In the back of his mind he wanted to cry out for some sort of help, plead with them that this is not the way he wanted to be. But he was tired of his own dramatics. He was tired of his own narrative. There was nothing he could do at this point. Nothing was going to change. Happiness would never again be felt. The whole endeavor was pointless to Michael Tate.

So he did the best he could to act normally. When the conversation was over, and his parents prepared themselves for bed, Michael gave them each a hug and told them he loved them. They were curious why, on this specific night, Michael acted in such a way, but they rationalized privately, in bed, that he might finally be coming around. For the better.

Michael got back in his room, locked the door behind him. He opened the drawer and took out the three plastic orange containers, dumped all the contents onto his dresser. Eighteen white pills sat there staring at him. He lined them up according to size, with the six circular Tramadol in perfect sequence on the left, and the twelve remaining oval-shaped Vicodin in a perfect line beside them, creating the last image he ever wanted to see.

He went into his closet and plucked the bottle of bourbon that lie inside one his sports bags, in case of emergency use, and set it beside the beautiful linear progression of pills he laid out. He took a piece of printer paper out and gathered a pen and jotted down a couple lines since he just couldn’t help himself.

All sorts of thoughts were running through his head, but he couldn’t find one to stop him from doing what he aimed to accomplish. He did it, he thought to himself. He did everything he wanted to do with his young life. He went to college, he fell in love with a girl, he got to see the other side of the country. And now he was here, without any of it. There was beauty in letting himself go. There was nothing left for him to see, or feel, and even if he did it would only be a watered-down, reduced version. He needed the real thing.

He took a handful of pills and winced as he washed them down with the bitter taste of the bourbon. Then he took another handful of what was left, and winced again. There were no more pills sitting in perfect order on the dresser in front of him. Instant regret followed and he attempted to make himself vomit, but to no avail. He got on his phone and quickly maneuvered to Olive’s name and somehow had the presence of mind, through the panic, to unblock her. Once he did that he sent her a text message, not knowing where she was or who she was with or if she even gave a single shit about him at this point. “I’ll love you forever,” it said.

After several minutes his heart was now beating out of his chest, not knowing if the drugs had already began their ascent in kicking in or if it was just the anxiety from understanding what he just did. What am I do doing? he thought. What have I done?

The light was on his his room. 10:38 P.M. danced and twirled and made Michael dizzy when he looked at it on the small clock on his dresser next to his TV. He focused his attention on the white piece of printer paper and tried to make out the words that he had written not more than fifteen minutes earlier. He tried to read it, but he couldn’t. He knew he meant well. He was sober when he produced the words. Bracing himself against his dresser, the words blended together like an Etch A Sketch in front of him:

To mom and dad, 
You did everything you could, and I love you both so much. 

Michael Jonathon Tate

His phone vibrated. Olive was calling.

Then Michael collapsed to the floor.

* * * * *

Olive and Jesse returned to Stone Mountain at the end of November, 2028, after the Canadian Football League season ended. They arranged a welcome home party featuring both families; Jesse’s two older brothers, their wives and a collection of young children, his parents, his grandparents, a couple sets of aunts and uncles. Olive’s side of the family was much smaller, and her grandparents retired and moved to Montana, so it was just her parents and her aunt and uncle. It was the first time so much family was involved, making it fairly obvious that some sort of news was on the way.

During the afternoon lunch session Jesse, who decided unilaterally that he would be the one to break the news, called everyone to attention to make the announcement, and the rest of the evening involved much happiness and congratulations before the drinks began to get consumed at heavier volumes and the talks transitioned to American politics and intra-family drama.

In her private moments Olive stared down at her engagement ring and fluctuated between excitement and a sensation of being overwhelmed. Occasionally she would glance over at Jesse, who kept busy entertaining various family members. He told stories about what it was like playing football in Canada, and Olive rolled her eyes as subtly as she could when Jesse confidently maintained that he had plans of making his way to an NFL roster one day.

Her internal conflict was very real to her. For on one hand she got butterflies looking at Jesse, and told herself every time that the feeling he gave her meant in some way that he was the best she could do. On the other, she missed with the entire fabric of her being all the time she had over the last few years getting to be by herself, making her own decisions, not having to submit to the will of another. She lived with no regrets, but if she did, it would have been that she never found the power to say no to Jesse.

The following week Olive and Jesse went to the Atlanta Botanical Garden and decided it would be the venue for their wedding in May of the following year. Jesse had his head down in his phone most of the time, so Olive got to enjoy the greenery and spectacles while on a tour with one of the hosts. Finally she made her way to the Alice In Wonderland exhibit, surrounded by heart-shaped trees and engulfed in cute abstract characters and knew that this was the spot. This was where she would forever be dressed in white.

Olive and Jesse had an apartment they shared in Canada, but when they were in Stone Mountain they both lived with their parents. Both sides leaned heavily towards the conservative side and so it was always kind of understood that they wouldn’t get to sleep in the same bed while they were home. That was fine with Olive, who frankly had already grown annoyed with spending so much time with Jesse over the course of the last year. She needed her time and space to decompress.

Somewhere in the middle of December Olive had a day not so unlike most of the others when she was home in Stone Mountain. She woke up and had her coffee. Went on a lunch date with Jesse and spent the afternoon with him at the gym, then went home and had dinner with her parents. She went to her room and spent 15 or 20 minutes on the phone with Jesse, then retired to watch reruns of one of her favorite television shows when she was a little girl. She turned the TV off and looked at her phone to set an alarm for the following day. It was 1:38 in the morning.

Her phone lit up. There was a text from Michael. She had not heard from him in roughly ten months, and hadn’t attempted to contact him since early in the summertime.

When she read the message a cold pang of excitement and worry rushed through her bones. What does this mean? she wondered. Why now? she asked herself. Then she quickly pushed on his contact photo icon and selected the “call” feature and heard the phone ring again, and again, and again. When he didn’t answer and the little voice said Michael’s voicemail box was full, she called again. Then she called a third time.

Olive had a rough time falling asleep that night. She didn’t know what Michael meant by telling her that he would love her forever, she just knew, from knowing him as well as she did, and from the fact that he refused hearing from her for so long, that, instinctually, it couldn’t have been as simple as it read on the surface. Olive was worried. That was what she decided.

She waited by her phone the next hour and made her best attempts at distracting herself by putting on Mulan, her favorite Disney movie growing up. Michael was so present on her mind that Olive didn’t know what she could do; feelings of both hope, having seen that he tried to contact her, and helplessness, that there was nothing she could do if indeed her instincts were correct, repetitively flashed inside of her. After awhile Olive finally convinced herself that the message was some sort of one-off, a brief moment of weakness perhaps on Michael’s part. She fell asleep once she made peace with that idea.

* * * * *

The California sun penetrated through the chartreuse blinds. White and black pillows remained sprawled about haphazardly on the bed, along with a shoddy five-year old burgundy blanket. An uncapped bottle of bourbon rested on top of a dresser next to a light coding of powder, which were the remnants of eighteen pills that had been consumed roughly ten hours prior. The light was still on. The clock read: 8:50 A.M.

Michael woke up.

Upon coming to he didn’t realize where he was. A puddle of saliva dampened the carpet where his mouth sat. He recognized this carpet. He was in his room. The light hurt his eyes so he kept them closed. Disappointment crashed throughout his body like an anvil; he was still there. His mouth was incredibly dry so his first instinct was to pick himself up and rush to the kitchen for a glass of water, but his mind wouldn’t allow him to get up. Just stay right here, he told himself. Maybe the drugs haven’t fully kicked in yet.

He started crying, not knowing if it was because he failed, once again, or if due to the fact that he had nothing left. There were no more pills to take. He wanted it to be over, and at the same time he knew this could only be the beginning of the largest and most difficult uphill climb he would ever have to go through. Tears ran down the side of his face. He kept shutting his eyes just to stop the tears from flowing. He had never felt more alone than in that moment.

Finally he brought himself to his feet. He pressed his hand against his sturdy dresser and realized how weak he was at the knees. He could hardly walk. He thought about taking a swig from the bottle of bourbon but even the thought made him nauseous. All of a sudden the dizziness captured him and he threw up all over the floor. Michael looked down at his own vomit and saw a half-dozen pills seemingly full-size, unadulterated, and he contemplated for a hot second if it would be worthwhile to collect them and wash them off and be able to take them again. Then he threw up again on top of his previous pile of vomit.

He felt a little bit better, he decided. His body still wasn’t functioning, but he realized that how thirsty he was and his natural survival instincts told him that he must walk into the kitchen and drink water. He had to have water. His mouth was so dry. His body was starving for water.

He flicked the light off, unlocked the door, and walked out into the kitchen. His mother was there, soon to leave for work. “Hey mom,” he told her, pretending to act as normal as possible as he held on to every countertop and braced himself against the refrigerator to get a bottle of water. “Have a good day,” she said in response. “I love you.”

Michael ran through an entire bottle of water like he found an oasis in the middle of the desert. He reached for another and did the same thing. He then took a long and deep breath, not knowing if he even stopped to breathe while he was consuming the wonderful clear content within. On his walk back to his room, he stopped, hunched over, then continued into his room to blow another chunk atop the pile of throw-up. For whatever reason he didn’t want to make a separate scene of throwup. He wanted it all in one spot.

After going to the restroom to get a towel to place on top of the contents that rested on his bedroom carpet, knowing his first chore of the day would be to clean it all up, he took the piece of printer paper with the brief suicide letter he wrote the night before and crumpled it up and discarded it into the trash. He then took the bottle of bourbon, walked it out to the black trashcan, and discarded that as well. When the bottle broke he didn’t care.

Then he went back to his room. He gathered the shoddy burgundy blanket and threw it over his head and went back to sleep. When Michael woke up, around 1:30 in the afternoon, he went to his dresser and collected his phone. There were three missed calls from Olive, as well as three text messages. The first read: “Michael?” The second: “Are you okay?” The third: “Let me know if you are okay. I’m really worried about you.”

Michael got back in bed, with his phone, wondering what he should say in response. He wondered if spilling the beans and telling her he tried to kill himself would be the best way to start a conversation, then opted against it. He thought about telling Olive, simply, that he missed her, and wanted to say hello, but he didn’t like that option, either. So he did what he always did, considered ignoring her. He laid in silence for over an hour alternating between watching a college basketball game and looking at Olive’s name in his phone.

Finally he had the nerve to write her something. “I got incredibly fucked up last night, I’m sorry for bothering you,” he wrote.

At the time Olive was with Jesse visiting with her parents at the local flower shop on Main Street in Stone Mountain, Georgia. Jesse was outside talking to Olive’s dad, who was smoking a cigarette, and always curious about the football happenings in Jesse’s life, even if they were oftentimes embellished. Olive was behind the counter with her mom when the message from Michael came through.

She glanced outside at her fiancee, who seemed to be in the middle of an animated conversation featuring laughter and the gesticulation of hand motions, then looked back toward her mother and in a sort of hush tone told her: “Michael texted me last night out of the blue, and he just text me again right now.”

“Michael Michael?” her mother asked. “What did he say?”

“Nothing, really,” Olive responded, not wanting to betray the warm feelings surrounding her recent engagement. “It’s just weird that I’m hearing from him now, all of a sudden.”

“Did you tell him you are getting married in six months?”

“No, mom,” Olive said, sounding annoyed. “We haven’t spoken in like a year.”

Jesse and Olive’s dad reentered to the sound of the little bell that dangled off the horizontal metallic bar inside the shop door, and Olive and her mother quickly gathered themselves to pretend like they were talking about nothing in particular. “Are you ready to go?” Olive asked, looking towards Jesse. “I’m not feeling very well, I was thinking of taking a nap.”

On their way out Olive and her mother shared a knowing glance, told each other I Love You, and a handful of minutes later Olive was in her room with the door closed, excited and anxious to call Michael. At 5:07 Eastern Standard Time she pressed the FaceTime feature on her iPhone, and after a few dials Michael answered.

“Hello Olive,” Michael mumbled, head pressed to the side against his pillow.

“Michael?” Olive replied. “What’s going on?”

Suddenly Michael was filled for an instant by every memory he had of himself and Olive; it was positive and it was negative and it was everything in between. He was so overwhelmed in that moment that it made him want to break down and start crying, but he refused. Instead he let out a smile, just to let her know that he was okay, even though he wasn’t.

“It’s really good to see your face again,” Michael said.

Olive kind of just stared at him. She had never seen him so pale. His cheeks had almost entirely evaporated and she felt like she could see every bone in his facial structure. The entire image of what she saw through the small window on her phone bothered her. She did not have a good grasp on what to expect when she saw Michael’s face, but it wasn’t this.

“That text you sent me last night… what did it mean?” Olive asked.

Michael’s first instinct was to lie, or at the very least withhold the truth, so that is what he did. “Nothing,” he said. “Like I told you, I got too hammered.”

Olive had a strong feeling like he was holding back, and Michael knew it based on the disappointed, suspect look she had on her face. “Okay, fine,” Olive said.

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence ensued.

“Okay then. Well, it was nice hearing from you again,” Michael said, sarcastically.

“What the fuck happened?” Olive snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Michael defended. “I say something nice to you and you assume something is wrong?”

“No. I don’t hear from you all year. I tried talking to you and you wouldn’t give me the time of day. Then all of a sudden out of fucking nowhere you reach out to tell me you’ll love me forever? Who the fuck does that?” Olive said.

Michael removed his head from his pillow, sort of sat up, but didn’t know what to say in response. His mind was still stuck, hungover, drugged up. He was not sharp enough by any means to give a coherent response.

“And you look fucking terrible, by the way,” Olive continued. “What happened to you?”

Michael could do nothing beyond stare at Olive’s face. So beautiful, so delicate, so many times he looked her directly in the eyes and poured out his soul to her. He had an inkling of doing it again, right then and there, tell her how lost he was, how deep he had fallen into a world of drugs and depression, all the way down to the previous night, when he took 18 painkillers and washed them down with some brown liquid in hopes that he wouldn’t wake up the following day, which was this day. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to deliver that news just yet.

Finally he broke down. Tears flooded his face. He tilted the phone away from himself and set it face down on his bed to where Olive could see nothing beyond a blank, black screen. Olive felt an immediate sense of regret for going so hard on Michael, for she had never spoken to him in such an aggressive way. But as she saw the blank screen and heard the weeping from a man she had never heard or seen cry, she knew instantly that her intuition about him was correct. Something was very clearly and very obviously wrong. She stayed on the line.

A few minutes later Michael picked up the phone, eyes welled and fatigued with tears. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t want you to ever have to deal with my bullshit. I didn’t mean to stay away from you for so long. I just didn’t know what else to do,” he said.

“Just talk to me,” Olive responded. “Tell me what’s going on. How can I help?”

“There’s nothing left for you to do. I’m here, and you are there.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help you, Michael. I still care about you.”

“Thank you,” Michael said. “I think I just needed to hear from you.”

Constantly present in Olive’s mind was the fact that she was now engaged, and that she knew she needed to tell Michael at some point. This, however, was not that time.

Despite wanting nothing more than to continue speaking with Olive, Michael cut the conversation short. He understood that the longer it went on, the easier it would be for Olive to pick him apart and really cut to the heart of everything that had transpired over the last year of his life that he was both too embarrassed and too ashamed to mention.

Chapter Ten

Shortly, in a matter of like a day after his failed attempt, Michael made a deal with himself. He was going to learn how to live his life again. He was to start a fresh set of routines and turn them into one giant routine. He was going to make the choice to be happy. What he was not going to do was spend any more time with the group of friends he had shared so much of the last six months with. He was not going to drone on feeling sorry for himself all the time. And, perhaps most importantly, he would never again use or abuse any drug. He tried to die, and failed. No part of Michael believed everything happened for a reason, nor did he view it as some sign from God that those eighteen pills didn’t forever put him to rest. It was just something he tried to make work that didn’t end up working. And since it didn’t work, he felt like he owed it to himself to begin anew.

It did not make his life any easier in the short term. For the duration of the following seven days he was absolutely miserable. The bulk of time he spent in his room fluctuating between a severe fever and cold sweats. When his body was shivering cold and littered with goosebumps he would cover himself with the tattered old burgundy blanket of his late teenage years, and right away begin to sweat through seemingly every orifice. When he did manage to leave his room the brief interactions he had with his parents were short and filled with extreme irritability.

Lack of appetite wasn’t particularly an uncommon phenomenon during his era of heavy drug usage, but the difference now was that he really wanted to eat. He was hungry all the time. But whenever in the middle of the night while he wasn’t able to sleep when he would walk to the empty dark kitchen to fire himself up a grilled cheese, or whatever leftovers his mom left in the fridge, by the time it was ready the nausea would creep in and even the smell of warm ready to be digested food would turn his stomach and occasionally force him to vomit in the sink.

Michael starved to contact any number of the friends he had made connections with to reach out and get the drugs his body so desperately needed to make him feel normal again, but he blocked all their numbers directly after he spoke to Olive because all of a sudden in that moment he felt ardently that life was worth living. So he held out, and felt terrible. Every day he told himself it would get better, and every day his constitution was challenged and made weaker by the impossibility of it all.

Sleep was a problem. Michael was fatigued all day long, wanting to do nothing but lay in bed. In the rare moments his body shut down on him and he was able to nap for a couple or a few hours he would experience the worst nightmares of his life. One was of a swarm of cockroaches and spiders making nests and crawling and living inside the blanket that he used, and he woke up, jumped out of bed and threw his blanket on the floor, turned the light on to see nothing was there. Another was of being trapped in a dark room with barely enough room to breathe, and he woke up gasping like he had just been underwater for too long. The worst ones, in his eyes, were always about Olive, whether she was ignoring him, intentionally kissing or groping another man in front of him in hopes he was watching, or just flat out being there, with him, in his arms.

Every minute was a mile. Every step felt like a chore. Every video game played, every song heard, every masturbation session, lost its feeling and its meaning. Michael did everything he could to pass the time, and he understood after the first couple days just how long this process was going to take. In retrospect he made fun of himself for how comically short it actually was — just one week — but he would never forget it. He never wanted to feel that way again.

Two days before Christmas, 2028, Michael woke up. He didn’t remember falling asleep and realized it was the first decent night of rest he had had in who knows how long. He had energy. He had an appetite. He went to the kitchen right when he woke up and heated up some leftover spaghetti that his mom had made for dinner two nights prior, and loaded up the biggest plate of his life and consumed all of it. He was still hungry afterwards. He opened up a container of ice cream and ate until he felt like complete shit. Then he went back to his room, laid down, and texted Olive. She wouldn’t respond for another four hours, but that was okay. He felt, in his eyes, normal again.

After going back to sleep he got up and took a walk around the neighborhood, the same route he always traversed. Then he did it again. And a third time. Michael didn’t understand what he was going through, or why, but he convinced himself that he was back. A perpetual state of hunger that could be satiated and sleep that could be fulfilled cascaded over him and even the thought of being able to accomplish both of those items put a smile on his face. In love and out of love he had been — twice now — and he was still here, he thought. He was not dead. If he could make it through this, he thought, then he could make it through anything, always.

Olive texted back, told him she had just gotten home. Michael told her he was in a really good mood, explained that the December weather was so nice, that he was happy, and she probed to see if he was interested in another Facetime call. “Of course!” Michael responded. “Just let me finish my walk and I’ll call you.”

Michael completed his third cycle around the block. He walked with more verve knowing he was about the hear from Olive. Excitement filled every step he took, not knowing if he was moving the ground or if the ground was moving him on his way back to his parent’s house. He got back to his room and settled in, called Olive.

“Hello Michael Tate,” she said, smiling, donning his favorite lipstick and blush combination.

“Olive Parker,” Michael said in return, “Fancy seeing you again.”

“How are you feeling?” Olive asked. “You look way better than the last time I saw you.”

“I feel amazing. Best day of my life,” Michael responded.

Olive smiled awkwardly and sort of hesitated, knowing that the only thing she wanted and needed to tell him would very likely change drastically his disposition. But she had to say it. She just had to.

“So I didn’t really want to tell you the other day when we talked,” Olive started. “I’m so happy to hear that you are doing better. I was really worried about you.”

Michael sat back, offered a theatrical type of perplexed look. It made Olive even more hesitant to say what she needed to say, but on the inside Michael truly did feel bulletproof.

“Jesse proposed to me last month and I said yes,” Olive said. “We’re getting married in May.”

There was a pregnant pause. Several thoughts and feelings and emotions went through Michael’s head. Obvious disappointment, sure. Olive is making a mistake, of course. I’m right here, naturally. Why would Olive feel the need to still be in contact with me when she is engaged? These were all low-hanging in the immediate aftermath of hearing the news.

“Well look at you,” Michael responded, smiling. “I bet you are just so excited. Congratulations.”

Olive sensed sarcasm, since at the end of the day it was Michael who said those words. But what was she expecting of him? Why did she feel such disappointment from his response? Did she expect him to plead, and beg, that it should be him, instead, and not Jesse? Olive was bashful, and displayed a sheepish smile in return, not really knowing where to go from there.

“Thank you, Michael, I really appreciate that,” she told him.

So many things Michael wanted to say, and so many things Olive wanted to retort with. She had prepared for the litany of scenarios Michael could offer her, whether it was a guilt trip, the revelation that he was happy with someone else, for Jennifer, the questions of why it didn’t work out between the two of them, or if he was deserving of another chance, all of it. She was a smart girl, and she definitely knew Michael. But she hadn’t considered him just being himself. For some reason that never occurred to her. It was too simple and easy.

“You always know what you are doing,” Michael responded. “I’m sure you will be a very happy wife.”

Again Olive didn’t know if he was being sarcastic, and should take some sort of disrespect from it all. She felt at the same time a certain sense of satisfaction that she had gotten the news off her chest. She didn’t know if he was being genuine, or if it even mattered in the first place. Michael just continued looking at her with a boyish type of smile that she had seen face-to-face so many times and loved looking at.

From Michael’s end, of course there were feelings swirling around. It wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to hear. But he was also, in his mind, playing with house money. He had not heard from Olive, on his own accord, for so long. A shade over a week ago he tried to kill himself. Afterward he experienced the worst week of his life, which is saying something given how much trauma he put on himself for all of the intense feelings he had for Olive. What could she possibly say that could hurt him any more than he had already hurt himself? It’s not like, over the course of the last year, he didn’t contemplate every possible outcome as it related to her, or them, whatever they were, whatever they would be, whatever they could in the future turn into. Michael prepared himself for that inasmuch as Olive believed she was preparing herself for the news that she had to give him.

Michael again offered his congratulations, Olive reiterated how relieved she was to hear that he was doing better, and the two ended the call on agreeable terms. After hanging up Olive felt relief for telling her truth, but also could not shake the idea in the back of her head that she really missed him and wanted to see him again, face to face, in real life. When Michael got off the phone he experienced a sort of resignation, that he could have said so many things and acted in so many ways towards Olive upon hearing the news that the only girl he ever loved — truly loved — made the decision that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with somebody else. In spite of that, he was proud of himself. He showed constraint. Self-control.

Neither of those items were part of the deal that he made with himself.

* * * * *

Christmas came and went and the New Year passed. Michael had a heart-to-heart with his parents and decided to be mostly honest with them about how he had been using behind their backs and that it was all in the past now. They grew even more worried about him, having thought the entire time it was some terrible form of depression that neither of them had ever gone through. Ever the cunning salesman Michael downplayed how deep and how dark he had fallen, never mentioned that he made an attempt on his own life, thanked them for giving him his space, and convinced them that he was a changed man and would begin working again as soon as he could.

At the turn of 2029 he went out one morning and harassed nearly every local restaurant hiring manager. He had mostly the same blueprint for each place he went to, telling them despite not having his food handler’s card or ever having worked in the food industry that he was a diligent worker and a quick learner and he would be willing to do anything it took. One of the fancier steakhouses in the area had a woman of about 40 years old who asked him why, after working in a quasi-managerial position for a fortune 500 company he would lower himself to being just another unskilled laborer link in a chain, to which Michael replied that he didn’t care and would be more than happy sweeping the floors if that was how he could get his foot in the door.

She hired him on the spot. He began by making the minimum wage in California, $22.50 per hour, and executed his duties on Friday, Saturday and Sunday each weekend by literally sweeping the floors, carrying bags of ice and dumping them behind the bar whenever the bartenders needed more ice, replacing the ketchup and mustard bottles in the back of the house, washing dishes, and keeping his head down. By March he was splitting time as a host and occasionally taking orders as a server. By April he had been trained to be a bartender, so he would help out in that role as well. He became a jack of all trades.

Michael was educated and trained for bigger things in life and in his mind he knew that he wouldn’t be doing this type of work forever, but he was never happier than being with the people, doing the things regular workers did. He spent the majority of his teenage years in hopes of being a big-shot executive and running his own show. But he had already seen enough of a glimpse into how that world operates. It was work, and the people he had to answer to were phony, and he knew intrinsically that to rise in that world he would have to be one of them.

What he realized early on at the steakhouse he worked at was that real life did not revolve around those terms. COCA-COLA CO seemed in hindsight like a laboratory where every day he would go for a run on the wheel much like a mouse, turning and turning and turning, while the duties he accomplished at the steakhouse, despite not meaning anything, really, served a kind of larger purpose. Every day was different. He never knew who he would run into or what problem might arise.

Bartending became his favorite thing to do. There he would be able to interact with people and show off his knowledge, change himself like a chameleon depending on what demographic showed up to the bar in front of him. Some nights he would get to talk about baseball, others he would get to talk about UCLA, and other times, more randomly, he would be allowed to discuss what life in Georgia was like. The latter he liked the most, because he could never separate his feelings about Georgia from the time he got to spend with Olive. He didn’t talk about her much, but she was always on his mind.

Olive kept herself occupied with her impending wedding, though every week or two she would be in touch with Michael when she had time to herself and he wasn’t working. Flooded by the stress of getting her ducks in a row, from the guests, to the food, to booking a couple photographers, to picking out Georgia Bulldogs-red dresses for her maids of honor, such that they would match perfectly with the Alice in Wonderland-themed backdrop, to making sure Jesse’s friends would clash well with them in their black suits with red vests and red ties, talking to Michael on occasion became her favorite form of relief.

Despite the immediate childlike disappointment Michael felt when he realized Olive would be getting married he couldn’t shake how liberating it felt to know the truth about where she stood. He gave her his best when he was in Georgia, and now it was out of his hands, he thought. Throughout all of his personal struggles and turmoil the most obvious outcome was that Olive would end up with her high school sweetheart. Privately Michael knew that he, himself, was best for her, but it was not as if he got defeated in an arms race against a current competitor. It lessened the blow, in some way, that he was fighting a ghost.

* * * * *

In the middle of April Jesse told Olive that at the end of the month he and his buddies would be driving to Virginia to spend the weekend there for his bachelor party. He did not ask for her permission or have any type of discussion with her. That was the plan, and that’s what he was going to do. A minor fight broke out, with Olive asking why he had to go out of state, and Jesse telling her that that was where his friends were from, that that is where he went to college and they wanted to have their last hurrah in the place they all met and became friends.

Olive had an inkling that she didn’t trust, clearly, but by that point she was resigned to the life she had opted into when she said Yes. For all she knew Jesse had cheated on her several times with numerous women even after their engagement. She couldn’t even feel enough to care, though. Her wounds had been opened and closed so many times that she was numb to all the scars. If that’s what Jesse wanted to do, Olive would not be the one to stop him.

But as she protested, about Jesse’s impending trip to Virginia, she realized that it would allow her a weekend of her own. And where else in the world would she want to spend her time, if Jesse was going to be out of state, than choosing to do the same? It’s only fair, she thought. Olive did not have a group of old buddies like Jesse did; her two best friends were away at college out of state, and they had finals coming up and would only be able to make it to the wedding, not a bachelorette party.

To make it easier on Jesse’s well-being — because even in spite of her suspicions that he was still cheating on her, Olive was afraid to put the thought into his head that she would have the opportunity to do the same — she told him that her mother would be flying out with her to see the western coast. Somehow having her mom involved was all the protection she needed to reassure him.

Of course, she hadn’t even broached the subject with her mom at that point. She had no intentions of doing much of anything for her bachelorette party. But Jesse was going to have his weekend. Olive made sure that she would get hers.

Olive texted Michael and let him know she would be flying into LAX on a Friday, April 27th. Her and her mother would rent a car and book a hotel in Anaheim. The two of them, Olive and her mom, would spend the following Sunday together checking out the beach and doing various shopping in the surrounding area, but the rest of the weekend belonged to Michael.

“I’ll make sure to get the weekend off,” Michael texted. “See you then.”

Olive and her mother arrived to their hotel in Anaheim in late afternoon. Michael picked her up at 5:00, on the dot, since he was always on time, and the two of them went for a drive.

Chapter Eleven

Michael got out of his car and waited by the passenger-side door as Olive arrived down the stairs of the second story hotel room her and her mother stayed in. It had been almost a year and a half since Michael had seen her face, during much different circumstances in their lives. Olive, dressed casually in blue jeans and wedges with a black crop top and black jacket, lit up like a Christmas tree and sauntered over into Michael’s arms. He could do nothing but sort of appreciate how beautiful she looked; he felt a nervous excitement in the pit of his stomach. He just smiled, reserved himself as best he could, and wrapped his arms around her.

“Are you like on a time limit here?” he asked.

“I told you I came for you. Show me California, Michael Tate.”

A light rain covered Michael’s windshield despite the sun being out, enough to where he had to implement the wipers every thirty seconds or so. He played an instrumental band, Explosions In The Sky, as they made the journey to San Diego in rush hour traffic, stopping and going, then stopping some more. Olive was struck by the California traffic, proving true the cliché she had always envisioned.

“Well this is it,” Michael said. “Everything you thought… is.”

“This is why I wanted to come to California. My mom didn’t really approve when I told her I wanted to see you again. She’s real traditional. I told her we’re just friends. That you are just some guy I used to hang out with who worked for Coke. I lied, sorry mom. I really wanted to come out here so I could sit in traffic.”

“I fucking knew it. You know we’ve only gone like 10 miles. If we turn around now I might be able to get you home by midnight.”

“I mean, you’re the math guy. I’m just a helpless girl from Georgia.”

“That’s what I always liked most about you. You are helpless. You thought it was all about being good looking because of how shallow you are. I’ve only been trying to look out for you the whole time.”

“Oh, Michael. You know just what to say.”

“Apparently not. You don’t like me.”

“Maybe if I take enough trips out to California I can find a way to be friends with you again.”

“Wait, we were friends, once? I don’t remember that.”

“Shut the fuck up, Michael.”

“I thought I was just a slab of meat. Do you even eat meat? I don’t remember.”

“A lot has changed since you’ve known me. I mean, since you cut me out of your life and ignored me. I’m a Canadian now. Dual citizenship, so hah!”

“Who could’ve guessed, small-town girl, prom queen, Canadian. That’s a really impressive resume. And all you needed was to get back together with your boyfriend. I looked up his stats in the CFL but he didn’t have any. You did good. And you cut your hair!”

“Did well.”

“And now you are in Southern California with some random guy you knew for like five minutes.”

“I know you are smart enough to know the difference between ‘good’ and ‘well’. Proper English is something you know how to use.”

“You aren’t the only one who changed over all these months. You are Canadian now. And I turned into a dumbass. You don’t even know me anymore.”

“How do you like my hair?”

“It’s nice. Different. I like different.”

“I’ve kept it pretty short ever since, like, a month? A month after you left Georgia. I was ready for a change.”

“So you’re telling me I wasn’t the only one? Who needed a change, I mean.”

“Jesus Christ, Michael. Would you shut up.”

“I’m funny. I can’t help it. Words just come out of my mouth and they make you laugh. Sorry.”

“Thanks for reminding me that cutting my hair and you leaving Georgia to go back home constitutes a similar level of change. That was nice of you.”

“Everyone knows two things about me. I’m funny, and I’m really fucking nice.”

“So are you ever going to tell me what happened to you? Why you texted me what you texted me that night?”

Michael was hoping for more meaningless banter, but he knew eventually, expecting drinks to be consumed at some point over the course of the night, or the weekend, that he would have to answer such a question. The conversation turned more serious.

“What do you want to know, Olive? I told you I was fucked up.”

“You used to give me a hard time about not being upfront, and now you aren’t going to be honest with me?”

“There’s a monster difference between how I operate and how you operate, so it’s pointless to compare us. Look, that stadium right there… that’s where the Angels play.”

“Oh yeah? And what is that?”

“Well I never lied to you, for one. That’s important I think.”

“What is that supposed to mean? I never lied to you, either.”

“All right, fine. You never lied to me, I take it back. But deception is part of your game. Is it not? It was with me, anyway. If we were in court in a criminal trial you would win. You have all the plausible deniability. You did not lie to me. You know what I’m saying? But you did deceive. To me it’s all the same shit. You made it seem like it was one way, and it was never that way. I knew it while it was happening. That was my fault. I’m not mad at you about it.”

“That’s why you ignored me for all those months? As some kind of punishment?”

“It has nothing to do with that. I was honest with you about my situation, about Jennifer, and you played a game with me-”

“I never played games with you, Michael.”

“You made it like you had been through something similar. You never told me that, while it was all happening, while I was pouring my heart out to you, all the time, like some goddamn moron who told those types of secrets to someone he gave a fuck about, that you were still in communication with your other someone. Or, more than that, actually. That’s kind of fucked up, don’t you think?”

“And then what did you do? You went home for Christmas and slept with Jennifer.”

“I was even honest with you about that.”

“You just wanted to hurt me because you were upset with me.”

“I wasn’t upset with you. I was just upset.”

“All right, well. You tell me I’m fucked up. That’s pretty fucked up, too.”

“Then tell me, Olive, tell me what… what was I supposed to do? Sit back and let the woman I love completely take over my life? I knew that day when I asked you if this was real… I knew the answer I was going to get from you. And I went through with it anyway. I had to know, you know? And what was the logical conclusion to receiving such an answer from you? That you didn’t like me? That I was supposed to know the whole time that we were just friends?”

“I’m confused. I don’t know. But you didn’t have to tell me that you slept with her.”

“Even though all the while you were sleeping with your ex?”

“I felt bad for what I did. I still do feel bad. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I never said I was perfect. I told you so many times that I’m complicated, that my life was complicated. If you chose to ignore that out of some blissful ignorance or whatever, I can’t control that. You expect me to be this tamed creature who does what you want all the time, who gives you exactly what you want, and I didn’t know what I was doing at the time. I really liked you, and I was still in love with him. I can’t explain why. You’ll probably give me a psychology lesson if I tried. But that’s me being honest with you. I don’t know is the only answer I have.”

“I’ve made peace with everything, Olive. Or at least I’ve come close. As close as I’ll probably ever get. I am not in your head holding your hand through whatever thought process you were going through. Your point of view makes sense to you, just like mine makes sense to me. It’s valid. All I ever wanted you to understand was that there’s a ton of daylight that exists between telling me you never lied to me and the ride that you took me on.”

“I didn’t take you on a fucking ride, Michael. I meant everything I said to you, and felt strongly about you. I still do in a lot of ways.”

“And I came home because of how strongly I felt about you.”

“I know, I still feel guilty that you gave up your dream.”

“I didn’t give up on my dream. My dream changed after I met you.”

Traffic started to clear. Michael took a deep breath and let out an audible sigh as he was able to press his foot on the gas pedal more firmly. The speedometer on his car crept up to 55, then 60, and as the freeway opened up he was able to cruise at a steady pace hovering between 70 and 75 miles per hour. Olive got quiet, rested her head on the palm of her hand which was propped up by her elbow resting on the passenger-side door. She looked out the window as the sun began to fade beneath the mountains off in the distance.

“So what happened to you?” Olive asked. “Why have you lost so much weight? Why are you so pale? You look better now, I guess, but it’s still not you.”

“It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“I’m sure it is, but I don’t judge. Was it drugs?”

“Yeah, actually. What else could it be?”

“I never really took you to be the type of person who got into drugs. I know a lot of people in Georgia that are into them, though, so I get it. The economy is so bad out there. So people either choose government jobs, like being a cop, or a firefighter, or whatever, or they end up collecting unemployment and using the little money they have on getting high.”

“Yeah I never thought I’d be that guy, either, but I also never felt so shitty before.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“It’s not your fault. Stop saying sorry. This is supposed to be a happy time. Do me a favor? Don’t say sorry again while you are with me. When you say sorry it makes me feel bad.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t say ‘yes, sir,’ either. That gets me too excited.”

“Yes, Michael.”

“Don’t say that, either. You’re a pretty girl and I’m a simpleton. Your words are dangerous.”

“Can you stop changing the fucking subject? Just talk to me. Tell me what happened with your life.”

“All right, fine. But what is there to say, really. I was a wreck. I thought when I came home that I would be motivated to prove you wrong. To use all the energy I had wasted on you for positive change. That sounds messed up. I didn’t mean ‘wasted’ like that. But you know what I’m saying. What I realized was the opposite was happening. I had no motivation to do anything. All I could do, every day, was think about you, wondering what you were doing, who you were with, if you were happier than in the times you spent with me. It was poisoning my brain… how much I thought about you. So I figured it would be healthier to see my old friends, but that didn’t do any good for me, either. Because none of them were going through the things I was dealing with. We didn’t have anything in common anymore. They didn’t graduate from college. They didn’t travel to the east coast for a career-type job. They didn’t fall in love with a girl. They had never been in love in the first place. Or, even if they did, they couldn’t relate to the situation I was in. It was like we never left high school. They hadn’t changed.”

“Okay, so what happened?”

“I was at some party one night and I started smoking weed with this guy who was a drug dealer. I mean he was a normal dude, he was cool. He just happened to sell drugs on the side, you know? And so he and I got to be friends. I was sort of living on summer vacation every day, and he always had some new shit on him. So he introduced me to coke, and we did coke together. And then we went out to the desert and did some mushrooms and shit, and that was fun. Best high ever. After that I don’t really know what happened. It seemed like every night I was somewhere new, surrounded by people I didn’t know, and one thing led to another.”

“That seems like a pretty generic description for becoming a drug addict. ‘I smoked weed and then I did coke and one thing led to another.’”

“You have no idea.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry for cutting in. Keep going.”

“Stop saying sorry, please.”

“Just shut up and keep talking, Michael. Jesus.”

“Fine. That’s all it was, basically. I had this hole in my chest, and I didn’t know how to fill it. I felt like I took the weed as far as I could take it. Coke was nice on occasion. The psychedelics opened me up a bit, they made me feel things and see things in a different light. There were a couple times I believed I had made peace with you, with my situation, but somehow every morning I woke up. And I felt the same way. You were still on my mind. I guess somewhere there, back when I was in Georgia, I thought you were just always going to be there. You were always going to be part of my life. I woke up thinking about you, I went to sleep and you were the last thing I thought about. I was so happy. Then, I don’t know when, maybe it was that day by the bleachers, at the park, our park, I guess, it was cold and wet and I can still see it right now, I knew that that was the end. That was it. Maybe it happened a lot sooner than that and I was just playing pretend, prolonging the inevitable. So much of my life I had built around you, talking to you, seeing you, thinking about you, and it felt like it was all taken away from me. Like there was this party that never was supposed to stop. And then one day it stopped. I had to leave even though I didn’t want to. I don’t mean Georgia, even though I did leave Georgia. I mean the party. That’s what I had to leave.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way, Michael. We had a lot of good memories, happy memories, together. I wanted to make more with you. But you needed more from me. And I wasn’t ready for it. You understand I hope.”

“I get it now. You have your secrets. It just didn’t seem fair to me. That’s all. I acted on impulse when I left. I should have sucked it up.”

“Keep telling your story. I’m cutting you off. I do that.”

“I’ve talked too much already, I’ll be short. Because I’d rather talk about what you have been doing.”

“Your life has been much more interesting than mine, I promise you that.”

“After a while I stopped going out, again. I mean I did, but not as much. When I started doing painkillers, that’s the bad shit, honestly, I noticed that all I needed was a connect and I could enjoy those within the comfort of my house. So some nights I would end up at bars, or clubs, or wherever the action was. Sometimes my friends would be there, other times I was by myself. Alcohol tasted better when I was high on some Vicodin, or whatever. I pretty much just did anything that was in front of me. So those were my drugs of choice. Weed and coke and acid and mushrooms were all social drugs. I just wanted to be by myself most of the time. Even in public. So that’s what I did. Every day I would just get high, and when I came down, I would get high again.”

“All right, last question. I’ll leave you alone after this,” Olive said. “That night. You know the night I’m talking about. You texted me. For the first time in like a year you texted me. I swear to God when I saw ‘Michael Tate’ on my phone my heart dropped. What were you doing?”

“I told you, Olive, I got really hammered and for some reason I thought about you. That was it.”

“Why are you lying? I know that wasn’t it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, that was it. I swear.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense? That I was fucked up?”

“That’s exactly what doesn’t make sense. From what you tell me you were fucked up all the time. Right? You got high every day. You were fucked up every day. Or night, whatever. And, from what you say, you thought about me all the time. So you are saying that over the course of a year-“

“It was only like 10 months, actually.”

“All right Michael fuck off, over the course of like ten months when you were fucked up all the time, and thinking about me, never once did you think about texting me, or calling me, or FaceTiming me, and all of a sudden, low and behold, there you were. Telling me that you’ll love me forever? That was the one thing you wanted to say after all that time?”

“What else was there for me to say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just be a normal person and ask me how I’m doing?”

“It’s basically the same thing.”

“No, it fucking isn’t.”

“What do you want me to tell you, Olive?”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I’ve already told you way more than I wanted to.”

“Well you haven’t said enough. I was worried about you. Like, really worried. And I didn’t hear from you until the next day. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well I’m sorry I made you feel bad for like one whole night. That must have been really difficult on you.”

“Don’t be a smartass. I’m being serious.”

“I am, too. I got too smashed, then I went to sleep. I texted you because I wanted to hear from you. That was literally all that happened.”

“Fine, Michael.”

“All that matters is that we’re beyond that. You’re here, I’m here, and that’s it. You’re getting married in a couple weeks, right? That’s exciting. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Yeah,” Olive said, annoyed and frustrated. “I am.”

Michael pressed his grip to the steering wheel, increased the velocity of his car on the freeway. Olive continued looking out the passenger window as the sun made its final descent below the mountains, bringing darkness to California on this random Friday night at the end of April, 2029. She told him about Jesse, about the proposal, about Canada, and the ice cream shop she worked at. An hour later Michael found parking on a side street six blocks away from the restaurant they would walk to.

It got quiet on the walk, then silent. Out of reflex Olive’s hand confronted with Michael’s in a glancing blow. They both felt it. Then Michael reached for it, her hand, that is, and she took it. They walked together hand-in-hand much like they did so many times in another life that had gone by.

* * * * *

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

Wedges touching the San Diego sidewalk. Hands being held. Michael Tate and Olive Parker.

A cool ocean breeze penetrates their faces. Olive tugs at either side of her jacket to cover her midsection, zips it up about halfway to where she is still able to show a fragment of her cleavage. Michael looks over at her face, then down at her cleavage as she zips up her jacket. Says nothing.

They pass a house featuring a hispanic family of around a dozen people of all ages sitting and standing in the front yard. Music plays. Neither Olive nor Michael understand the words of the music. It’s in Spanish. A large dog barks at them as they walk casually past the white picket fence partitioning the sidewalk from the front yard. Michael gives a respectful nodding of the head in the general direction of a middle-aged man sitting in a white plastic chair on the porch. Receives no reciprocation. They continue walking.

Street lights shine. One is flickering. City lights grow brighter as Michael and Olive get nearer the restaurant that is in sight on the corner a couple blocks ahead. Michael points with his left hand. That’s where we’re going, he says. Olive squeezes his hand, doesn’t say anything.

They reach the door. Music plays on two large loud speakers across the street. Some club. There are no words, just the thumping of bass. Michael opens the door, Olive enters in front of him. For two? The young female brunette host asks them. Yes ma’am, Michael says. The young brunette host leads them to their booth. You’re not in Georgia anymore, you don’t have to say ‘yes, ma’am,’ Olive says. Michael grins, yes I do, he responds.

Two food menus, one drink menu. A few minutes later two waters and a wooden bowl filled with hot fresh tortilla chips and a small black adobe bowl of salsa are in front of them. I’m so hungry and I’m so tired, Olive says, as she reaches for the first chip and devours it. Crunch. Michael looks over at her, tells her to ‘eat then.’ Doesn’t understand how she’s here. She’s really here. She is right next to him. Sitting in the booth.

Michael looks down at his watch. Black leather strap. Black face. 7:17 P.M. The server arrives. Light-skinned Black woman in her late-20’s or early 30’s. Frail structure. Skinny. Long brain hair. Might be a weave. Could I get you two started with some drinks? she says. Olive eyeballs the drink menu. Michael peers in to the server’s name tag. Something about working in the industry makes him want to develop a relationship on a first-name basis with whomever is serving him. Tamara, it reads. ‘Ta-mare-uh?’ Michael asks. ‘It’s actually Tammer-uh,’ she responds, showing her big pearl-white teeth as she smiles. ‘But you can pronounce it however you want.’ Fake laughter ensues.

Can I get a Jameson neat, Michael asks. Olive feels hurried after Michael orders. Oh I don’t know, what do you recommend, she asks Tamara. The Royale Playa is my favorite, Tamara says. It’s a little bit sweet but it’s definitely my vibe. Okay, that sounds good, Olive replies. I do need to see both of your ID’s. Okay thank you. I’ll be back with your drinks in a minute.

Sombreros hang on the wall. Large ones. Less large ones. They are mostly all large. Green stripes and red stripes and some that are literally colored green with white and red stripes and some that are literally colored red with the opposite. Drinks get consumed. Is it okay that you are drinking? Olive asks at some point. Isn’t this like bad for your sobriety? Michael has wondered the same thing. But it’s all about discipline, he tells her. I have tried everything, he says, and nothing has ever worked. My best medicine, he says, is to just tell myself ‘no.’ He’s referencing drugs, of course.

More drinks are had. Tamara delivers the food. Shredded beef burrito for Michael. Too many onions. Way too many onions. He eats it anyway. Enchiladas and rice and runny brown beens for Olive. Wow this is so much better than the Mexican food in Georgia, she says. Michael laughs. Welcome to California.

More drinks. Michael sips but can’t taste the alcohol anymore. Olive is officially tipsy. Michael tries to make small talk but Olive is enamored with anything he has to say. She is at that point in her night. Just looking at him. Facial bones. Unkempt hair. Words. She looks over at him and just grins with enchantment. Laughs at the dumb things he says, whatever they are. She is happy.

Tamara returns with the check. Thank you so much, she says. Lots of emphasis on the ‘so’ aspect. Michael sets his card down on top of the receipt that reads $94.79. Tamara comes back. Exits for a minute. Then she comes back again with a pen. Michael forks over an unusually large tip and writes his signature where the only letters legible are a giant ‘M’ and a giant ‘T’ and leaves it at the edge of the table thinking Olive won’t notice but she notices everything. She finishes her drink.

They leave the restaurant. More cold ocean breeze hits them both square in the face. Olive wraps her arms around Michael. Club music plays loudly across the street. Wanna go? Michael asks. Olive is down for anything. Yes of course, she says. Michael and Olive walk across the street. $20 cover charge. Michael has no cash so asks if he can use his card. Of course, the bouncer says. I need to see both of your ID’s though. Olive and Michael present their ID’s. They enter.

Straight to the bar. They can’t even hear themselves talking to each other, so they stop trying. Can I get a Jameson neat? Michael asks the bartender. Get her a shot of… what do you want? Huh? Olive asks. What do you want to drink? Michael yells. I want to do a shot, she yells back. Yeah I know, Michael yells. Of what?

Olive takes a shot of tequila. Michael carries his glass of warm whiskey onto the dance floor. Olive unzips her jacket because it’s so hot inside. Michael sees her naturally toned stomach, grabs her by the waist. He can’t dance so he kind of just moves. Sounds play. EDM. Olive takes a deep breath and starts moving in accordance to his movements. She laughs. He looks down at her and laughs. They are laughing together. Then every so often they break into serious faces, trying to one-up each other’s sexy looks they make at one another.

It’s just thuds and bass. Then a melody plays. It’s the chorus, probably. Or some kind of bridge. Then more thuds and more bass. That is all that can be heard. Michael consumes more of his drink as Olive turns around. Her ass is right in front of him, tightly pressed against his crotch. He looks down at it. It’s so perfect. She’s drunk, he thinks to himself. I’m drunk, too. That’s his next thought. She turns around again. Olive is so fucking out of this world smoking hot, he thinks to himself. No smiles. No laughter. Just serious faces and loud music and sweat protruding from foreheads and armpits and what is Olive doing here. Right in front of me. Right now. Michael wonders. Then he stops wondering and just rolls with it.

He pulls her in tight again. She receives him. Behind her is a young blonde woman. Maybe 21 or 22. Michael can’t decide. White top and blue jeans. Blue eyes. She looks at him to meet his eyes. She is dancing with another man. But she is looking right at Michael. Huge chest. He looks down to give it a look because she wants him to see. She wants everyone to see. Michael looks back down at Olive. He doesn’t know if he was looking at the blonde for a whole minute or if it was a couple seconds. Time is relative right now.

Olive. Olive. Olive. She’s right here. Right in front of me. Why is this drink still in my left hand, he contemplates. I have to get rid of it. He breaks with Olive’s rhythm and drains the rest of his Jameson as if he were taking a shot. He can’t taste anything. Olive continues to dance. Michael regains his form. He’s borderline trashed but keeping himself together. He knows an empty glass is in his right hand and he can’t just like set it on the dance floor. I mean he could, but he won’t. I’ll be right back, he leans in and yells to Olive. What? she yells in return. I’ll be… he stops talking. Just walks away for a minute. Goes to the bar. Sets down the empty glass. Returns to the dance floor. Wades through traffic. Holds up his arm as a sort of cross bar just in case anyone jams into him. Michael doesn’t mean any disrespect. Not now. Not ever.

There’s Olive again. Michael smiles. She is still dancing. Michael! she screams. As if she didn’t just see him a minute ago. She wraps her arms around him again. He hugs her in return. They embrace as they regather the rhythm of the music. Thud. Thump. Bass.

* * * * *

Michael and Olive stumbled out of the club around 10:30 P.M. PST. Outside were countless groups of all demographics standing around, walking, talking, smoking cigarettes. Olive’s balance remained suspect, at best, so Michael forced himself to focus on keeping her upright inasmuch as he did his own motor functions. The lights of the street all blended into each other, as did the faces he and Olive passed on their way to nowhere in San Diego, California. It was a blur.

The temperature hovered in the low-60’s, but the breeze made it feel much colder. After several minutes it began to act as the lone catalyst towards bringing some sense of sobriety to both Michael and Olive. She was all smiles and giggles and the two of them were just walking, passing restaurants and bars, a shop that sold crepes, a few clothing shops that had long been closed for the evening, and a coffee shop. Michael sort of gave Olive a nudge that nearly knocked her over, gesturing that he wanted to get a coffee. “Let’s get some coffee,” he said.

Outside they sat in metal chairs with their hot coffees. The universe was quickly restoring itself to order. Sitting across from one another Olive wrapped her legs around Michael’s at the calves. Michael continued to sip on his black coffee. “Did you have fun tonight?” he asked. “The fuck do you think, Michael Tate?” she offered in response, squeezing her legs around his.

“Listen, I don’t mean to be a bummer,” he said, “But there is no way I can drive you home right now. It’s going to take me some… uh… time. To get my mind right.”

“Who said you had to take me home?” Olive asked, feigning attitude. There was something about the look in her eyes that made Michael quickly grow more sober. He looked down at her freshly painted bright pink nails, encompassing the rim of her small coffee that shortly after being purchased was filled to the brim with all manner of cream and sugar and god knows what else. When she saw him looking down at her nails she seemed to start almost tapping the plastic lid to tease him.

“Then what do you want to do?” Michael responded, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“I don’t know, Michael, what do you want? I’m just here. In California. Visiting you on my bachelorette weekend.” She looked at him, then down at her coffee cup. Michael felt a sensation down his throat, into his stomach, moving down to his legs. A wave of adrenaline rushed through his body.

“Let’s go get a room then,” he declared, emboldened.

Michael and Olive took their coffees and marched a few blocks back towards the club, then crossed the street to the restaurant on the corner that they ate at. Michael’s sense of direction was never the best, but he used the landmarks to guide him. Once they reached the restaurant they made a straight line up the street until eventually they ran into his car. It was late. The family they passed a few hours earlier was no longer outside their house. A light flickered.

They then drove five minutes inland, toward the beach. Michael looked up on his phone before departure a hotel that was oceanside. After circling the obnoxious parking structure a couple times he managed to find a spot, exited with Olive into the lobby and to the front desk. “Hi,” Michael said, giving an obligatory smile to the guy at the front desk who appeared like he had a million things he would rather be doing than working that night. “Do you have any rooms available, by chance?” he asked.

“Yeah we could handle that,” the guy at the front desk said. “You want two beds? One bed?”

“One bed is fine.”

Michael got the key and took the elevator with Olive up to the fourth floor. The room looked immaculate. Upon entry Olive just collapsed onto the massive California King-sized bed. Michael placed his wallet and keys and phone onto the coffee table that sat next to a small love-seat type of sofa that wouldn’t be used for anything other than setting his belongings. He walked over to the large light-brown blinds and opened them. Off in the distance the ocean crashed in darkness, barely able to be seen. He wished he could open the window or something so Olive would be able to hear the water. He just sort of stood there for a minute, gazing.

“What are you doing over there?” Olive asked. “Come here.”

Michael left the blinds opened, turned around and looked at Olive sprawled out on the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked with a smile on his face. Then he headed over and fell onto the bed next to her.

“I had a great time with you tonight, Michael. It was everything I hoped it would be.”

Michael tilted his head to the side, didn’t say anything. He narrowed his vision and looked her in the eyes, then down at her lips. He put his arm around her at the side, then caressed up towards her breasts while they started kissing. In an instant he had removed her jacket and was lying on top of her, kissing, pulling back, looking her in the eyes some more.

He got up to his knees and pulled her up to where he could take off her shirt. Then he pressed her back down. Unstrapped her wedges. Took them off one by one. Undid the button on her pants and unzipped them and slid them off ever so slowly. Olive lay there without saying a word in her black bra and black lace underwear while Michael removed his shirt and pants. He slid down her panties and laid back down on top of her. No words were said. Then they were.

“Michael?” Olive whispered. Her breath was shallow. “Before we do this I need you to say it.”

“Olive,” Michael whispered in return. His breath was hard. He kissed her some more.

“Please,” Olive whispered. “Please tell me.” Michael drew back a few inches from her face, giving her the most serious look they ever shared.

“I love you,” Michael said.

“No, not that.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael guessed again, leaning in to kiss some more. Olive released.

“Not that, either.”

Michael thought for a hot second. He was running out of ideas.

“Olive, I missed you. You know how much I’ve always missed you.”

She smiled. Then she tugged at him from the small of his back, brought him in to kiss some more. Then she spoke again. “Michael Tate?” she said. “Please make love to me.”

Michael and Olive shared a night together, much as they had so many other times. It felt like a lifetime ago, and in many ways it was. Michael tried his best to not make a big deal of it, to go through the motions and remember who Olive Parker was and what Olive Parker liked so much when they were with each other. And another part of him wanted, no, needed, to savor every second. This could be the last time, he thought to himself while it was happening. I must treat it as such, he implored.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms. The lights in the room were still on. The blinds remained open. The waves outside continued to crash in the darkness.

Chapter Twelve

Michael and Olive awoke to the light of the California sun. Naked and exhausted, Olive got out of bed and pranced delicately towards the elongated window and just sort of stood there admiring the beach and the waves. Michael laid in bed with eyes half open peering over at her. A warm calming feeling penetrated through him and around him, like the blanket that hugged his body, knowing that Olive was there, that the night before really happened. Olive put her hands in her hair as if to stretch and then let go. Michael saw rays of sunshine run through it before it fell back down and onto her shoulder blades, the morning sun glowing off her skin. Over her shoulder she looked back at him and smiled.

“Mmm are you ever going to get up?” Olive asked in a certain specific raspy hungover A.M. voice.

“No,” Michael grunted, with half a face full of his pillow. “I’m dead.”

Olive walked seductively towards Michael’s side of the bed, leaned over and whispered in his ear: “If I get back in bed for a few minutes, will you think about it?”

“Maybe,” Michael responded, suddenly more alert. “That’s more than enough time.”

The remainder of the morning and afternoon carried with it very little by way of plans; every part of Michael’s experience with Olive post-restaurant-in-San-Diego happened on a whim. He didn’t expect to go dancing afterwards, nor did he anticipate staying the night with her. For someone who prided himself on having every little aspect of his days and nights — and life, more or less — thought out, blueprinted, and predictable, Michael believed earnestly that he would end up driving her back to Anaheim after having dinner with her. He never left much room for considering anything beyond what he originally envisioned.

It was, to him, a bonus having an overnight stay with Olive. He could figure out the rest, so that is exactly what he did. They stopped in Temecula on their way back to Anaheim and ate lunch at an Italian restaurant. The two of them then went to a mall, walked around aimlessly. Michael bought her some assorted makeup, foundation, eyeshadow, lipstick, treated her to a new pair of heels that he got to pick out, and they got ice cream that Olive judged harshly as they sat at a table for two while they people-watched.

On the way back to Olive’s hotel Michael stopped to show her his parents’ house, showed her his room and spent some more quality time with her on and in his bed. When his parents got home he was excited to introduce them to the one and only Ms. Olive Parker, who felt kind of embarrassed but nonetheless exuded the kind of charm that made it obvious why Michael felt so strongly about her.

As the sun left the daytime hours and the moon took over for the rest of the night Michael drove Olive back to the hotel that her mom was at. After a days worth of events and constant conversation the young pair were noticeably quiet, anticipating the unknown that awaited them both. Michael didn’t want her to leave, of course, but he didn’t say so; his pride wouldn’t allow it. Olive was reserved and felt similarly, though she knew what had to be done. She got what she wanted out of her weekend in California. She and Michael had their time together. As they got closer to the hotel she way staying at, the reality of everything that was between her and Michael, and everything that would be with her and Jesse, descended upon Olive like the weight of the world. Involuntary tears filled her eyes.

“You know what’s funny?” Olive said, as she wiped her eyes in an attempt to keep her composure. “Not once this weekend has Jesse texted or tried to call me.”

Michael looked over at Olive in the passenger seat, while she did her best not to smear her makeup.

“I thought this morning when I woke up, while you were still asleep, that I would pick up my phone and let him know my mom and I were having a great time. But there was nothing.”

Michael put his hand on Olive’s thigh in a gesture of support. She reached for his hand and intertwined her fingers in his.

“He knows that you live in California, Michael. I told him my mom was coming, I made my mom come with me because I didn’t want Jesse to feel bad, or jealous, knowing that you live here. It’s like he doesn’t even care about me.”

Michael was flush with things to say, conflicted about how to proceed. Of course Jesse doesn’t care about you, he thought. Only I have your best intentions in mind, he believed. Was coming out here, and seeing me, just your way of getting back at him, he wondered. More than anything, however, Michael hated to see Olive upset. He felt it every time he saw her crying in front of him. This was not a moment, he decided, for his own selfish wants and needs.

“I’m sorry, Olive,” he declared. “I can imagine how shitty that must feel.”

“It’s not your fault,” Olive replied, suddenly gathering herself. “Who am I to say he doesn’t care about me? I was thinking about you the whole time he said he was going to Virginia Beach, because I was mad at him.” Michael tried to contain himself. He just didn’t have it in him.

“So… that’s all this is to you,” he said, coldly, looking at the labyrinth of stoplights in front of him. “You wanted to get in one last revenge fuck before you got married.”

Olive broke down, starting crying again. Michael felt immediate regret for being so blunt. I never say anything right, he thought to himself. Olive is right here, still, right in front of me, he acknowledged, and I picked the wrong door. He didn’t want to end their night on such a note.

“Fuck you, Michael,” Olive said, “You know that isn’t what I meant. I am trying to tell you how hard this has been on me. Getting proposed to. Hearing from you right after. Not wanting to say yes, but not knowing what else to do. I had nothing up there. No friends. No family. Just Jesse. Then out of nowhere you decided you wanted me back in your life. How do you think that made me feel? I missed you. You have no idea what I would have done for you. And now you are going to throw it in my face after I came to see you?”

Michael was never very good at choosing his words. His impulses led him down dark roads many times before. This moment seemed critical to him. He wanted to say the right thing. He really did.

“I don’t know what you want, baby,” he replied. “I told you, way back in Georgia, what I wanted. You didn’t want that. I came home because I couldn’t stand how much I loved you. I knew if I couldn’t have you then I didn’t want to be. Not out there. Not anywhere. I got addicted to drugs because I couldn’t take it anymore. I blocked you because I didn’t want you to know the impact you were having on me. I lied to my parents. I didn’t want them to know, either. You know what I’m saying? You know how far I take things. That’s part of why you liked me in the first place. I go so hard, baby. So fucking hard. I am either with you all the way, forever, or I am nothing. I am nowhere. It’s one or the other.”

Olive continued crying, wiping her tears, then crying some more. Red lights shined, then they turned green. Then more red lights. More green. Michael took a left turn and arrived to the hotel Olive was staying at, with her mother, and found a parking spot. He put his car in Park and shut off the engine. He took a deep breath, continued talking.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Michael proceeded. “I would never do that. I tried to remove myself from your life. Like, forever. I really did.”

“What are you talking about?” Olive asked. Her eyeliner was smeared. She pulled down the sunshade and the little light illuminated. She did not want to appear a mess when she saw her mom. “What do you mean?” she reiterated.

“You know what I mean,” Michael said, looking directly at her. He contemplated forcing the sunshade back up to bring her attention back at him, but opted against it. Aggression was not how he wanted to deal with her fragility.

“That night,” he went on. “That night you are so curious about. You know that night. Probably you were sitting at home, feeling great. Feeling wonderful about your future prospects. You and Jesse. Happily ever after. You know the night.”

Olive stopped looking at herself in the mirror, twisted back towards Michael. Flipped the sunshade back up. Just looked at him. The lights in the car were off. The hotel parking lot was illuminated by an array of large vertical white lights.

“I tried to end it,” Michael said. “I thought I had it down. Like, one hundred percent. You know?”

“You tried to kill yourself,” Olive said. “I fucking knew it. I knew something was going on.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I’m sorry for telling you.”

“It’s okay.”

“I loved you, Olive. I really did. You know I still do. I would do anything for you. There is no distance, there is no obligation. Some things…. some things leave me no choice. With you, I never had one. I just knew. I knew it the first time I saw you on the bleachers. I knew it every day after I met you. I knew it in Georgia. I knew it after I came home to California. Nothing would ever keep me from you. Except me. I was the only way out. And I wanted to, so bad. I wanted to go out the way I wanted to go out. But something wouldn’t let me. Maybe it was the universe. Maybe it was biology. Maybe I didn’t buy strong enough shit. I really wanted to, though. And if I did… if I did make it out. I needed you to know that I loved you. That I would always love you.”

“Oh, Michael,” Olive said, grasping at Michael’s right arm with both of her hands. I’ll always love you, too. I will always be here.”

Through some wave Michael pulled Olive in, started kissing her. Time faded in and out, as did their faces and their lips and their tongues. Michael and Olive sat there for several minutes in the front seat, kissing, looking at one another. Her eyeshadow created unmistakeable smear and splotches down her face and cheeks. Some of it ran onto Michael’s, though he would not notice until he took a shower when he got home.

“Now you know,” Michael whispered. “You knew I was going to tell you sooner or later. I can’t keep any secrets from you.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Olive replied, “But don’t ever fucking do that shit again. I’m going to need you.”

“I won’t,” Michael smiled. “One and done, that’s me.”

He escorted her out of the car, walked her up the stairs, and embraced her with an extended hug. He didn’t want to let her go. When he finally pulled back he let her know, because he just had to, that “I love you, Olive.”

“I love you, too,” she responded.

Michael turned around, walked back down the stairs. He didn’t look back. He just walked. Got in his car. Drove back to his parents’ house.

* * * * *

After a Sunday of mother and daughter bonding time, which featured Mexican food for lunch — since Olive just couldn’t believe what the Mexican food in California was really all about — shopping, a trip to the beach, more shopping, and dinner at a non-Mexican-food place, surprisingly, Olive and her mom took a 6:30 A.M. flight out of Los Angeles and arrived in Atlanta’s massive six concourse airport at 7:45 P.M. the following Monday. Jesse and Olive’s dad were waiting at the bottom of one of the escalators with smiles.

Olive was glad to be back home, and she was happy to see Jesse again. In a private moment waiting in a separate space from her mom and dad in the baggage claim, she made sure to give Jesse an earful about not contacting her during her trip and he did his best to pretend like it was no big deal which frustrated her even more and inevitably made the point that she didn’t contact him, either. In their world Jesse was always right, and Olive ultimately let it go.

Upon getting back home and into her room to get the sleep she so desperately longed for after a trip of that nature, Olive thought about Michael. He reached out to her on the prior Sunday, before and during his evening at work. They were in constant contact as she made her way back to Georgia. Olive was in a strange spot. She loved two men, and for very different reasons. She suddenly longed for the dynamic she had while Michael was still living in Georgia.

But this feeling would pass, Olive thought to herself, if for no other reason than it had to. She was in Georgia, and Michael was in California. The reason she still felt so strongly was because the impression he left her was still so fresh. Every day thereafter the mark he left on her would wane, and subside, until one day it faded away completely. This is what Olive had to convince herself before falling asleep.

Michael maintained a philosophical approach of his own. His whole life once revolved around Olive. He lived vicariously through the way she felt about him. It drove him to a place he never wanted to know but nonetheless grew entirely familiar with, so much so that he took his own existence as close to the bottom as he could go. He would never feel that way again, not about Olive and not about anybody.

And in a way it made him appreciate his life that much more. It’s only when he found himself so near the edge, so tantalizingly convenient towards the end, that everything from his perspective seemed so glass-half-full and optimistic. People loved this about Michael even though, save for one, and only one, nobody would ever know why it was the case. He carried it with him in the same way he carried everything else.

So when Olive did end up getting married a couple weeks later Michael felt very little. He was in constant communication with her until her plane touched down in Atlanta, Georgia, the same city where his old job at COCA-COLA CO existed. And then he heard from her nothing at all. It was not Michael’s place to send out a hail mary in a last-ditch effort to try convincing Olive that she was making the wrong choice. He would not bombard her with messages or phone calls wondering if she had a good time with him in California, or if he did something wrong and untoward — that which would warrant her not responding to him or committing to the silence she was very clearly expressing.

Michael had his life back. That was above all what he now cared about. For many weeks and months and even years, a day did not go by where he didn’t think about Olive, where some obscure minor detail brought him to a specific moment they shared together. A silent and hardly noticeable smile made its way to his face whenever he saw the Georgia Bulldogs playing a football or baseball game on the television screen while he was at work. In the wrinkles in time he was particularly happy he would think about her, how happy she made him, how he wished he could share with her his hopes and dreams and accomplishments. In his downtime, he wished he could still rely on her just as he always did.

He got on with his life, but he still remembered everything. He remembered Georgia, his brief time working in Atlanta and living in Stone Mountain. He remembered the harmless evening he spent watching a child’s game and meeting a pretty girl. All the days and all the nights with her. Coming back home. And eventually seeing her again.

He wondered how Olive was doing, pictured her sometimes as a happy wife and other times unhappy, though he didn’t know which he preferred more.

A particularly warm summer descended upon California and Michael was still bartending back then. It was a slow night. A few patrons sat in the stools in front of him, but they were all satiated. He cleaned the bar, then he tried to keep himself busy doing other things. The television showed a replay of The Little League World Series behind him. Japan versus California. Michael turned around to watch. Japan was winning 2-0 and were at bat in the bottom of the 5th inning. He smiled, just for an instant, then turned around to get back to his customers. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

It was Olive.