Oliver's Pov
I follow her inside the house. It's a family-sized home, and I can't help but think they intentionally chose it for their future family. The thought aches my heart.
They planned for a family. They still can have it. Meanwhile, with each passing day, that dream slips further out of my grasp. I don't think I can give her thatâor anyone else. The reality of my condition becomes harder to ignore with each passing day. It doesn't look good, the doctor said.
"I'm wet," her words snap me out of my thoughts. "Can you be direct and brief?" she says.
Why is she drenched, and what was she trying to paint?
"Why are you wet?" I ask, realizing how strange that sounds.
"I was trying colors on my hair," she says.
I look at her wet hair and notice a faded red color. I can't imagine her with any other color.
"Nice house," I state.
She looks around and then back at me. "It is," she replies.
Silence falls between us, and I take the opportunity to collect my thoughts and state my purpose.
"Our marriage is what brought me here," I begin, watching her for any reaction, but she remains calm. "It's unfortunate circumstances that bind us, and to be honest, I don't know whether to end it or give it a chance," I finish.
She tugs at her shirt and shivers. "Let's take this discussion to my bedroom," she says instead.
"What?" I'm confused as my mind starts to wander.
"Since you're here, you can be useful," she says, and her response doesn't put my thoughts at ease.
I follow her lead to the bedroom.
When we enter, I'm surprised by how untidy it is. It's the opposite of her reputation at La Cooper.
"Don't mind the mess. I was removing all of Grey's stuff to send to him, then I came across some temporary hair color I bought years ago and never used," she explains, relieving the tension I had. He doesn't live here.
I think this is the closest I've come to seeing who she really is, in her raw form.
"And you want me to be useful by helping you clean the mess?" I ask in disbelief.
She stands, staring at me, hands on her hips. "No, but it wouldn't hurt if you did," she says.
I chuckle. "In case you forgot, I'm Oliver Cooper," I say.
She rolls her eyes at my words. "I could argue with you, but this damn shirt is about to give me pneumonia, so I need you to help with my hair," she says.
That's even worse than her asking me to help clean her room.
"You've got to be kidding me," I say.
She just stares at me silently, a quiet ultimatumâeither I help her, or I leave.
"Fine," I agree.
I start by removing my white shirt remaining with a white wife beater, and she immediately looks away.
"I'll go change into something else. I'll be in the bathroom once I'm done," she says, leaving me.
I remove my shoes and socks nextâI hadn't even realized I entered the house with them on. I find spare slippers by the door leading to the bathroom. They're small; my toes barely fit through halfway.
I wear them regardless and follow the direction she took.
I find her standing in front of the mirror, now dressed in a two-piece bikini. My body reacts instantly, a familiar ache stirring deep inside me. I hate how she effortlessly awakens this desire, a yearning that's become painful in more ways than one. For her, though, even this pain feels worth it.
I swallow a lump before speaking. "How do you want me to help?" I ask.
"Help me color the back part," she says, unaware of the battle I'm going through.
She turns, and my eyes linger on her chest. Is she doing this intentionally? No, it's just an innocent outfit. A full cloth would soak in minutes, like the one she was wearing before. "Here," she hands me a tube of color and a brush.
"I like your natural hair color," I say.
"So do I, but I'd like to see how I look if I change it," she says, turning back to the mirror, waiting for me to start.
I don't know what stops me. I remain frozen, trying to raise my hand to touch the tendrils I've admired from afar, but I can't. It's just too good to be true.
"What are you waiting for?" she asks. "Chop-chop, and tell me what you wanted to talk about."
I take a deep breath, and slowly, my hand lifts. My fingers first feel a strand between them. It's as soft as I imagined. Then I slowly gain the strength to section the hair and start applying the color.
As I finish a section, I twist it into a bun. "Wow, you really know what you're doing," she says.
"My first girlfriend had curly hair. I helped her a lot," I confess.
Jessie remains silent. Did I overshare?
"What was her name?" she finally asks.
"Nimo," I whisper, the name bringing back bitter memories.
"Nimo..." she repeats. "Were there other Nimos?"
"No." I stop and run my fingers through her hair to ensure the color is spread evenly. "She scarred me," I admit, words I've never openly spoken before.
"I guess our firsts are meant to hurt us," she replies.
I stop what I'm doing. "My life hasn't been easy, and our union has just added weight to my burden," I say.
"Burdens are for shoulders strong enough to carry them," she says, turning to face me.
"Gone with the Wind," I confirm her reference.
She nods. "Well, my dear, take heart. Someday, I'll kiss you, and you will like it. But not now, so I beg you not to be too impatient. It's my favorite of them all," she says with a smile.
"It's an evocative quote," I respond.
"I love that it creates a yearning in someone. What do you yearn for, Oliver?" It is a mere whisper.
"That you come home with me." The words are quick than my thoughts.