I’m too lazy to make my own blog but I write too much not to do something with all of it.
This one is about Oliver.
I first want to thank Celadon for letting me hijack her blog. She’s pretty cool – a great friend, an okay writer. 🙂 We’ve worked on some stuff together recently and she’s always highly recommended blogging (though she doesn’t seem to do it all that often).
So: my boy Ollie. I mean, he’s not really my boy, it’s not like we’re dating or anything. He’s one of my best friends and makes up half of my inner circle, the other half being our friendly neighborhood drama queen, Charlotte. I love her to death, but Char, if you’re reading this, please, making a huge deal out of everything is going to kill me one day, please calm down.
Oliver met Char and I for brunch one morning (which is what happens when your two best friends are girls) and I noticed that the knuckles on his right hand were bruised. I asked him with a mouthful of food (which is what happens when half of your inner circle is male) what happened. Oliver quickly moved his right hand off of the table, but not fast enough for the inquisitive eyes of Charlotte Vereaux, who caught a glimpse of the bruises and gasped, “Oh my gosh Ollie! Did you get into a fight?”
“I punched a wall,” Oliver mumbled between bites of his egg and biscuits.
I watched Oliver closely. Though I knew him well and could identify the tells he showed when lying (adverting his eyes, talking softer) anyone would be able to figure out he wasn’t telling the truth. Walls typically don’t punch back. Oliver had light purple coloring around one eye and on the edge of his jaw.
“Oliver,” I said, and maybe it was the tone of my voice or the expression on my face but whatever it was caused him to cut me off before I could even begin.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Ollie,” Charlotte said, her expression pitying.
“Charlotte kissed the football player,” Oliver said, shifting his eyes from her to me as he aggressively changed the subject.
“What?!” I exclaimed, half laughing, not surprised. I turned my questioning gaze over to Charlotte, which, of course, had been Oliver’s goal. He smirked as Charlotte blushed and explained herself in her characteristically overdramatic yet rational way. (The date was awful, but he seemed really nervous so when he leaned towards me as he was saying goodnight I just–I thought a boy like that wouldn’t be able to take one more rejection.)
I nodded and shook my head at Charlotte’s latest dating misadventure, but I couldn’t tell you what else she said. I noticed another bruise on Oliver’s face, faint, like the others, so probably fresh. It was in the shape of a hand print, the fingers stretching up his cheek. My spirits sunk as I put together the new details (Oliver’s evasiveness, the largeness of the hand print, the force needed to leave such a mark) with some that I already knew. The conclusion I came to was disheartening to say the least, or maybe–no, disheartening isn’t the right word. I don’t know what the right word would be, but however I was feeling made me want to reach across the table and hug Oliver and then hide him away from the one who hurt him.
I wanted to ask him, You know, to clarify, to confirm. Or maybe it wasn’t what I assumed, maybe I was wrong. But how was I supposed to look Oliver in the eye and ask if his father had hit him again?
Alright, that’s it, that’s all I want to say about that. Thanks again, Celadon for letting me put this out there.
Until next time,
Hey if you guys want to hear more from Vivian or think she should get her own blog (not that I don’t love having her on mine) comment and let us know! I’ve always found blogging super therapeutic and would love to help her get a permanent place here on WordPress.