That Woman Over There - Chapter 8
A You Me and Him Fix-it Fic
Rating: teen, for some strong language
Summary: ~ Set after the birth of Monty, Olivia’s baby ~ A dear friend of Olivia comes to visit for a week, and she disturbs the fragile peace between her, Alex, and John.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7
“Happy birthday, darling!” yet another stranger yelled just as soon as Alex and Liv opened the door. They insisted that Connie stay near, so they could introduce her as a world-renowned flower artist.
She worked in just about every continent, but she was certainly not world-renowned. Known, perhaps, but not lauded.
Both Alex and Olivia wore the flower crowns she made them for the party. Olivia’s was top-heavy with cabbage roses in shades of pink and red, while Alex’s was made with beautiful rich magenta anemones and studded with violets and microdaisies.
“Are those real?” Olivia’s friend touched the flowers on her head delicately.
“Very! She just threw them together this morning,” Liv said, squeezing Connie’s hand. “She’s quite talented.”
“Quite so,” the lady said, and she ogled Connie’s breasts. “Do you specialize in birthday parties?”
She groaned internally. Olivia’s smile flickered.
“Not at all. It’s usually museums and art shows and royal garden parties,” she said.
“Isn’t that cute,” she said. She scrutinized her further. She had short brown hair threaded with silver, and her pale blue eyes were large and ravaging. Her nostrils flared ever so slightly at Connie’s jean miniskirt and her high heeled booties.
“I’m going to check on the food,” Connie said, and walked away quickly. She wasn’t a shy woman, but she did not like that woman’s gaze. Sometimes Olivia was too nice. She walked blindly to the back door and bumped into John.
“Whoa, who are you running from?” he said, giving her a dazzling grin. She gasped.
“My God, where did it go?” she said, patting at his face. He turned his head to give her a better look. The beard was gone. She caressed his prickly cheeks. All that was left was maybe a day’s growth.
She pulled him outside, where the other guests milled around the appetizers tables and danced.
“Can you believe that falsetto?” he said, referring to the music. Justin Timberlake sang about drinking and heartbreak. “Is he even old enough to have a drink?
The woman appeared at the back door with Olivia in tow. She searched the crowd for Connie.
“Come on,” she said, and started to dance against him.
“I suppose all is forgiven,” he said. She gave him a serious look. “Okay. I suppose wrong. Why the dirty dancing?”
She turned around and ground up against his thighs. “It’s her,” she whispered, and pointed her chin at the woman in khaki pants and a green fleece vest. He burst out laughing.
“She get a bit cheeky with you?” he said, and put his arm around her waist and followed her lead. It wasn’t precisely what he imagined, but after last night, he would take what he could get. She smelled like the flowers she had pored over all morning at Liv’s kitchen table. “She’s harmless.”
“To you. You’ve got a penis,” she said, and turned to grind against his hip. “She makes my skin crawl.”
Her thigh muscles warmed his leg. He tried to focus on anything but how good she felt.
“Wow, this feels really convincing,” he said. “I am thoroughly convinced.”
The woman walked resolutely to them.
“Oh my God,” Connie whispered into his chest.
“Hello, John,” she said, squinting up at him. “How’s the misogyny business?”
As ever, he smiled. “Booming! I was meaning to say something about that. I-”
She cut him off. “You ran off before I had a chance to properly introduce myself,” she said to Connie.
She pointed up at him, and held him closer. “He just swept me away before I could get back,” she said. “Still in the first flush and all,” she said.
She gave Olivia a perplexed look. Olivia looked at them, then back at her friend.
“Artists,” she said, giggling. She shrugged.
John nuzzled Connie’s temple. “Got here too late, I’m afraid,” he said. “Alpha wins again.”
“Ugh,” she said, but she finally walked away to scrutinize the food.
What’s going on? Olivia mouthed, but Alex winked and pulled her away.
“Thank you,” Connie sighed. “I’m terrible at telling people to fuck off.” He still had his arm around her, and he let her go.
“Don’t worry yourself. I’m good at doing the pretend boyfriend thing.” They walked to the low brick wall at the edge of the garden and sat down.
“Don’t be. We’re even now.”
“For last night. You know, with the drunk ladies and the bat and the yelling? You played the angry girlfriend brilliantly,” he said, smiling. His eyes crinkled.
“Right. I guess I tried too well to forget,” she said.
He bit his lip. “You smell spectacular. You got any leftover flowers?”
“Make me a crown. Please,” he said, showing her his teeth.
“You sure? What if your internet buddies see you decked out in dahlias and sweet peas?”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what they think,” he said. “I want to look pretty.”
“Let’s do it, then,” she said.
“Yay!” He jumped up and cheered.
“You are such a nerd,” she said, shaking her head.
“Yep,” he said, and followed her inside.
He sorted through the flowers, caressing the velvety gerbera daisy petals and long calla lily stalks.
“Pick whatever you like,” she said. She stood close to him, in front of the kitchen window.
“I want you to pick them out. Define me with flora,” he said, holding a small bouquet of ranunculi to his chest. “There’s no stink cabbage here, is there?”
She ran her index finger along his jawline. “You know John, you didn’t have to shave your beard.”
He sat on the counter. “After what you said? How could I keep it?”
“It wasn’t that bad,” she said sheepishly. “I was angry.”
“Are you kidding me? ‘70’s porn pussy’? It’s absolutely brilliant, and very hard to forget,” he said, rubbing his nearly bare chin thoughtfully. “What do you know about 70’s porn?”
She started to snip at the flower stems and separate the bunches of purple statice.
“Just whatever I was able to get my hands on from my mother’s collection,” she said, and plucked a dwarf sunflower from a vase on the windowsill.
“That’s not weird,” he said, eyebrows raised high.
“And generations of boys raiding their father’s collection isn’t just as weird?” she said.
“Fair enough,” he said. “So …” he hesitated.
“Go on. You’re dying to ask.” She bit off a length of flower tape and started to attach the sunflower to the wire hoop.
“Your mum. She had porn?” he said. “My mum would give my da grief for letting me watch Doctor Who. She thought the companion’s skirts were too short.”
She wove jasmine stalks to the wire and secured it, then started to tape an ombre purple peony on either side of the sunflower.
“It wasn’t porn per se,” she said. “It was more … art. Really naked sexy art.”
“No. Art,” she said. “Who says that sex can’t be a thing of beauty?” she said.
“Right,” he said, smiling. “Art.”
“Before she married my father, my mother was an art groupie, so she has a pretty big collection,” she said.
“What’s an art groupie?” he said.
“She would spend time at all of the art haunts in Montmartre, in Paris. All her friends were painters and sculptors and writers… she herself tried to write, but sadly, she was never very good at it in French, and even worse in Spanish and English.” She fluffed the peony petals, and started attaching small pale yellow ranunculi, interspersed with jasmine. “She had a passionate affair with a nameless artist right before she met my father-”
“How did your parents meet?” he interrupted.
“My dad went to France with a close friend who would soon be diplomat there,” she said, and looked out the window.“Is that thyme on your back porch?”
“Yeah, it is. I love the way it smells on summer evenings,” he said.
“How romantic. Could you get me some sprigs? Especially the ones with the tiny flowers.”
He jumped off the counter and darted across the yard. Her eyes followed him, and she bit her lip. He did have a nice ass. He ran back in, threw two handfuls of the herb on the counter, and sat by the sink.
“So, where were we?” he said.
“Noticing that you also have a bay tree by the shed,” she said, giving him an exaggerated grin.
He nodded. “Right. I’ll be back in a flash,” he said, ran to the door, then doubled back. “Just to let you know, I also have rosemary, basil, sage, lavender, lemon balm, peppermint, and chamomile growing against the house where you can’t see it.”
“Ooh, chamomile! Make sure to pluck it as close the the earth as possible,” she said.
He saluted, then ran outside. In less than a minute, he handed her the requested greenery.
“Okay. We were at … art groupie,” he said, panting lightly on the counter.
“This chamomile is fabulous,” she said, breathing in their herbaceous perfume.
“I keep Olivia and Alex in tea,” he said, smiling. “Ever had an herbal bath?
“Nope. I’ve only had the quick, cold, and bubble varieties,” she said, started to stud the crown with the delicate chamomile flowers. “My father would make me rub myself with eucalyptus-infused rubbing alcohol when I was feverish, but that’s as far as that goes.”
“That sounds lovely,” he said. “I’ll have to try it.”
“It’s interesting. The alcohol evaporates quickly which cools the body, but the smell is headache-inducing.”
“Eucalyptus opens up the lungs, so it’s great for chest colds,” he said.
“What? I was sick a lot as a kid. I think it was more psychosomatic than not, but still. So … Montmartre?” he said.
She worked the bay into the sides of the crown. “She had a disastrous affair with a nameless artist that left her very vulnerable-”
“Is he actually nameless, or do you not want to say the name?” he interrupted again. She slapped his arm lightly.
“She doesn’t want to say his name, so I don’t know it. All I know is his work, and his mark on the bottom right corner of his sketches and paintings.”
“That’s exciting. He could be famous. Ever tried to compare the mark to something you’ve seen in an art exhibition? That’s what I would do.”
She nodded. “No luck, though.”
“But what does the affair have to do with art porn, and your father?” he said.
“I had a linear story, but you’ve interrupted me so many times that I don’t even know what I’m saying,” she said, and held up the completed crown. “Tada!”
“It’s brilliant, literally,” he said, caressing the bright yellow sunflower petals before putting it on his head. “Do I look gorgeous?” he said, batting his eyes.
“Like part of the family,” she said. The comment made him glow.
“But now you need one,” he said.
She shook her head. “Nah. I’m not really the flower crown type. It’s like getting high on your own supply.”
“Nonsense!” he picked up a giant, pale peach cabbage rose and jumped off the counter. “Here, let me…” he put his hands in her hair.
She slapped at him. “What are you doing?”
He put his hands up. “Sorry about that. I just want to do a quick dutch braid, so I can thread the flowers through it. May I?”
“Oh,” she said. “I guess it’s okay.” She stood still as he brushed her hair with his long fingers, and began to braid. It was nice to have someone besides a hairdresser doing her hair. “How did you learn to do it? I can’t do a french braid to save my life.”
“My sister. She’s terrible at them as well. When we were kids, I made fun of her for having clumsy fingers, and she bet me I wouldn’t be able to do it either. She had to do my chores for a week,” he giggled. “All done.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork. Now, her hair fell over her left shoulder in a messy braid that grazed her breast. “You look … like a hipster goddess,” he said.
“Fuck off,” she said, rolling her eyes and walking away.
“I was joking,” he said, gently pulling her back by the sink. “No hip. But let me finish my thing.”
“Fine. But be careful with the roses. They’ve got thorns.”
“Duh,” he said amiably. He scraped off the thorns with his thumbnail and threaded the stems through the braid starting at the crown of her head. She looked at him as he worked. He bit the tip of his tongue with concentration. The afternoon sun shone in from the kitchen window and gilded the brown of his eyes, and the spattering of freckles on his smooth skin was breathtakingly alluring. Her fingers twitched to touch his forehead, and trace the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears.
“What’s with the fists?” he said, gently squeezing her wrists. She looked down. She was white-knuckled with longing.
“Oh. This is nothing. It happens sometimes. Anxiety,” she said, waving away his touch. There were red crescents on her palms where her mercifully short nails bit into her skin.
“I’m done!” he said. “Tell me what you think.” He pointed to the small mirror hung by the back door. When she looked at herself, she hiccuped with laughter.
“Oh my God,” she said. The roses drooped in the braid, and her head was hoary with sprays of baby’s breath. “It’s … a look.” His smile faded, and it made her heart ache. “...that I shall wear with pride.”
He actually bounced with glee.“So I did well?”
“Good enough to go work for you?” he said.
The face she made bent him over with laughter.
