“A M I GOING to have to drag you out to breakfast to talk about this?”
I startle awake where I’ve passed out on my desk and find Harlow standing in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed over her chest. There’s fire in her eyes, ammunition in the way she stands. When Harlow is in a mood, she spits bullets.
The bright Monday morning light blasts into my room. “I was going to call,” I tell her lamely, squinting. Looking around, I try to get my bearings. Other than the horrible ten minutes with Oliver yesterday, I’ve been working straight since Saturday night. My monitor has gone dark in power-saving mode. I slept with my stylus against my face, and have a stack of Post-it notes stuck to my arm. “So you heard?”
“Yeah,” she says sharply. “I heard.” She walks over to my closet and begins pulling out clothes. “Let’s go.”
I lean into my hand. “Harlow, I’ve got so much to do.”
“You can spare an hour. And the body needs to eat. Come on, Lola.”
Under normal circumstances I would climb into bed and ignore her. Today I know better. I finished a few panels and the rest of the story yesterday, but my head feels like it’s filled with glue, and my heart is just doing the perfunctory contractions. Sending Oliver away like I did turned me from a distracted lovesick airhead into a deadened, productive robot. I honestly don’t know which I prefer. Guilt over the hurt on his face plagues me, and I close my eyes for a few deep breaths, struggling with the instinct to call him and apologize.
Harlow drives in silence, jaw tight. We all know what Harlow’s silence means. I just don’t know if it means she’s pissed at me or . . . someone else?
Do you even hear yourself?
I feel like you shouldn’t want that for me.
I think you’re full of shit right now.
When I remember Oliver saying this, my heart fractures, dropping tiny pieces in the cavern of my stomach.
Yeah, she’s most likely pissed at me.
“Are you okay?” she asks as we drive down Washington.
The answer is an easy no Junebug isn’t there yet, and I don’t know how I’m going to find the heart of the story when I’m frantic like this. Besides, I feel like I made the right call and fucked everything up with Oliver at the same time. When are scientists going to invent a wisdom pill? Or implant a chip in our heads to let us know when we’ve made the right decision in a critical romance-career-balance situation?
Plus, I can’t be on this particular street without getting a sick lurch in my stomach, remembering the sight of Mia, broken and bloody, under the truck for over an hour.
I manage a scratchy, “I’m fine.”
Harlow throws me a quick glance as she drives and I can feel her questions building like air pressure rising in the car. She pulls into the parking lot at Great Harvest and turns off the engine, looking at me. “Would you rather talk about it out here, or in there, with all of us?”
My laugh is a short, flat cough. “Let’s just head in. I really only have an hour.”
With a decisive nod, Harlow opens the door and leads us across the parking lot.
Mia and London are already in the booth when we walk in, and they smile perkily at me. I can see from Mia’s face that she’s trying not to react to my appearance. I got a quick glimpse in the bathroom mirror before leaving, and it’s fair to say I look like I just walked on set as a zombie extra in a horror film.
“So, hey,” I say, sitting down and putting a napkin in my lap. “What’s new?”
London snorts at this, genuinely amused, but her expression straightens obediently when Harlow flashes her a We Aren’t Letting Her Joke Right Now frown.
“Oliver came over for dinner last night,” Mia says, skipping all preamble and leaning in to keep her voice down. “He said you broke up with him.”
“I didn’t break up with him.” I smile at the waitress when she pours me some coffee but I’m sure to her it looks like I’m just baring my teeth. I blink, licking my lips and then biting them to keep from asking Mia what he said, how he looked.
How he’s doing.
“I’m telling you,” Mia says, “that’s what he thinks. That you broke up for good.”
I take a sip of my coffee, feeling the odd sensation of marble hardening in my chest. He didn’t understand what I was saying. To be fair, I’m not even sure I understood what I was saying; I hadn’t exactly planned for it to come out that way. But it felt right to ask him for some time to make sure my head was turned in the right direction. He’s understood everything I’ve needed up until now, why not this? When Mom left, Dad crumbled and we barely scraped by. Friends would bring groceries and act like it was no big deal, but to us, it was huge. I never want to have to worry about how I can make ends meet. I never want to worry that I can’t take care of myself. I never want to feel like I’m simply abandoning something important to me, and if Oliver can’t wait for me to feel more grounded then we have bigger problems.
“So you didn’t break up with him?” Harlow asks. I can tell she’s trying to figure out where to fall on this. Is she protecting me and what I need right now, or is she preparing to smack some sense into me?
“I just told him I needed to hit pause.”
“Seriously?” Harlow asks, and I know she would actually be reaching over and pinching me if she didn’t think it would draw attention.
“Look, I don’t know why this is such a big deal.” I take a deep breath, staring at the pattern on the surface of the wood table. “I’m really late on a deadline because I just spaced it—no other reason. I have all these script edits I need to have done in a week and a half and spent most of the time in L.A. ineffectively arguing with the douche bag screenwriter. I’m also supposed to be coming up with ideas for the book that comes out right after Junebug, and they wanted the first few pages of that turned in a week after Junebug is due . . . which was two weeks ago. Meaning: the first few pages of the new-new book are already a week late. I leave for book tour in two weeks. I just . . .” I pick at a tiny hangnail on my thumb. “Everything was already busy with travel and writing, and as soon as I let the idea of being with Oliver into my head, I really fell hard, and fast. I was really disorganized up in L.A., I flubbed deadlines. I saw how quickly I could lose it all.” Finally, I look up at them. “I want to try to get a few things handled and then let myself enjoy . . . it.”
I can feel the way they exchange worried glances but they all seem to be unsure how to respond.
“You do have a lot on your plate,” London says. “I mean, I get that.”
“But it’s Oliver,” Mia says. “It’s not like . . .” She lets the words trail off, and
I know
I know
I know.
It’s Oliver. It’s not like he’s pushy. It’s not like he gets in the way.
It’s that I was getting in my own way.
“Even when you’re busy, you still check in with us every couple of days. Why does it have to be different with him?” Mia asks.
I can’t answer that. I can’t, because I don’t feel like I should have to explain to someone who is madly in love with her new husband that it’s different when you’re in love, versus checking in with girlfriends. I want to be near Oliver every second. I’m not sure I can do the dance of balance yet; I want every particle of him touching every particle of me.
“How did you deal with it when Ansel was working crazy hours back in Paris?”
She shrugs, poking at the ice in her water with a straw. “I left him alone at night to work.”
But—Jesus—how how how? I want to ask. The mystery of it makes me want to rip at my skin. If Oliver was in the room with me, or even down the street at the store but still mine, I would never get anything done. I would let Razor and Junebug and everyone else I love just fall into the cracks. I’ve proven that.
“I just feel like you’re being so hard on yourself,” London says quietly. “I feel like maybe you’re punishing yourself?”
And yes, she’s right. I am. I know we can’t stop what we’re feeling. I know that. I can see my three friends studying me like I’m a fascinating bug in a glass dish, because—at least for Harlow and Mia—they would never worry about how to balance these things. Mia’s done it before, and Harlow will just bend the world to fit the palm of her hand.
I’m not so naïve that I think this is a common thing to ask.
I want to scream out loud that I realize I’ve asked something huge of Oliver, something unreasonable even, but I’m not sure if I can apologize, either, and I know that—eventually—he’ll understand. I don’t want to lose my career. I don’t like the way I so easily let things slide the minute Oliver became my lover. I feel like I have to scrabble up this little hill and then I’ll be more grounded, more established. I’ll be better for him, and better for me.
I pull a pen from my bag and a crumpled receipt and start drawing.
The panel shows the girl, hunched over her desk. Scraps of paper litter the floor. The desk is covered in pencil shavings.
“So you think he’s moving on?” I say, head ducked, heart slowly shredding.
Everyone pauses, and with my pen poised on paper I feel the protective egg trembling under my ribs, threatening to roll off the table and shatter. I want Oliver to be my friend. I need him to be my friend, because I love him. Am I an enormous idiot? I don’t feel like what I was asking was extreme, just some quiet, just a little bit of rewind. I don’t know how I’ll deal with it if I hear that things are really done.
“I mean last night he was pretty mad,” Mia says with a little shrug. “He didn’t really want to talk about it much. We spent most of the night walking around the house while Ansel and Oliver planned what renovations they could do themselves.”
Normally, he would have called me afterward to share all of this. No, normally, I would have gone with him. I’ve been Oliver’s default plus-one for months, and he’s been mine. Now, not only do I not get sex with him, I don’t even get phone calls.
“Do people not do that?” I say, cupping my coffee mug. “Do people not ask to put relationships on hold even if things are good?”
“Lola, that is called breaking up,” Harlow says slowly.
“So it’s a stupid question?” I bite out, defensive at her tone.
She tilts her eyes quickly to the ceiling, exasperated with me. “I mean, why not just tell him you’re going to have an insane week and you’ll call him when you have a free night?”
“Because it’s like my creativity shuts off when it’s an option,” I say. “I don’t want to work when I’m with him. I’ve never not wanted to work. And, sorry, but this has to come first. I built this first. I can’t just drop it because I started seeing someone and juggling the workload got hard.”
And this, right here, is when I know Harlow wants to smack me again, but she doesn’t. She just nods, and reaches across the table for my hand.
I TEXT OLIVER a simple, Hey are you okay? after breakfast, but he doesn’t reply. By the next morning I just turn off my phone so I’ll stop looking. So I’ll stop wishing.
I stay holed up in the work cave until Wednesday evening before giving in and walking down to Downtown Graffick. The path between my apartment and the storefront has seen thousands of my footprints, and standing just outside it feels oddly nostalgic. Less than a week ago I was climbing out of a town car and hurling myself into Oliver’s arms. Now I feel queasy imagining walking in and acting like everything is normal.
Over the last two days, I’ve started to feel like maybe I am the biggest idiot on the planet.
Maybe it doesn’t help to remove temptation. Maybe it’s worse to slowly realize a pause means he’s not mine anymore.
The bell rings over the door and a few customers look up, smiling vaguely before returning to their browsing. Behind the counter, Not-Joe waves with a smile that slowly flattens.
“Hey,” he says, putting down the book he’s reading.
“Hey.”
And now what do I do? Pretend that I was just here to buy a couple of books?
“Is Oliver around?” I ask, immediately giving up on pretense.
Not-Joe’s expression grows uncomfortable, and he looks toward the door. “You just missed him.”
Shit.
“Okay, thanks.” I turn, walking down the manga aisle, trying to decide whether I call him, or just go to his house and tell him I’m an idiot and I don’t really want to break up, or even take a pause, and can we please just pretend that never happened?
I’m flipping absently through a book when I feel someone come up behind me.
“Okay,” Not-Joe says quietly. “What the fuck is going on?”
I put the book back on the shelf, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”
He tilts his head, frowning. “Come on.”
“With me and Oliver?” I ask. I mean . . . it’s not really Not-Joe’s business, but when has that ever stopped him from wanting to know? He nods. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “We had a little fight, and I wanted to try to talk to him.”
“The reason I ask,” he says, brows furrowed, “the reason I am confused,” he clarifies, “is that he just left with Hard Rock Allison.”
I stare blankly at him.
“They went to get dinner.”
I ZOMBIE-WALK HOME, eat some Rice Krispies out of the box, and put on my headphones, working like a maniac until three in the morning. It’s like I’ve hit a switch where I can’t even think about what Not-Joe told me, or I will completely unravel.
When I wake around seven, I stumble to my computer and stare at the screen, squeezing my eyes closed and then open, trying to clear them.
Nothing. Nothing comes to me. I need food. I need fresh air.
London is making coffee in the kitchen, and pours me a cup when I walk in, wordlessly handing it to me.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I look down to a message from London in the group text box with me, Harlow, and Mia: She’s up.
I glance up at London. “It’s . . . seven thirteen. Have you guys been waiting for me to get out of bed?”
“Sort of,” London says, smiling gently.
Harlow replies, Lola: we’re meeting at the Regal Beagle tonight.
I stare at my phone and then put it down on the coffee table, picking up my mug instead. I can’t deal with Harlow quite yet.
London walks around the counter and into the living room. “Are you going to come?”
I sit down. “I don’t think so.”
“That means yes?”
“It means probably not.” I wince apologetically. “I have to work.”
She sits down next to me on the couch, and for the first time since I’ve known her, London’s eyes aren’t smiling. “You’ve been out of that room for a grand total of an hour and a half since Saturday night. It’s Thursday.”
I nod, taking a sip of coffee. “I’m getting caught up. It’s good.”
“Look,” she begins, “you don’t get to pretend you’re just fine and also not talk to anyone. If you’re sad, tell me to stay home with you so you can talk my ear off. If you won’t talk to us, just keep pretending that being a crazy, work-obsessed hermit is normal, but get your ass to the bar for one fucking evening.”
“Is Oliver going?”
“Yes,” she says. “Your friend Oliver is going.”
I lean back against the couch and close my eyes. My heart is already racing two hundred beats per second.
TONIGHT IT TAKES me forever to get ready. Am I furious or guilty? I have no idea.
I do know that I have a closet full of new clothes I’ve bought for book signings and appearances and who knows what but I hate them all. One dress is too short, another is too long, another is too tight. Do I show off cleavage or keep it all hidden? Do I look grubby to show him I don’t give a crap who else he goes out with, or do I put in the effort to look amazing?
Finally I pull on a black V-neck sweater (some cleavage) and my favorite jeans with boots. My hair is longer than it’s ever been—halfway down my back—and instead of a ponytail or easy bun, I leave it long and straight. I keep it tucked behind my ears, but at least it gives me something to hide behind if I need it. I’ve never worn much makeup—never had need for foundation or powder—and tonight all I put on is lip gloss.
I hate kissing with it on; it’s the chastity belt for innocent drunk kisses with men I desperately love but who maybe went on a maybe-date with someone else last night.
The gang is situated in the regular booth toward the back when I arrive. I see Ansel, Mia, Finn, Not-Joe, London, and Oliver, whose back is to me and whose broad shoulders I assume are blocking Harlow from my view, because I can hear her laugh from clear across the bar.
My stomach crawls up my throat. I wave hello to Fred and stand at the side of the booth, waiting for Oliver to notice and let me in. It’s a bit like watching dominoes fall as everyone sees me in succession, smiling instinctively before the smiles crumple as they remember, and they turn to look at Oliver.
I swear my heart is going to beat its way out of my chest.
For the love of God. His breath catches when he sees me standing there, and he just stares right at my face for what feels like a million, pounding heartbeats.
And, just like that, I feel like I’ve been slapped across the face. I don’t just miss him, I need him. I don’t want this distance. I don’t want it to be over. I don’t want to lose him. For fuck’s sake, how do I take care of everything?
Finally, he moves over to let me in, smiling a little down at the bench. “Come on in.”
He’s wearing a dark green Preacher T-shirt and the same dark jeans he wore the other night when I undressed him, went down on him for the first time.
I can still feel his skin on my lips, his trembling hands in my hair.
I can still remember the way he sounded in the shower. What we did.
The panel shows the girl standing in front of the mirror, the words I AM NOT READY FOR THIS. I AM NOT EVEN A LITTLE READY FOR THIS corkscrewing around her body.
“Hey,” I manage.
“Hey.” He swallows, eyes on my mouth for only a breath before he puts his expression in order, poker-facing it as only Oliver can. This is the first time I’ve seen him since Sunday afternoon, and it feels like my heart was put back together inside out.
God, if this is hard for me, I can’t imagine how this must be for him. Terrible. And look at him, calm and poised, always composed. I don’t think I’ve ever admired anyone the way I admire him.
“Hey, Lola,” Ansel says, smiling so wide his dimples dip all the way to Mars.
I smile back.
“So, how’s the book coming?” Harlow asks a little too loudly.
I give her the Really? We’re going to talk about this right here? face, and simply say, “It’s fine.”
“Everything’s fine,” she mumbles, and I see Finn elbow her gently.
This is the most awkward moment in the history of time, and I sit there, stabbing at my decision with a fiery poker while tentative conversation starts up around me. I fall back on instinct, pulling a pen out of my purse and bending to doodle on a cocktail napkin. I can sense how Oliver’s head is turned toward me, how his eyes watch me draw. That’s his instinct, and it melts me how he’s always done this: leaned in, wanted to be a part of it.
It’s like there was a film between us, some restraint that was peeled away the second we kissed. Before, I had feelings, he had feelings, but we were able to carry on breathing, speaking, joking, drinking. Now, I’m just . . . a bare wire, sitting too close to a spark. I want to punch him for going out with Allison, I want to stroke him and beg him to forgive me. Between us the air warps and simmers. I can almost feel his hand, so warm, on his thigh next to mine. Out of the corner of my eye I can see his finger twitch.
Me, too, I tell him silently.
I thought I was making a hard—but good—decision and now I look back on that Lola from last Sunday and feel like she was the most naïve person alive. I have no idea what to do—whether I should just turn to him and tell him I’m sorry right now . . . and sitting here with him I can’t even remember anymore why I thought I could do this. Coming out of the fog of the stress for a night, being this close to him—the scent of his fabric softener, the proximity of his strong hands, legs, his smooth neck, his quiet laugh . . . he’s right—it just doesn’t work this way. I love him. I want to be with him. Asking to hit pause was bullshit.
Oh my God I am an idiot.
With a jerky motion, Oliver straightens, inhales, and apparently decides to move the table out of the silence of doom. “Joe. What are you watching?”
Not-Joe pushes his hair out of his face. “Videos of cows being milked.”
I look up. Everyone else is staring at Not-Joe, brows drawn, speechless, too.
Harlow holds up a hand, halting all discussion. “I don’t even want to know.” She waves to Fred at the bar. “Three important updates from me: One, I’m sick of airplanes. Two, I’m sick of boats.”
I thank the Universe for Harlow’s ability to knock down the wall of silence.
“And three,” she says, “a trashy she-beast tried to bang my husband today.”
We all gasp and look at Finn just as he mumbles, “False,” into his mug of beer.
Harlow turns to him, eyes wide in disbelief. “Did she or did she not put her hand on your arm and giggle like a whore?”
“She did,” he concedes, laughing.
“And did she or did she not squeeze your juicy bicep?”
He nods. “She did.”
Leaning in close, she growls, “And did she or did she not then hand you her room key?”
“Which I immediately handed back,” he reminds her. “That’s not trying to bang. That’s failing to bang.”
Finn holds up his hand and high-fives Ansel’s offered palm.
“So gross.” Harlow takes a sip of wine. “She had the fakest huge boobs I’ve ever seen,” she tells the rest of us, clearly already over it. “Which reminds me.” She holds up a finger near his face and he playfully bites the tip. “This shirtless thing they’re having you do while filming? Not a fan.”
“You’re losing it,” Mia says.
“You’re not a fan of me shirtless?” Finn asks with a knowing grin.
Harlow puts down her wine and some of it sloshes over the lip. “Not when people ogle you!”
“Totally losing it,” Oliver agrees, nodding to Mia.
“You knew this would be hard,” Ansel reminds Harlow.
“Of course I am losing it!” Harlow yells. “Everyone wants to bang my husband!”
A group of people nearby look over at us, but Harlow just scowls at them until they turn back toward the bar.
“I don’t,” I tell her.
Finn raises his bottle to me.
Mia swallows a sip of her drink and nods. “Me either.”
“I like you, Finn,” Oliver says, “but I also don’t want to bang you.”
Slowly, slowly, the tension dissolves from our table and I nearly want to sing. The sound of Oliver’s voice, so deep, so perfectly curled, makes my skin hum.
“I’d bang him.” Not-Joe speaks this at his phone screen still playing cow videos.
We all stare for a beat before deciding in unison to move on.
“Harlow,” Ansel begins, “you’ve married one of the three most loyal men alive. I bang Mia. Finn bangs Harlow. Oliver bangs Lola. It is the way of things.”
My heart comes to a screeching halt, and beside me, Oliver goes completely still.
“Hey!” London says, feigning insult at this exclusion.
So far, we’re the only ones to notice the slip. Oliver begins slowly tearing his napkin apart.
“You can bang Not-Joe,” Ansel reasons.
London looks over at Not-Joe and then laughs, shaking her head. “Is it weird to say I’m not sure I could handle him in bed?”
Silence has spread like a slow, awkward game of Telephone around the table, first with Finn looking across at us, then Mia, then Harlow. Ansel’s own words finally seem to sink in and he wipes a hand across his mouth. “Merde. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” Oliver interrupts, voice tight. “This is my cue to hit the head.”
He apologizes under his breath, wincing because I have to get up to let him out of the booth, and then slips past me. His hand accidentally brushes mine and he jerks away, apologizing again.
I feel like I’ve been burned.
We watch him leave and once he’s out of sight, I bend, resting my forehead in my hands. “Why am I here? I’m ruining his night.”
“I’m so stupid,” Ansel groans. “I’m sorry, Lola.”
“No,” I tell him. “I shouldn’t have come. He would be having a good time if I wasn’t here.”
“That’s not true,” Finn says firmly. “You guys need to figure this out. This is dumb as fuck.”
“Says you,” Harlow snaps.
“The way he looks at you,” Mia whispers. “It’s like he’s trying to light a fire under your skin.”
“He always did that,” Harlow says, and then takes a drink of her wine. “Looked at you like if he stared hard enough you could hear each other’s thoughts and wouldn’t have to say them out loud. Like he wanted to be in your mind, wanted you in his.”
“He didn’t,” I tell her.
“He did.”
“Didn’t what?” Not-Joe asks, looking up from his phone.
“I was telling Lola that Oliver always looked at her like he wanted to absorb her.”
“Not absorb her,” Not-Joe corrects gently. “He just wanted to get a piece of her no one else got. And he does, clearly.” He lifts his chin to me as proof. I catch it right when I turn back to look at him from where I’ve been staring, waiting for Oliver to return..
We all fall into contemplative silence, sort of stunned by this.
“I mean he’s not Rogue or anything,” Not-Joe mumbles, lifting a hand to touch Mia’s arm, and dramatically pretending to absorb her strength a la Rogue before absently turning back to his phone. “So tell him that he has a piece of you. Fix whatever broke.”
Ansel and Finn are staring at where they fidget with their coasters, but Mia, Harlow, and London are all staring right at me.
“What?” I ask.
“I agree with Not-Joe, which is . . . new,” Mia says, offering an apologetic wince. “You need to do something. You’re both miserable. Go talk to him. Tell him how you feel, even if it’s messy.”
“It’s probably not the best time,” I say. I cannot imagine anything I’d like less than talking to Oliver at a bar about what I did, and about his dinner with Allison. Just the thought of having that conversation in public turns my stomach into a sour knot.
I look over to the bathrooms, wanting to see Oliver emerge and also dreading the way it will make me feel when he does. But something else snags my attention . . . a face I haven’t seen in forever.
It takes my brain several seconds before I realize who I’m seeing. I look over at Harlow: she’s smiling at something Finn said. I look more carefully at Mia: she’s reading something London has shown her on her phone. But Ansel’s attention is moving between my face and the person I’ve spotted over by the bar. Ansel knows something is up . . . he just doesn’t know why my eyes have gone wide. Because he wouldn’t necessarily recognize Luke Sutter.
From across the room, Luke sees me first, and his face falls. I can almost feel the way he doesn’t want to look at the rest of the table, doesn’t want to know. But he can’t help it: his eyes slide around the curved booth, tripping unseeing over Not-Joe, London, Harlow, Finn . . . eventually landing on Mia. For a second, the duration of a heartbeat, I see the life being punched out of him.
“Who is that?” Oliver asks as he returns to the table, jealousy making his voice sharp.
I startle at the sound and the vibrating warmth of him so close to me before standing to let him in. At his question, Mia looks up, following his attention to where Luke stands, and she goes pale. I can’t remember the last time she saw Luke, but I know it’s still hard for her, still weird how much things have changed. He’s barely the same person anymore.
“Um . . . it’s Luke,” I say, and Ansel’s body goes rigid at my words. “Mia’s ex.”
I realize I don’t know how much he knows about Luke, whether he knows they were inseparable from the age of eleven, how we all just assumed Luke and Mia were forever. Has Mia told Ansel about the worst fight they had? The one where Luke whispered, in tears, that it felt like Mia died under the truck that had pinned her to the street?
Over the past few years, Luke has been nothing like the guy I used to know, but I’ll always adore him even if on the surface he seems like such a cocky douche bag. The accident ruined two dreams—hers of dancing, his of having Mia forever. He got over it the only way he seemed to know how: by sleeping with anyone, and everyone.
I look back to Ansel and Mia, and I’ve never seen this before—anger on Ansel’s face—but I recognize it immediately. His gently ruddy cheeks turn red, his eyes harden. Mia slides her hand down his arm, whispering something in his ear, cupping his face and urging him to look at her. At first he resists, glaring over at Luke, and then he nods, closing his eyes and finally turning to her waiting mouth, claiming it deeply.
“Je t’aime,” he whispers. “I love you so wildly I sometimes forget you aren’t so fragile.”
Finally, I look away, giving them privacy. When I locate Luke across the room, I can see his jaw twitch as he watches them kiss, but then his easy smile is back and he turns away, flirting with a couple of women near the bar.
“So this is Luke,” Oliver begins, so close to my ear. Goose bumps break out along my arms. “The one who would drive you to concerts.”
I nod, nearly wanting to cry over the effort he’s making to talk to me. “He and Mia were together in high school, and for a bit . . . after.”
“After . . . you mean, after the accident?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. It wasn’t a good time for Mia, and Luke was pretty heartbroken that she never really came back the same as before.”
“You liked him, then?”
I look over at Oliver, meeting his eyes full on—and so close—for the first time all night. Whatever I’ve been keeping enclosed in bubble wrap threatens to break free at the way he’s managed to compose himself. I want to launch myself at him and alternately shake and kiss him. I can see the pain as a tiny ripple in his blue eyes, but otherwise he’s just Oliver: the same steady, placid Oliver I’ve known for months now. And I hate it, because I knew the other Oliver, too—the one who gave me pleasure so intense I saw stars—and I want some reassurance that I’ll see him again. That he’ll let me see that side again.
“I do like him,” I say. “He said some shitty things, and has screwed up more times than I can count, but he’s a good guy.”
I earn a wry eyebrow twitch for this, but before Oliver can respond aloud, Ansel pipes up: “Well, it has been lovely, friends, but I feel the need to take my wife home and impregnate her with seventeen of my robust male offspring.”
Oliver grabs his wallet from the table and his body tilts closer to me as he slips it in his back pocket.
“You’re leaving, too?” I ask. “I just got here.”
He nods. “I know. Sorry. This has been a great experiment, but I’d rather go home and clean the bathrooms.”
I laugh at this, even though I’m really not ready for him to leave yet. “I think I know what you mean.”
When I climb out and he follows me, on impulse I keep him from immediately leaving by wrapping my hand around his arm. He looks down in surprise, but follows me without resisting when I lead him a little ways from the table, into the shadows.
I let go of his arm, moving a step back and taking a couple of deep breaths. I didn’t plan to talk to him about this tonight. I’m not good on the fly like this, but I can’t let him out of my sight without saying something, without giving something more.
“Okay, so,” I say, voice a little wobbly as he remains silent. “Tonight sucked.”
“A bit,” he agrees blandly, and I don’t miss the way his eyes briefly slide down my face to my lips.
I want, I want, I want.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I know this is hard. . . .”
Oliver shrugs, and then nods once. I groan inwardly. God, this is painful. I’m trying to find a way to articulate that I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I want to try to balance being his lover, having him as a sounding board, and keeping pace with everything I have to do. It feels impossible to get this all out, especially when I’m standing so close to him and can’t even seem to find words past my need to touch him.
Finally, I manage, “I came to the store to see you last night.”
His face grows a little tight. “You did?”
“Did you go out with Allison?”
He rubs his jaw, seeming unsurprised that I’ve asked this. “Yeah.”
The panel shows a girl-shaped puddle on the floor.
Heat burns in my eyes. “Was it . . .” Goddamnit. I look to the side, feeling like I’m unraveling, vibrating. “Was it a date?”
When I look back at him, he’s just staring blankly at me.
“Or,” I start again, “I mean is that what you’re doing now?”
“Is Allison what I am doing?” he asks with a sharp bend to his words. “Are you serious, Lola?”
“I didn’t know if it was a date, and I realize I have no right to ask—”
“You don’t.”
“I know,” I say quickly, “but it kills me to think of you two fooling around.”
He doesn’t say a word, but his jaw tightens and everything comes to a standstill in my brain.
At my shocked silence, he growls, “Isn’t that what I am supposed to be doing? Trying to pass the time until you’re ready to hit play?”
He still hasn’t answered my question. I realize he’s hurt—that I’ve hurt him, and that is where this is coming from—but I’ve never seen this sharp, sarcastic side of Oliver before. I hate myself so much right now, and I hate him a little, too, because it feels like he cheated . . . even though I’m the one who asked for this.
My chest grows tighter and tighter until I have to take a deep gasping breath, and with it comes the burn of tears in my throat. I nod, trying to smile, but my face breaks and I turn away before he can see.
I hurry down the hall toward the ladies’ room, swallowing a sob, but I hear a couple of his quick footsteps and then Oliver’s hand comes around my shoulder. “Fuck. No. Lola, don’t go. I’m an arse.”
I don’t turn to face him as I’m madly wiping my cheeks. It’s mortifying. I hate to cry alone, hate it even more when someone witnesses it, and right now it’s like someone is aiming a hose down my face; I go from dry to sobbing in a blink.
“You’re not an ass. I am,” I say, and from my voice it’s obvious I’m crying. “I am just so afraid of messing things up with the books, and now I’ve messed things up with us.”
He turns me gently and I look up at him, imagine him in my room, peeling away my clothes and my insanity and just making it us again.
“I didn’t kiss her,” he admits. “We had dinner, but in the end I didn’t let anything happen.”
I nod, swallowing back a relieved sob.
“But are you expecting me to not try to move on?” he asks quietly. “You told me I should just wait idly by while you get your life together without me. That’s a horrible thing to ask, Lola.”
I rest a palm on his chest, my words spilling out in a mess. “I don’t think we’re thinking it was the same thing,” I stumble. “I don’t think I meant what you think I meant? Or what I said? I’m so sorry.”
He pulls away from me a little. “I don’t believe this whole break was just . . . a misunderstanding. I was pretty clear on what you were saying.”
“I want to talk about it,” I tell him. I’m trying to organize my thoughts into some sort of order, but the music is loud and I can feel our friends watching us. “Not here, like this. But soon?”
He nods, looking at my mouth. But then he starts to shake his head instead, saying, “I don’t know, Lola. I don’t know. This is just a fucking mess.”
Panic starts to climb into my throat. “I don’t want this to be over, and—”
Oliver cuts me off with a gentle “Shh,” reaching a hand up to tuck my hair behind my ear. He stares at his hand as if it moved there on instinct before he drops it limply to his side.
My heart is a drum, deep in the jungle of my chest, and it bangs and bangs and bangs for him. I know it won’t ever diminish. There isn’t any clock we can rewind, no way we can stop time.
“I miss you,” I tell him.
He smiles toward the floor, blue eyes soft behind his glasses. “I miss you, too, Lola Love.”
The mix of heartbreak and relief spills from me. When he calls me “Lola Love,” I wonder if there’s at least a chance at friendship after all of this, and whether that would be wonderful, or torture. “I thought you were going to tell me you kissed Hard Rock Allison.”
Oliver looks up at me with a wince that is both sweet and sad. “Reckon I wouldn’t do that. I don’t feel that way for her.” He runs a hand over his jaw, blinking away. “I was angry and I wanted to be distracted, but I wouldn’t betray my own feelings like that.” He laughs without humor. “Your love is branded on my brain; yours is still the only kiss I want.”
The weight of my feelings flips something over inside me, and before I’ve even realized it I say: “Do you want to come over tonight?”
Oliver closes his eyes for a beat, trying to smile, but it barely curves his mouth. “I don’t think—”
Oh God. My insides have liquefied in horror. “Shit, never mind. Sorry. Of course you don’t.”
Oliver takes a step back, looking helplessly around before rubbing his face and turning back to me. “Don’t play games with me.” He looks at me, eyes searching. “Please. I can see in your eyes you’re still sort of a mess. I can see you don’t really like what you’ve done, either. It just . . . days later, it feels too late to come to me in this blur of feelings and panic, and I can’t help but feel like it’s related to you hearing about Allison.”
“No, Oliver, it’s not—”
He continues over me, shaking his head emphatically. “I’m not sure if you were really afraid this relationship would interfere with your career or were hoping to stall it before you loved me. And either way, I’m not sure what to do about it. Both options suck.” He bends, kissing me just beneath my ear, and continuing quietly, lips barely an inch from my skin: “I’m in love with you, Lola, but I’m also terrified you’ll ruin me.”
