WHAT DOES ONE do after a night of intimate cuddling with a friend on a couch and then going home to a very cold, very empty apartment?
Well, first one pulls one’s vibrator from the bedside table. But the next day, one goes directly to said friend’s store and pretends not to watch him all day.
I honestly don’t know what is wrong with me. I vacillate so starkly between keep it in the friend zone and jump him immediately that I feel a little locked up every time I think about it. And the fact that, last night, Oliver didn’t seem all that opposed to the cuddling and the flirting? Encouraging, even? I just . . . I honestly don’t know what to do, and the person I most want to talk it out with—Oliver himself—is also the last person I want to talk it out with. I want to push, just a tiny bit, to see if things have changed and he’ll make a move. It’s just that I can never quite tell what’s going on in his head.
“Do you live here now, Lola?” Not-Joe asks from behind the counter as I walk past him to the back of the store. “Because if so, I could show you how to run the register so I can go smoke a blunt.”
“I heard that,” Oliver mumbles from across the store. He looks up as I pass and gives me a little smile.
There are a thousand words in that tiny expression, and I don’t speak the language.
“Stalking you two is one of the many perks of being a comic writer,” I answer, stretching out with my sketchpad on the new couch in the back corner. Lately, the front reading nook is almost always full of Oliver’s fangirls and high school kids sneak-reading Sex Criminals. “I get to hang out here all day and call it research.”
“She’s hiding from the paparazzi.” Oliver lifts his chin to the front window to indicate the lone man standing with a notepad near some parking meters. “It’s only eleven in the morning and he’s been there for two hours now,” he tells me. “I think he’s hoping to get an interview with you for his tiny free paper with a circulation of about five thousand in Chula Vista.”
I’m grateful for the steaming Starbucks cup in his hand because I suspect the time he took to go get that is the only reason I missed him on my way in.
Although the press release got widespread coverage, trending hashtags, and the Tumblr memes are already out in full force, so far the buzz is all about casting, and there doesn’t seem to be much more interest in me. Writers are boring. Introverted writers who don’t seek attention are even more so. I’ve been able to forward all of the big interview requests to Benny so far, or answer questions via email. Thankfully, for now, Angela Marshall was wrong about how my day-to-day life would change.
“What’d you do last night?” Not-Joe calls to me, handing a customer a bag and closing the register.
“Went to Oliver’s for dinner.”
The man in question doesn’t look up when I say this, and again I wonder what’s going through his head. Is he thinking about how it felt to lie front to back on his couch? Is he thinking about how he maybe ate all the ice cream by himself after I left? Is he wondering what the hell got into me? I know I am.
I can’t say I regret it, though.
“Din-ner,” Not-Joe repeats.
“Joe.” Oliver’s voice is a gentle warning.
“This guy here made barbecue ribs,” I tell Not-Joe. “They were fantastic.”
Oliver’s eyes meet mine for a brief second and then he looks away, fighting a smile.
“So, eating meat off some bones, then?” Not-Joe asks, grinning at me. “Sucking off the hot juices?”
I love Oliver’s easy laugh that follows, the subtle slide of his eyes over to me again. I love that the pace of his work doesn’t change even when we look at each other, breathing in, breathing out. He pulls a stack of books from a box and puts it down on a counter. Lifts another stack and puts it down.
“You’re a menace,” I say. I blink over to Not-Joe when I say it, but can pretend I’m saying it to Oliver.
Because he is a menace. A calm, steady, sexy-as-fuck menace.
Not-Joe shrugs, moving on, and bends down to inspect a book. “Say, this new issue of Red Sonja features a lot of breast curve. I mightily approve.”
Oliver turns around to look at him across the room. “Show me both of your hands, Joe.”
Not-Joe holds up his hands, laughing. “You’re the guy who wanks to comics, not me.”
“You’re the guy who gets asked ‘is it in yet?’ ” Oliver drawls.
“You’re the guy who keeps asking, ‘Is it good, baby, does it feel good?’ ”
“Don’t need to, mate,” Oliver tells him, looking back down at an inventory sheet. “I know it’s good.”
Not-Joe laughs but I feel my eyes go wide at the growl in Oliver’s voice, the casual way this fell from his lips. I’m choked by the weight of jealousy and longing when I think about him having sex. Or maybe it’s the leftover needneedneed from last night.
Last night was weird.
I blink, turning to look at a rack of new releases and urging my brain to reboot.
“Just because it’s good for you doesn’t mean it’s good for them,” Not-Joe says.
“Well,” I answer absently, “there were the lesbian roommates who made him practice, practice, practice. . . .”
I trail off, having felt the store go completely still.
Reboot fail. I can’t believe I just said this.
The story of Oliver and his lesbian roommates was one I heard when we were all hammered—from Ansel, no less, and he had on his adorable troublemaker face when he told me—but Oliver and I have literally never talked about it. Shocking as that may be.
I can feel him staring at the side of my face, and one of his fangirl customers basically eye-fucks him from across the store.
“How did—?” he begins.
“Wait.” Not-Joe stops him. “Lesbian roommates? Why am I just now hearing this story? I feel betrayed.”
Oliver continues to watch me, and lifts his eyebrows as if to say, Well? You were saying?
“According to Ansel,” I tell Not-Joe, trying to sound casual, like this information doesn’t make me itch under my skin whenever I think about it, “Oliver had two female roommates at universiy in Canberra. Both were into other women, but being that it was college and we’re all sort of loose about things in college, they took it upon themselves to show Oliver the ropes, as it were. Ansel says that loads of women have just raved about Oliver’s—”
“No one has ever raved to Ansel,” Oliver cuts me off, looking flustered. “I mean, it’s not like that at all.”
“Well, it sounded exactly like that,” I say, giving him a playful smile.
But he doesn’t return it.
In fact, he looks really tense, like he doesn’t like that I’m talking about this. And of course he doesn’t; we’re in the middle of his place of business. But . . . wasn’t he just the one talking about knowing sex with him is good?
Confused, I blink down to the book in my hands and read the same dialogue bubble over and over.
“That . . .” Not-Joe claps a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “That is legendary. Remind me of this the next time I give you shit.”
Oliver doesn’t say anything; he just scowls down at his clipboard.
And now it’s weird. I made it weird, but when I think about it, it’s been weird all morning. I took a leap and crossed an invisible line last night at his place. I exposed the farce of this Just Friends business, at least my end of it. Just friends works as long as everyone is on the level. As soon as it’s clear one person wants more, the entire house of cards crumples. Saying I wanted to draw him a few days ago . . . last night, with the spooning and the hand-petting, and now here with the knowledge about his former sex life when he and I never talk about those things . . . I’ve probably knocked down the entire carefully constructed fortress and doused it with gasoline.
I walk over to him, lightly punching his shoulder. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I just opened my mouth and dropped a whole lot of awkward on this moment.”
He doesn’t look at me. “S’okay. I just don’t want you to think . . .”
“Yeah, I know,” I say when he trails off. I get it. He doesn’t want me to think about him like that.
The panel shows the girl, staring down at the beating organ in her hands.
We fall silent as another customer approaches, and I turn away, headed back toward my things on the couch. I slip my sketchbook back into my messenger bag and sling it over my shoulder, ducking past Oliver and around an aisle of comics so I can discreetly escape.
“Where you headed, Lola?” Not-Joe calls.
“Just going out,” I mumble, pushing open the front door.
Outside on the sidewalk, I carefully dodge the reporter and pull my phone from my bag, quickly dialing my dad just to look busy.
He answers on the second ring. “What’s shaking, baby girl?”
I duck, speaking quietly into the phone. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He pauses, waiting for me to say why I’ve called. I did it as a cover, but now that I’ve got him on the phone, I realize how it feels like water is building behind a dam in my chest. Art and writing and the film and Oliver. My fits and starts of flirtation, the way I’m terrible at reading Oliver and even worse at trusting my own instincts with guys. It’s too much all at once on my plate.
I could have called one of the girls, but I almost regret talking to Harlow about it the other day and don’t want her poking me about Oliver right now. London is at work, and Mia can’t help but pass along everything she hears to Ansel.
“What’s up?” he asks again, prompting.
I grimace, closing my eyes. “I’m just short-circuiting.”
“Tell me about everything that’s got you.”
“Who gave me a grown-up card? Like who thought that was a good idea?”
Dad laughs. “They give out grown-up cards? Huh. Must have passed me right up.” He inhales again, voice tight with a held breath when he says, “Spill.”
God, where do I even start? Dad would have opinions about Austin—he sounds too slick, do you really think he’s the right guy for this project?—and the idea of Razor as an alien from Mars—is he fucking kidding? Did he read the damn story? Talking to him about my work always triggers his protective don’t-let-them-screw-you instinct and, while I do love how proud he is of me, he has no experience with Hollywood. His opinions would be loud and unhelpful.
But the weirdest bit is that I don’t need to talk that out yet; work is always the one realm where I’ve felt confident, and besides, my reaction to Razor-as-Martian is still percolating. Oliver is what has me the most tangled and I may as well talk about that with someone who’s the least likely to dig too deep.
I chew on my nail before saying, finally, “I guess I’m in a weird place with Oliver.”
“Ah.” I hear him inhale sharply on the other end, can imagine the way he squints as he holds the cigarette between his lips. He blows out his breath. “We’re talking about this now?”
“I guess.”
When Mom left, Dad had to take over all the aspects of raising a girl that would normally have gone to her—helping me sort through minor dramas, crushes, and heartbreaks, getting my period. He did it all with the kind of straightforward stoicism I’ve come to absolutely adore about him. He’s a teaser, a jokester, and uses sarcasm as a defense, but inside I know he’s soft. Inside, his heart is too big sometimes.
He laughs, a short exhale. “So talk.”
“So . . .” I start, squinting up at the sky. “I think I might want more.”
Dad clucks his tongue. “I don’t know, Boss. I can’t read that kid. I think he adores you, but is it more for him?”
This is the exact kind of honesty I need. Dad likes Oliver a lot, but he isn’t invested in the idea of us being romantic the way Harlow is. Frowning, I admit, “I don’t know. In Vegas it was pretty clear he wasn’t interested.”
“And Oliver’s a good friend,” Dad says. “You always gotta be careful when you try to make it more.”
I shrug, kicking at some dried leaves on the sidewalk. Dad is a mirror to my own thoughts on the matter. “Yeah.”
I hear him inhale and blow out smoke again before saying, “But I know we all got itches that need to be scratched.”
“Dad.”
He laughs. “You do. Come on now. Keep things light and fun. Your life is nuts right now. First Razor Fish, now you’re writing more? And they’re making your goddamn movie?”
I look up at the skyline. I’ve worked so hard for all of this, but I find myself suddenly wanting to change the subject. “What are you doing tonight?”
I hear the scratch of his shoe on the concrete back porch as he puts out the cigarette and the bang of the screen door as he goes back inside. “I think Ellen is coming over here for dinner.”
Ellen. Dad’s new girlfriend, whom I trust about as far as the distance between my bent elbow and my middle finger. Dad is one of the smartest and best people I know, and deserves someone special. Ellen is a gum-addicted, fake-breasted cocktail waitress at T.G.I. Friday’s.
“Awesome.”
“I can tell you don’t like her.”
I chuckle. “I told you I don’t like her.”
“She’s fun, Boss,” he says. “And she’s got a great rack.”
“Gross. I’m hanging up now. This was one hundred percent unhelpful.”
He laughs. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” I shove my phone back into my bag and climb the metal stairs to the loft.
I know what I said is a lie: it wasn’t totally unhelpful. Sometimes Dad’s straight shot of honesty is exactly what I need. It may not be more than a friendship for Oliver, but even if it is, is that the best thing for us?
But almost as soon as I’ve slid the loft door closed, someone bangs on the other side. It’s two short hits with the side of a curled fist: Oliver.
I’m right there, pulling it open while his hand is still returning to his side.
“Hey,” I say.
He’s out of breath and swipes a hand through his hair. “Hey,” he says. “Can I come in for a minute?”
I step aside. “Of course.”
He walks past me into the living room and stares out the wall of windows for a few seconds until he catches his breath. He doesn’t seem to have come here for a sandwich, or to use the bathroom because the one at the store is broken, and the longer he takes to start speaking, the more anxious I become.
Finally, he turns to me. “Are you okay?”
I stare up at him as a blur of images from the past hour flips through my head. Why would he think I wasn’t okay? “Yeah. Why?”
“You just left really abruptly. Like something was wrong.”
I groan inwardly, turning to look out the window. “I just felt like kind of an asshole for saying that thing to Not-Joe about you in college, and—”
“Fuck, Lola, I don’t give a shit if Joe knows about that.”
Shrugging, I tell him, “You seemed annoyed.”
Clasping his hand around the back of his neck, he says, “I don’t want you to think of me as this guy that would hook up with his roommate just to learn how to be with girls.” His big bespectacled eyes look at me softly. “It sounds sketchy.”
I smile. “I didn’t really think of it like that. It’s college. People do things in college.”
“That whole thing happened over a single, very drunken weekend over a decade ago. It wasn’t like”—he winces as he looks for the right words—“like, a nightly thing.”
“It’s okay,” I say quietly, wanting him to know he doesn’t need to explain this to make me feel better. “I don’t need you to—”
“And knowing you’re hearing those things about me from someone else . . .” he cuts in, scratching his neck, “that doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Well, to be fair, it’s not like you and I really talk about those kinds of things.”
He doesn’t reply to this, and I quickly add, “I mean, it’s fine. We don’t need to. I just—that’s why I left. Because it felt like I was being sort of intrusive. I don’t want to get into your personal business, Oliver. I totally respect that space.”
When he looks down at me, he seems confused. “I feel . . .” he says, and then shakes his head. “Fuck. I feel like maybe we need to talk.”
Something sharp wiggles in my stomach. That is never the way a good conversation starts. “Aren’t we talking right now?”
“I mean,” he says, pacing, “last night was sort of . . . different for us. Was it just me?”
I look down at my shoe and poke at the carpet with my toe, awkwardness pushing its way into my posture. “No, I think I know what you mean. I’m sorry about that.”
Stepping closer, he says, “No.” And then more quietly, “Don’t be. That isn’t what I mean.”
His hand comes up, slowly cupping the side of my jaw. I feel the sweep of his middle finger against my pulse point and he stares at his own hand, lips parted as if he can’t quite believe what he’s just done.
Like trying to see through thick fog, I’m trying to remember why I thought kissing Oliver might not be a good idea. Because right now I know without a doubt he’s thinking about it, too.
My phone blares in my back pocket, so loud it startles us both. I step back and reach for it. “Sorry, I forgot I’ve been turning the ringer on lately. . . .” When I pull it out, we look down in unison and see the name Austin Adams on the screen.
“Jesus, how often does he call?” Oliver asks in a thick whisper.
“Sorry, just . . . one sec.” I hold up a finger as I answer. “Hi, Austin.”
“Loles!” he yells. Oliver turns to face the window, but I’m sure he can hear everything Austin says because I have to hold it away from my ear it’s so loud. I can hear wind in the background and imagine him zipping through the Hollywood Hills in a convertible. “Wanted to see if you were going to be up in L.A. this week? Langdon is chomping at the bit to start. I’d love for you two to meet ASAP.”
“I can come up anytime,” I say. Oliver turns back to me, and I smile up at him, but he seems too distracted to return it.
“Great,” Austin says. “There’s a small studio party tomorrow night at the Soho House in West Hollywood. He’ll be there, and I’d love if you could come. We could do the introductions, maybe start to hash out some of the bigger questions: What is Razor’s origin story? How old is Quinn? If she’s eighteen in the opening—”
“Wait. Quinn is fifteen,” I cut in. “What do you mean?”
I can practically imagine him waving a hand. “Don’t worry about it now. There are just a lot of angles to consider in the film adaptation. Questions of strength, sexuality, balancing normal life and the desire to continue her work as a vigilante.”
Sexuality?
I look up at Oliver, whose brows are now drawn.
“So,” Austin continues and the background noise decreases, as if he’s just pulled into a garage. “I’ll make sure you’re on the list. Eight. Tomorrow. You can make it?”
“Yes,” I say, quickly adding, “I think so.”
“Great,” he says. A door slams and a car alarm chirps in the background. “I’ll try not to hog you all to myself.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
“Until then!”
The line goes dead.
I slide my phone onto the coffee table and look up at Oliver, giving him a wide-eyed what the fuck just happened face. A tiny smile flicks up the corners of his mouth, but it quickly melts away, and then he just studies me in the ringing silence.
“You all right?” he asks quietly.
I feel the cold prick of panic spread across my neck, nausea bubbles in my belly. The two conversations—with Oliver, with Austin—are oil and vinegar, splashing around in my thoughts.
I blink, trying to figure out which one to tackle first. My brain trips on the idea of Quinn as an eighteen-year-old at the start of the story, and I feel my breaths grow shallow and tight. It doesn’t work; she’s young for her age even at fifteen; she’s immature and innocent. Making her older would completely change her journey.
I blink harder, sliding my thoughts toward Oliver, but instead of being able to relish the idea of touching him, feeling him, being his, my brain snags on the instinctive fear of losing what we have now, the inevitable changes to us, the possibility of a life without him.
“Lola.” Oliver says it so quietly, so free of emotion that I’m not sure if he’s checking in on me after what Austin just dropped, or trying to return to what we were discussing when he first got here.
The panel shows a girl, hunched over, scribbling on a page so furiously the pencil snaps.
“Can we take one thing at a time?” I ask, finally looking up at him. “I’m sort of frazzled all of a sudden, and this is a big conversation.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be able to talk about last night after . . . that.” He nods to my phone, smiling a little.
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t have the conversation. I just . . .” I sigh. “I’m inarticulate at the moment.”
Oliver nods. His face is calm, eyes warm and engaged. He really does seem to understand. Even so—and maybe it resides only in me—but there’s a residue, some film left between us, like I took this perfect glossy moment of potential and smeared a greasy hand over it.
“I get it.” He digs his hands into his pocket and his jeans dip, exposing the top of his boxers. I look over his shoulder, out the window, and he adds, “One thing at a time.”
I walk over to the couch, collapse on the seat, and throw an arm over my face. Sometimes the fantasy of getting everything you ever wanted is so much easier than the reality pressing up against the glass.
“Do you want to talk through it?” he asks. “Quinn as an eighteen-year-old, that is,” he adds quickly. “The idea really fucks with me. I feel like they might be setting up Razor and Quinn as love interests.”
The cool stab of panic returns. “I know. I know. Fuck.” I rub my hands over my face, feeling too overwhelmed to think about it right now. Tilting my head I ask, “And maybe we can talk about it on the drive to L.A. tomorrow?”
His brow furrows. “You want me to come?”
I hesitate for just a moment. The rational part of my brain is holding up warning signs while the emotional part insists I need him by my side. “Of course I want you there,” I tell him. “Who else will help me remember all the names and elbow me when I start doodling on a napkin? Unless you don’t want to co—”
“I do. Just wondered if you’d rather go with one of the girls.”
I feel my gaze narrow slightly. “No . . . I want to go with you.”
He swallows, nodding as he looks to the side. “Well, then . . . sure.”
“I’ll meet you at the store at six?”
“Sounds good,” he says. He’s blushing. I’ve never seen Oliver blush before. “Anything specific I need to wear?”
My heart is beating way too fast and I’m reminded of the time Harlow convinced me to go bungee jumping, and those terrifying, thrilling seconds before we took the leap. I push my palm against my chest and struggle to sound casual when I say, “Just look pretty for me.”
