Present
I HATE FIGHTING.
I hate being wrong, but I hate fighting more than I hate being wrong. I’m just not good at the grudge-holding thing. I get mad, scream about it and let go. Mia, on the other hand, gets mad, screams about it, and clings on to her anger like a leech. Needless to say, we haven’t spoken in a couple of days. I’d managed to avoid Oliver the past few days at the hospital, while I painted vinyl records and surfboards with the kids. I saw him a couple of times by the nurses’ station, though, and once leaving Jen’s office. I caught glimpses of what his life must be like—the flirting, the multitude of sexual partners, the late night rendezvous he probably has in the hospital during the night shift. They aren’t things I necessarily want to imagine, but that’s just where my mind automatically goes when it comes to Oliver.
Two of my friends, Micah and Dallas, are standing in the middle of the hallway of the pediatrics floor, both with the same disgusted looks on their faces that I had when I saw the walls. I could tell from the way Micah keeps running his hands through his long blonde hair that he’s nervous about taking this project on. Dallas is just full-on gaping, as if the walls are taunting him. Micah turns first and shoots me a what the fuck did you get us into look that I have to laugh at.
“But for real,” he says when I reach them. My arms swing around his middle, and I squeeze.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say against his back and then do the same to Dallas.
“Honey, this thank you better come with a blow job,” Dallas says as I pull away, laughing loudly until I hear a throat clearing behind me. I turn to find Oliver standing there with a strange look on his face. That makes me laugh harder, because clearly, he’d heard Dallas.
“Hey,” I say. “This is Micah and Dallas. Guys, this is Oliver, my brother’s friend—the one who got me into this whole thing.”
As they nod at each other, Dallas, who’s just slightly taller than me, gives Oliver a quick onceover, and Micah throws out a “hey man” that makes him sound like a stoner straight out of Woodstock. Oliver returns their greetings politely before his eyes return to mine.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” he asks, the intensity in his eyes making my stomach twist.
“Sure. Guys, the paint is in there. I think we should start with the room on the far left first. I’ll be right back,” I say, pointing to the room before turning to follow Oliver with a frown. “Where are we going?”
He opens a door and signals for me to go inside, but I stand rooted in place. This side of the hospital is vacant because of the paint project, but I don’t want somebody to see us and get the wrong idea.
“Come in.”
“We can talk here.”
Oliver closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as if he’s trying to calm himself down. When he opens them, they look more tired than before, if possible. “Please, Elle. Just humor me.”
I shake my head, but do as he says, because I don’t want to leave the guys alone for too long. He’s invited me into some sort of storage room, with a bunch of filing cabinets lined up along the walls.
“So?” I ask, turning to face him. He’s leaning against the door with his hands in the pockets of his white coat, just staring at me. “What?”
“I haven’t heard from you. I haven’t seen you, and then when I finally do, some guy is talking about you giving him a blow job?” He doesn’t sound upset, just confused and maybe a little hurt, I think, which is ridiculous and impossible—because this is Oliver we’re talking about.
“And?”
“And I miss you.”
My heart trips a little at his admission and the way he says it, all smooth and low. Then I remember Wyatt and his “I miss you’s,” which weren’t said often, only when he was away on one of his many trips, and only after it’d been a couple of days since we’d spoken. I never questioned him or what he was doing. I never wondered if he’d been with another woman, and even the times Mia planted that seed in my head, nothing grew from it, because for some reason, I didn’t care. I always wondered if there was something wrong with me for not caring.
“You don’t miss me, Oliver. Besides, aren’t you dating someone?” I remind him with a glare.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a thing, I wouldn’t call it dating.”
“Just fucking,” I say, sounding more bitter than I intended. “Not that I care,” I add quickly. Oliver smirks, and I feel my face growing hot. “I have shit to do,” I say, finally coming to my senses and stepping forward, but he doesn’t move away from the door.
“Are you having fun with him?” he asks, nodding his head toward the outside. Having fun with him. It’s funny how I can straight-out ask him if he’s fucking somebody, but when he asks me, he uses the term having fun. It reminds me of when we were teenagers, and Mia’s mom would call her boyfriends her little friends. “Or is it the guy with the long hair that you like? I know you have a thing for that.”
I take a step back. I do have a thing for guys with long hair, probably because of him. I should hate guys with long hair because of him. I should, but of course, I don’t. Oliver’s hair isn’t long anymore, but it’s still long enough to run your hands through and tug on if his head is between your legs. He has a sandy brown scruff going on over his jaw that isn’t just a five o’clock shadow anymore. It would probably feel delicious against the inside of my thighs.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, the huskiness in his voice snapping me out of my fantasy.
“Huh?”
He takes a step forward so he’s right in front of me, my eyes at the level of the Dr. Hart ID on the pocket of his left pec.
“Elle. Look at me,” he says. A slow, curling desire winds its way around my belly. I have two options: push past him and leave, or look into his eyes and acknowledge the desire that heats the air between us like a blowtorch. I choose the latter because I’m a moron, and because clearly, I like to have my heart shredded repeatedly. “You want me. After all this time, you still want me.”
“I don’t have time for this right now. They’re waiting for me,” I whisper, trying to pull away from the electrical current that is his gaze.
“One date, Elle. One date. I’m keeping my word and not touching you, I promise.”
“You’re already fucking someone. Do you really need another?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “For your information, I’m not. Do you really think this is about fucking you?”
I don’t know, I want to say. History tends to repeat itself, but I hold my tongue on that part.
“I don’t know what it’s about,” I respond, dragging my eyes away. I feel like I’m suffocating in this tiny space with him. I try to brush past, but he grabs my arm.
“One date.”
I close my eyes and shake my head, regretting it when I feel tears start to prick them. “I’m not ready.”
He drops his hand, looking pained. He’ll live; he always finds things to fill his time with. As I open the door, I look at him over my shoulder.
“By the way, Dallas, the blow job guy, is gay. Micah, the guy with the hair, was one of Wyatt’s best friends, and he is so not my type.”