Present
“IS THAT A new dress?” Vic asks as I take a seat across from him at the table.
“I got it with Mom yesterday. Mom and Bettina.”
Vic groans. “God, what a pair. And they managed to pick up a douche for you to date while you were shopping.”
I laugh, because he’s not completely wrong. Zach coming over last night solidified my belief that the dating pool available right now is less than spectacular. He’s good looking, charming, and talks about himself ninety-percent of the time. He used the other ten percent to tell me how much he could profit from my kaleidoscope hearts. By the time Victor got there, I was ready to go to sleep, but I stuck around because he was so flustered. On his way to our parents’ house, he’d gotten a flat tire and had Oliver pick him up because he’d already been riding on his spare. That led to a confused Oliver standing in the dining room, looking between Zach and me with a weird look on his face. I wasn’t sure if he was jealous or if he was just put off by how much Zach talked. At any rate, he excused himself pretty early, and as soon as he left, I went upstairs.
“All he did was talk about himself,” I say, shaking my head.
“Like a true artist,” Victor says, and grins when I slap his shoulder. “You have great luck with dates, huh?”
“You dated him longer than I did. I went to sleep,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“Whatever. You’re not dating him. He’s a womanizer and a cheat, and I’m pretty sure he’s involved in some weird shit.”
“You say that about everybody. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s involved in some weird shit,’” I mimic, rolling my eyes.
He shrugs. “I’m usually right.”
“You’re worse than Dad. You’re never going to approve of anybody I date.”
“That’s not true,” he says, his brows furrowing. He looks up at the sound of the door closing behind me, and before I turn around, his eyes lock with mine. “As long as he’s a good guy, not a player, and isn’t involved in weird shit, I approve.”
“Approve of what?” asks Oliver, whose voice makes me shiver. I stand up and head to the kitchen, glancing back and greeting him with a smile.
“Vic is telling me who I can and can’t date. Don’t worry, so far, you are not on the list of contenders.”
Vic spurts out a laugh and mumbles something about, “That’ll be the day.” While Oliver just stares at me like he can’t believe I just said that, it takes everything in me not to flash him my middle finger. Instead, I turn my attention back to the pantry and sort through the cereal. I don’t know what I’m so mad about, but it seems like every time my heart involves itself in Oliver, everything inside me goes haywire. My already loose screws rattle. My already questionable judgment vanishes. And lastly, the possessive chip I never knew I had, surfaces. The only thing I remember is Bobby mentioning “Grace night,” and that’s enough to make me want to throw something at the man who’s not even mine.
“Mom only has healthy grain cereals in here,” I call out. “What the hell!” I say when the pantry slams shut in front of me, and I find Oliver glaring at me. I frown. “What?”
“Who’s on the list?” he asks, and it takes me a couple of seconds to realize what list he’s referring to. I laugh.
“What does it matter?”
“It matters,” he presses.
I raise an eyebrow. “How was ‘Grace night?’”
Oliver’s eyes widen in shock. “What?”
I open the pantry again, effectively making him move out of my way.
“There is no Grace night,” he whispers loudly. I feel his eyes burning the side of my face as he glares at me over the pantry door. “There is only Mae night, Danny night, Patrick night, Justin night . . . do you want me to continue? Because I spend most of my nights doing rounds in a hospital, unless I get really lucky, and then it’s Estelle night.” His words make my heart quicken, but I refuse to look at him. “Now tell me, who’s on the list of contenders?”
“You really want to know?” I ask in a quiet voice, closing the pantry.
He crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not wearing his scrubs today, but instead, a navy t-shirt that hugs his frame, and jeans that cling to his hips as if they were tailored. His hair is wet and brushed back, and his stubble looks cleaned up. He looks like a goddamn model, and I hate it. Stupid boy. Stupid cute boy.
“I’m asking.”
“Go ask my brother,” I say, nodding in that direction.
“I’m asking you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and stand in front of him. “And I’m telling you to go ask him, because I don’t know who is on the approved list. Is there a reason for you shutting the pantry in my face, or are you just here to annoy, Bean?”
He opens his mouth and closes it, then opens it again. “I want your list. I don’t care about Victor’s list. I know I’ll never make it on his. I want your approved list.”
I can’t come up with a comeback for that, so I’m glad when my dad walks in clearing his throat, and I have to drag my eyes away from the intensity in Oliver’s. Dad’s brown eyes bounce between us, and his brows raise in question.
“Interrupting something?”
“No,” Oliver and I say at the same time.
“I heard this is your last week at the hospital,” my dad says, using his enthusiastic voice, as he rounds the corner and opens his arms to hug Oliver. “Congratulations, my boy. I knew you had it in you, despite those late nights out.”
I groan and fake gag. Can the people in this house not stop talking about this guy’s past? Jesus.
“Thank you,” Oliver says, laughing. “Now it’s time for the real world.”
“Do you know where you’ll be working?” my dad asks as he opens the fridge. Oliver turns his body to face me as he answers.
“I’ve gotten some calls, but I’m holding off for the right one,” he says. I scoff like a bratty schoolgirl and turn around.
“Dad, what’s up with the Lucky Charms?”
“Your mom won’t buy them anymore.”
“What? Why?” I ask, opening the freezer. “You guys have nothing to eat!”
My mom’s laugh rings throughout the house. “We have nothing you like to eat, but we have plenty to eat. Sit down, I’ll make you some eggs.”
“I hate eggs,” I mutter under my breath. As I stand with my back against the counter, Oliver’s fingers brush mine, and I feel a jolt that makes my eyes snap to his.
“You like eggs,” he says.
I shake my head. “I really don’t.”
“With goat cheese?” he asks, his fingers now intertwining with mine.
“I like them a little bit if they have goat cheese,” I whisper, trying to untangle my hand from his, but he makes it an impossible feat. “What are you doing?”
“I want to be on that list,” he says quietly so only I can hear, but my eyes automatically pop around the room, making sure nobody is paying attention.