THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY night, I opt out of dinner at Wyatt’s parents’ house. I don’t even bother hiding the reason from Felicia.
“I went on a date last week,” I tell her, to which she gasps. I don’t mention that a date turned into a weeklong event of non-stop dates. Even when we don’t see each other, we talk on the phone or text message back and forth.
“And? How did it go?”
“It went well,” I say, holding a breath. “I . . . it went really well.”
“Good. I’m glad. We’re happy for you, Elle. You know that, right? We’re happy if you move on. You’re young, you’re beautiful . . . you deserve it. Wyatt would want that.”
I don’t tell her that I kind of doubt that, because I can’t imagine him wanting me to move on, but obviously I’m doing it anyway. The worst part is, that I don’t even feel guilty about it when I’m in the moment. It isn’t until late at night when I’m alone and think about how happy Oliver makes me, that it kind of seeps in. It’s like my heart has already decided what to do with itself, but my mind keeps tripping over the box of guilt. When I hang up with her, I head downstairs to make myself a sandwich because I’m starving. It seems that unless I set the Crock-pot before I leave for the day, nobody eats around here.
“Elle, can you order pizza?” Victor yells from the living room, followed by a slew of curse words aimed at the television. My best guess is that the Forty-Niners are losing.
“Yes!” I shout back. I order it, make my sandwich, and take a bite as I walk over to where he is. “What the hell did you do when I wasn’t living here?” I ask, opening my mouth to take another bite and stop when I see he’s not alone. Oliver holds his beer up to me, as does Jenson, who shoots a weird look between Oliver and me. I know it has everything to do with what he saw—or thought he saw—outside of the club a couple of weeks ago. Victor just watches the game and waves his hand.
“Obviously I survived,” he says.
Normally Oliver would pat the seat beside him, but he doesn’t today. I take a seat beside Victor and prop my foot on his coffee table, as I take another bite of my sandwich.
“What does that have in it?” Jenson asks, looking at my sandwich like he’s going to bite it out of my hand.
“Turkey and Swiss,” I respond, and hold it out for him to take, because it’s either that, make him his own, or tell him to go fuck himself—which will result in an argument I don’t want to start—especially with his big mouth.
“Thanks,” he says, taking it from me with a wide grin. He winks at me and makes a satisfied sound as he bites into it. I roll my eyes and lean back into the couch. I sort of watch the game until the pizza gets there, and then end up falling asleep leaning against Jenson’s muscled arm. I only wake up because I hear Vic screaming again, and it startles me. That’s when I realize I am completely wrapped in Jenson’s arm. He hugs me closer when I jolt and try to pull away. My eyes flicker to Oliver, who’s relaxed and watching the game, but I keep staring until his gaze finds mine. I catch the discomfort in his eyes as they jump from me to Jenson. He grumbles, exhales and looks away. I don’t know what I expect him to do, but the fact that he does nothing at all makes me want to scream. It’s not like I want him to be jealous over this—it would be ridiculous for him to be threatened over Jenson—but still. I berate myself, since I was the one who insisted we keep whatever is going on between us a secret. Give me time, I said, but I kind of wish he would just tell Victor despite what I said. I wish he wouldn’t listen to me for once. I sigh and pinch the inside of Jenson’s arm hard. He yelps and lets go of me.
“You had that coming,” Victor says with a chuckle.
“Are you regretting moving to the big apple?” I ask Jenson, as I fold my legs underneath me.
“Nope. Most of the time I like it, but I miss home . . . and I have stuff I need to take care of here.”
I sink back into the couch and think about this scenario, wondering if this is what it would be like if Oliver and I were really dating. Would we hang out with my brother and their friends? Would it be awkward? Would we sit across the room from each other because he’s too scared of his best friend and what he would have to say about our relationship? My shoulders slump at the thought. I look up when I feel Oliver’s eyes on me, and smile when he taps the spot beside him on the couch. Finally, against my better judgment, or maybe because of it, I stand and sit beside him, snatching the huge Forty-Niners throw draped over the couch to bring with me.
“I missed you today,” he whispers as soon as my ass touches the couch. I try to hide my smile with the throw I’m adjusting, but fail when he speaks up again, louder this time. “Are we sharing that? It’s cold as hell in here.”
“Sure.”
“It’s not cold,” Jenson says, raising his eyebrows at us.
“We’re sitting right under the air vent,” Oliver says, nodding up. I bring my knees up so that they’re touching the side of his leg, and he scoots closer to me, pulling my knees so they’re completely on his lap. He leaves his hand there, running his palm over my thighs, making me visibly shiver with the movement. Our eyes meet at the same time and my stomach dips because I know that look. I know in an instant that his gaze will drop from my eyes to my lips, and then he’ll lick his slowly, while my heart begins to thunder in my ears. The moment drowns out the game, and Victor and Jenson’s shouts at whatever play Frank Gore made or missed. It doesn’t matter to me either way, because the only game I want to play involves the long fingers that are inching up my thigh, and the lips that part as I near them.
A loud cough snaps us into reality, and we practically jump away from each other to look at Jenson, who’s shooting us a what the fuck are you doing look.
“You all right?” Victor asks, tearing his eyes from the TV to look at him.
“Yeah, sure. Beer went down the wrong pipe.”
Vic shakes his head and pops open another can. “Hey, Bean, you heard anything from those practices?”
“I go for an interview at the end of the week,” he replies.
“San Fran?” Jenson asks.
“Yeah.”
“Damn. Won’t you miss being home again?”
I really try not to look at him when he answers. I try not to focus my peripheral vision on the way he shrugs his shoulders, or the way his hands move in a motion that says he’s fine either way. I try not to let that pierce a hole in my heart, but it happens anyway. All of it does. We’ve talked about his job and the fact that there aren’t too many openings here in his field right now. It doesn’t lessen the blow that he’s been looking at places that are far away from here when our relationship is finally on the right foot for once. That is, until his job is mentioned and his natural ambition takes over, squashing it all. As usual.
“Home is where you make it,” he says.
I close my eyes and stand up, dropping the throw and going around the couch to leave the room. “I’m going to . . .” My voice trails off, and I just keep walking when I can’t think of an excuse. I stop by the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, and as I’m closing the refrigerator, Oliver steps in.
“You’re mad,” he whispers.
I sigh. “Yes, I’m mad, genius!”
He’s looking at me as if the answer may be written somewhere on my face, and that’s when I realize that he really doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t understand how the possibility of a job in San Francisco would affect me.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the interviews?” I whisper-shout. When he doesn’t respond, I shake my head. “I can’t do this right now. I promised my mom I would go help her with some things. I have to go.”
“You can’t leave in the middle of this,” he says, turning me to face him and ducking his head to look me in the eyes. “I haven’t even interviewed yet, Elle. It’s not like I got a job over there.”
“But you will.”
“I may not, babe,” he says, his voice a rasp against my ear.
“You will,” I say, feeling tears prick my eyes. “You will, because you’re smart and you’re a hard worker, and you graduated with a damn near perfect GPA, and any practice would be lucky to have you. You told me you couldn’t compete with a ghost. Well, I can’t compete with your job.” I pull away from him.
“You’re not,” Oliver says, just as Victor walks into the kitchen and bumps into me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Just talking about life,” Oliver chimes in.
“I’m going out. I won’t be back tonight,” I respond, as I head toward the door.