Dark Wild Night

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.