Dark Wild Night

His expression remained exactly the same—Oliver’s amazing poker face held that gentle smile, that nonjudgmental, soft gaze—and he very politely declined.

I was mortified, but eventually got over it, and we’ve never spoken about it since.

Later, when I discovered he’d moved here and we had these people in common, and this passion for comics in common, too, we saw each other all the time and the awkwardness of that rejection dissolved. In its place came sort of a perfect friendship. Oliver doesn’t judge, he doesn’t mock, he doesn’t push. He doesn’t mind my quiet moods, where all I want to do is bend over a scrap of paper and draw. He doesn’t mind when I get worked up over something and babble for an entire hour. He’s honest in this completely easy way when I show him new story ideas. He plays weird music for me and makes me sit and listen because, even if I hate it, he wants me to understand why he likes it. He can talk about everything from Veronica Mars to Gen13 to NPR to car repair, or he can just as easily not talk at all, which I sort of love, too. He listens, he’s funny, he’s kind. He’s entirely his own self, and that easy confidence is only part of what makes him nearly irresistible. The fact that he’s tall, gorgeous, and has the most perfect smile doesn’t hurt, either.

Two months after our marriage and annulment, I brought him over to meet my dad, Greg. That night, sometime over barbecued chicken and a bag of chips with salsa—and while I was off in the backyard trying to capture the sunset with oils—Oliver heard the rest of my story.

Dad came home from his third tour in Afghanistan when I was twelve, and he was a complete mess: he went from being a celebrated triage nurse to being an honorably discharged veteran, unable to sleep and hiding OxyContin in the kitchen. Mom couldn’t even take a month of it before she left in the middle of the night without anything as formal as a goodbye. To either of us.

I tried to pick up Dad’s pieces, Dad tried to pick up my pieces, and we muddled through for a few years until we realized we each had to carry our own pieces. It wasn’t good, but it got better, and my relationship with my father is one of the most cherished things I’ll ever have. I tell him nearly every thought I have, no matter how small. It’s what allows me to keep them mostly inside the rest of the time. I’d rather lose the sun than him.

I never knew exactly what Dad said to Oliver, but after that night, instead of ever asking about it, Oliver just folded it into the Lola Canon and let it be. Little details would come out in conversation—the shorthand that so far I’ve only ever had with Harlow and Mia—showing me that he knew more than I’d ever told him.

Mia and Harlow had been in my life when it all happened, so I’d never had to download it all in one sitting. But if there was ever anyone else I wanted to know me that well, it was Oliver. After a few beers almost a month ago, I’d finally asked him, “So how much of my origin story did my dad tell you?”

He’d stilled mid-sip with his beer bottle touching his lips, and then slowly set it down. “He told me his version. From when you were small, until now.”

“Do you want to hear mine?”

Oliver turned to me, and he nodded. “?’Course I do. Someday. Whenever and however it comes out.”

I’d almost kissed him that night, nearly been brave enough. Because when I told him that I wanted to hear his story, too, he’d looked so grateful, so full of what on my face would mean love, that it was the first and only time I’d thought maybe he was in just as deep as I was. And I had to ruin it by looking back down at the table.

When I looked up again, the poker face was firmly in place and he’d changed the subject.

I’m thinking about all of this now, watching him sleep. I’m also wishing he would wake up so I can grind some coffee beans. But my phone does the job as it starts barking at top volume on the counter: Benny’s trademark ring.