I turn my head and watch Olly as he walks back toward us.
“Doing OK?” he asks before kissing my forehead and then my nose and then my lips.
I decide not to bring up my mom’s impending visit. We’ll just make the most of the time we have.
“I’ve never felt better in my life,” I say. I’m grateful at least that I don’t have to lie about this.
THE MURPHY BED
IT’S LATE AFTERNOON by the time we get back to the hotel. Olly flicks on all the lights and the ceiling fan and then does a diving somersault onto the bed.
He lies on one side and then the other. “This side is mine,” he says, meaning the left side, closer to the door. “I sleep on the left,” he says. “So you know. For future reference.” He sits up and presses down on the mattress with his palms. “You know what I said before about Murphy beds being the height of comfort? I’m going to take that back.”
“Are you nervous?” I blurt out. I turn on the lamp on the right side of the bed.
“No,” he says, too quickly. He rolls over, drops off the side of the bed to the floor, and stays there.
I sit down at the edge of my side and bounce an experimental bounce. The mattress squeaks at me.
“Why do you sleep on the left when you sleep alone?” I ask. I move onto the bed and lie down. He’s right. It’s breathtakingly uncomfortable.
“Maybe it’s anticipation,” he says.
“Of what?”
He doesn’t answer, so I roll over to peer down at him. He’s lying on his back, one arm flung across his eyes.
“Company,” he says.
I retract my head, blushing. “You’re kind of a hopeless romantic,” I say.
“Sure. Sure.”
We slip into quiet. Above us the fan whirs softly, coaxing warm air around the room. Through the doors I hear the ding of the elevators and the low murmur of passing voices.
A few days ago just a single day outside seemed like it would be enough, but now that I’ve had one, I want more. I’m not sure if forever would do.
“Yes,” Olly says after a while. “I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
He takes a breath that I don’t hear him release. “I’ve never felt about anybody the way I feel about you.” He doesn’t say it quietly. If anything, he says it too loudly and all in a rush, as if the words have been wanting to tumble out for a long time.
I sit up on my elbows, lie back down, sit up again. Are we talking about love?
“I’ve never felt this way either,” I whisper.
“But it’s different for you.” There’s frustration in his voice.
“Why? How?”
“It’s your first time for everything, Maddy, but it’s not for me.”
I don’t understand. Just because it’s the first time doesn’t make it less real, does it? Even the universe has a beginning.
He’s silent. The more I think about what he’s saying, the more upset I get. But then I realize that he’s not trying to dismiss or belittle my feelings. He’s just scared. Given my lack of choices, what if I’ve just chosen him by default?
He takes a breath. “In my head I know I’ve been in love before, but it doesn’t feel like it. Being in love with you is better than the first time. It feels like the first time and the last time and the only time all at once.”
“Olly,” I say, “I promise you that I know my own heart. It’s one of the few things that’s not completely new to me.”
He climbs back into bed and throws an arm out. I curl into him, put my head into the Maddy-shaped nook of space between his neck and shoulder.
“I love you, Maddy.”
“I love you, Olly. I loved you before I knew you.”
We drift off to sleep curled around each other, neither of us talking, just letting the world make some noise for us for a while because all the other words don’t matter right now.
ALL THE WORDS