Barely even friends, p.10
Barely Even Friends, page 10
His fingers flexed, fluttering on his thighs. “What’s that like?”
My heart gave a squeeze, knowing how lucky I was to have Dad, even if our life wasn’t perfect. I couldn’t imagine love being this conditional thing, like it seemed for the Killingtons. “Nope, that was your question—no cheating.”
“Wait, don’t I have to answer too?” It meant something that he was willing.
“I’m not that cruel. You have time to make your decision, you have a choice, take it.” I was interested in what his plans were with his grandfather’s ultimatum, but not to torture him. His family did that all on their own.
Oliver hummed under his breath.
I racked my brain, blurting out the first question that came to my mind. “Are you dating anyone?” I asked with complete nonchalance and lack of interest. This was a game, after all. I wanted to stump him. Instead, now I was desperate to jump out of the moving automobile I was driving, wishing I could take the words back.
“Yes, I kidnap them. Haven’t you discovered the dungeon yet?”
“Excuse me?” Somehow, I didn’t jerk the car into the next lane.
“What does this have to do with anything?” Apparently Mr. Gruff Hostility had never left.
“Just making conversation.” Think. Think. “Forget it—then I don’t have to answer either.” Which was for the best.
I fiddled with the stereo; my innocent curiosity had pushed things too far.
“I told you: no one comes to visit me. Living as a recluse isn’t exactly something that encourages dating. I’m not exactly a catch.”
“No one?” I squeaked.
“Yes, it’s pathetic. You don’t have to tell me.” He shifted to lean his shoulder against the passenger door.
“Hey.” My hand hung in the air, hovering, before I returned it to the steering wheel. “I don’t think you’re pathetic. It’s just surprising because, you know, you look like you, and if you wanted to be with someone … It just makes me sad you’ve been alone.” Word vomit all over the car. My entire body cringed.
“Bigfoot, that’s what I resemble.”
I had the world’s biggest mouth, and I’d had to learn not to shout at Finn every time he asked how things were progressing with my roommate when I called to check in with him and Sebastian. “Listening in on my phone calls?”
He sniffed. “The house isn’t that big.”
Liar. “It’s a mansion.”
“All right,” Oliver interrupted. “So, there are Bigfoot aficionados I should attract?”
“Bigfoot wasn’t fair.” I wracked my brain for a better comparison that wouldn’t show my hand or the feeling in my stomach. I could, objectively, find him handsome while still not being able to stand him.
“Are you calling me attractive?” His tone was flat.
“Your word choice.” Probably mine too, but subtlety was my middle name.
He hummed, my body vibrating to the same tune as I shifted in my seat. “You have to answer too,” he reminded me.
“I’m single.” A rush twirled within me before plummeting, leaving my palms sweaty and my stomach a mess. Why had I agreed to any of this? “All right, next question.”
“That’s it?”
I flicked at his thigh. My fingers went tingly at the contact.
“It’s your fault for answering more than was asked.” He didn’t need to hear about my ex.
“Thank you, Law and Order.”
“Oh, so that show you watch?” Of course. Can’t check out one of the best film trilogies ever made, but Law and Order he’s seen.
“I had to. The lawyers required it when they did an episode based on me.” His dry reply made my stomach sink.
Crap, I had heard about that. I was always saying the wrong thing around him—mostly unintentionally. The few times it had been intentional, he’d deserved it.
“Nothing sends you to therapy faster than having a popular show accuse you of murdering your parents.” Resentment filled the car.
“But wasn’t the guy on the show found not guilty?” I had seen the episode years ago, never connecting it with the man next to me until now.
“Yeah, after paying off the jury. Screams innocence.”
“Oh.” I was doing great with this game.
“It’s fine.” Something about his voice said it wasn’t, his body pressed against the door.
“It’s okay if it’s not.”
“What’s the point of complaining?” he toyed with the neck of his black T-shirt.
“Sharing your emotions isn’t complaining, it’s …” I was desperate to say the perfect thing here. “It’s sharing the load.”
“No one wishes to hear about my feelings.”
“I do.” I tried not to cringe as we sat in silence, the low buzz of the radio not doing enough to distract from the lack of filter between my brain and mouth.
“Because you’re leaving?”
I leaned my elbow against the doorframe, fisting my hair. “Yeah, of course.”
* * *
Oliver didn’t speak another word until I flicked the turn signal, the car rumbling over the gravel of the parking lot of the diner on the side of the road. It was partially filled, but I’d bet good money that most of the cars belonged to people who worked there. The diner had been a suggestion from Dani, the owner of the antique furniture place we were headed to.
“Bathroom break?” Oliver asked. “I might have a cup you can pee into.”
I huffed out a sigh, leaning into the backseat to rummage. I had an idea where he could put that cup. “This is an all-day outing. Might as well be well caffeinated.”
I set a baseball cap on his head, offering him my sunglasses, brushing a few wisps of hair out of his face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His gray eyes dilated, roaming over my features.
“Giving you a disguise.” I blew out a breath, pressing the brim of his cap down, as a slight blush crept over his cheeks. I stepped out of the car. A moment later, he was next to me, reaching forward, holding the door open, sunglasses covering up those eyes that I knew were watching me.
“Booth or table?” the hostess asked, popping a hip out.
“A booth would be swell.” I dropped my voice a couple of octaves. Perfect.
“What in the absolute hell are you doing?” Oliver hissed at me, placing his large palm gently against my lower back.
“Helping you stay undercover.”
“I think whatever accent you’re doing is making us more noticeable.”
“Don’t worry about it, buttercup.” I nudged him toward the last booth so he sat with his back to the rest of the restaurant as I plopped down across from him. “See? No one’s noticed you.”
He seemed conflicted, torn between scowling and smirking, and it was doing funny things to my appendix again. Maybe I was carsick.
“Nothing is ever simple with you, huh?” he asked.
“Nope.” My gaze roamed the diner, the laminate, the mini jukeboxes at each table, the smell of burgers and grease in the air. “I love this place. Let’s never leave.”
He chuckled while browsing his menu. “Careful, Petal, you’re going soft on me.”
Our mugs of coffee were set down, giving my heart a moment to recover, as I concentrated on putting the right amount of milk in mine. “Petal?” The warmth from the coffee spread over my cheeks. “I remind you of a wilting flower? Or maybe the thorns?”
“Not even close.”
I leaned forward on my elbows, hating how curious I was to understand him. “Have I told you how annoying I find you?”
“Constantly.” His sip of coffee did nothing to hide the smirk. Smug bastard.
“Good.”
We ordered food, then I browsed the jukebox.
He slid me a few quarters. “You can’t stand silence, can you?”
“I spent my childhood having to entertain myself while my dad was working. It was less lonely to have music or TV playing in the background. I got used to it, I guess.” I grinned, finding the perfect song: “Black Balloon” by the Goo Goo Dolls.
“It was like that after the funeral.”
My eyes bounced across the table, landing on him as he nudged his mug around.
“Just me. After a while, Ambrose, Nick, and Rue were there during the day. But at night, it was …”
“Quiet,” I finished.
“Yeah.” He met my gaze. “So, I attempted to find a hobby or something since I couldn’t play football anymore.”
My head tilted. “Like what?” He was probably perfect at everything.
“Well, at first, I couldn’t walk much. So, I tried knitting, then pottery.”
I imagined some strange version of Ghost, with Oliver bent over a pottery wheel, fingers fluttering against my chest.
“Later I tried horseback riding and writing fan fiction.”
“You wrote fan fiction?” I had to find this. “What was your fandom?”
“I will take it to my grave.”
“There’s a plot of land where I can make that happen. Tell me.” That he didn’t sit back on the privilege of his family, but wanted to contribute something to society, was surprising.
“Next was restoring cars, but my hands weren’t able to fit into all the tiny spaces. Apparently, you shouldn’t be scared of heights if you want to learn to be a pilot. Who knew?”
“Who knew?” I echoed.
“Needless to say, I’ve tried to find my next thing, job, hobby—anything—for a while now.”
“You haven’t found one?” I had to doubt that.
“It has become clear that I was only ever good at one thing in my life and … well.” He waved at his legs under the table.
The jukebox had gone silent, but I didn’t select the next song. We just sat there, all the things he had lost in the accident taking up the space between us: his parents, his future.
But I couldn’t let him give up, not with the memory of how he and Nick had looked tossing that football back and forth. Of the empty rooms of the west wing, waiting for his parents, his family, to fill it again with memories. “Well, this renovation might as well be a career fair. There are lots of specialties you may have never thought about.”
“Actually, since you bring it up …” He cleared his throat. “I think we should, uh … call a truce.”
CHAPTER TEN
“What was that?” I licked my lips, intrigued.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you waited until we were alone.”
Oliver shifted in his seat, leg knocking into mine. “Do you want to hear this or not?”
“The table is yours.”
He grunted. “I was thinking that there’s a way for us both to get something out of this.”
“Which is?” I kicked him, aiming for his right leg, just in case he was thinking about stopping there.
“I may have overheard someone saying that this project was going to lead to your dream position.”
What a gossip Jeff was; he wouldn’t be able to hide from me. “Jeff is such a big mouth.”
“Listen, I’ll stop fighting the restoration.” He let out a deep breath, shoulders falling as he clutched at his mug. “I might have been a bit hostile in the beginning because I assumed Grandfather sent you as some sort of spy.”
“So much to unpack there. ‘A bit hostile’ or that I was a spy?” If I was a spy, I was a terrible one. He’d caught me the sole time I’d tried to sneak around the mansion.
“No one’s purposefully come to the house in years; then with his demand, the timing seemed suspect.”
It made some sense until you met me. “I don’t think I’m even capable of being covert.”
“Trust me, I know. Your face gives everything away. Especially when you blush.” His voice almost made it sound like he was teasing me.
“It seems rude for you to say that.” I pressed my hands to my cheeks, hoping I wasn’t blushing right now.
“Why? Because it’s the truth?” Oliver leaned back, the bench creaking, his legs stretching out beneath the table, ankle pressed to mine.
“I thought this was a ceasefire.”
“It is. I like talking to you.”
Oh. Everything was too warm. I fiddled with my coffee cup. “You’re not so bad, I guess.”
“Careful—that compliment was overwhelming.” He was almost laughing at me … maybe with me.
Everything in me was concentrating on our single spot of contact. Ankles had never been a thing for me before, but after today, even with our clothing separating us, they were officially an erogenous zone. “Don’t think I will ever forget you admitted you like it when I talk.”
“Well, you do it so rarely.”
“You are so rude.” My words weren’t helped by the fact that I was giggling.
“Mmm,” he hummed.
Something was doing loop-de-loops in my stomach—it was a pleasure I had not experienced in a long time, and not something I should experience with the person I was sitting next to.
“But what do you get out of it?” I hadn’t missed his failure to explain his end of our truce.
Some of the grief that had been missing from his eyes returned as he dug through the messenger bag I had forgotten he’d brought along. A canvas notebook emerged. Oliver set it on the table, palm pressed tenderly to the surface.
“The estate was supposed to be restored years ago. Designs—everything was decided.”
I gave a quick nod, unsure if I should mention I was already aware of that.
“My mom was involved. She was consulted on all the plans and had some ideas.” His fingers curled around the notebook before opening to the first page, a reverence in his touch. “She wrote them in here.”
“Oliver—”
He barreled on. “It was canceled when they died. The house, me—all at a standstill until you came.”
Tears filled my eyes. I swiped furiously.
“This notebook has everything she wanted. You asked for my input on what I want to see. Well, I know it’s been almost ten years, but I was hoping you could use some of it.” His voice cracked, as he shoved the notebook the rest of the way toward me.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Our fingers brushed on the top page, neither of us letting go until the waitress returned with our food.
I offered him a soft smile, sliding a quarter toward him and nodding at the jukebox.
He picked out a song I had jumped on the bed to as a kid, in that log cabin I’d shared with Dad, screaming at the top of my lungs.
“I meant it when I said my money’s gone.”
I almost choked on my milkshake. “What do you mean?” Was this some sort of scam where I would not get paid for my work?
“My trust fund. My family still has money, but mine is pretty much gone.”
Another puzzle piece was falling into place. “It’s why you can’t buy the estate from your grandfather?”
Oliver nodded.
“What did you do with the money?”
“Donated it.” He bit into his burger, unaware he had rendered me speechless. “Mental health nonprofits, organizations that help with grief, LGBTQ groups, not-for-profit coding schools, that kind of stuff,” he mumbled.
“Helping people is admirable.” His emphasis on people experiencing grief did not pass by me. Few would consider doing that with their resources, but would instead buy boats or a house they would only stay at once a week. I knew because I had watched Dad restore a few.
“Yeah, but it’s not a job.”
It could be, I almost said. A few acts of kindness weren’t enough to make me like him. I knew that; my brain knew that. But another part of me, probably my appendix (definitely not my heart), that unnecessary organ that should have been removed years ago was misbehaving, seeing him in a new light.
And for a moment, I let my appendix take over.
* * *
139 Days Until the Deadline
Oliver’s mom’s notebook contained more than Dad’s files did. Swatches of cloth, idea boards, and new layouts for the rooms. It didn’t take much reorganizing to integrate some of her ideas. It felt like unlocking some missing piece, the true heart of the estate.
The excitement of what was to come was overshadowing all the nerves that had weighed on me since I’d walked out of Dad’s apartment.
But we still had to finish emptying the last few rooms, except for the two Oliver and I would be staying in. It was all part of my detailed, multipage, bulleted plan. We both would shift to restored rooms before the end of the project, and nothing would be missed. Every hour, every moment, down to every bed, was accounted for.
There was a knock on the door. “What are you doing in here?”
“Packing.” I didn’t even lift my head to acknowledge Oliver.
“It’s lunchtime.”
“Would you believe I already ate?”
“Not a chance.” He didn’t seem to pick up on the hint my back was giving him.
Though his presence reminded me of something. “Oh, I found something earlier I wanted to show you. Come with me.” I finished wrapping the clock, gently placing it in the box marked “Fragile.”
Our truce was in effect, and we were both honoring it—not picking fights, offering polite nods when we ran into each other. The problem was me, unable to stop thinking about the way he’d looked as he entrusted me with his mom’s notebook. How soft his fingers felt against my callous-covered palm.
“Food first.” He was too used to getting his way, and clearly unaffected. This was becoming a habit for him, ensuring I ate, which I had a tendency to forget when I was stressed.
I liked to think I’d made him realize he couldn’t always get what he wanted. “Why are you like this?”
“Because I enjoy riling you up.”
“Fine. Fine. Whatever sir says.”
That earned me a snort. And a small—minuscule, barely there—bit of joy that I’d made him laugh.
I allowed a quick detour to the kitchen. Rue passed me a sandwich, and I refilled my stainless-steel water bottle, eating as I walked.
