17. Oliver
CHAPTER 17
OLIVER
I drum my fingers on the metal table, the sound drowned out by the clang of utensils and the chatter of the lunch crowd. Ben’s got his typical laid-back grin as he digs into his Caesar salad, oblivious to the bombshell I’m about to drop.
“Man, you wouldn’t believe the project they’re launching,” he says between bites, mustard dressing at the corner of his mouth. “It’s this massive, mixed-use development?—”
“Speaking of massive developments…” I cut in, the words tumbling out before I lose my nerve, “I’ve been seeing someone.”
Ben pauses mid-chew, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh yeah?” He swallows, leaning back in his chair with an interest that seems more professional than personal. “New investor? Someone I know?”
Of course he would think I’m talking about an investor. My romantic entanglements have been few, far between, and short.
“Not exactly.” My heart does a weird skip. “I mean I’ve been dating someone. It’s Nora.”
His fork drops with a clatter. “Nora? As in, Nora from college Nora? The Nora who works with us?”
“Yep, that Nora.” I grin, the sound of her name sending a thrill through me. I pick at my sandwich, suddenly not so hungry.
“Oliver, man, that’s huge!” He laughs, shaking his head. “About time you got your act together with her.”
“Tell me about it.” My smile feels permanent.
The moment hangs between us, comfortable and familiar. Ben has seen me through failed ventures and fleeting romances, always the constant in a sea of change. And now, as everything starts falling into place, his approval means the world.
“Your turn, then,” I say, nudging him with my foot under the table. “When are you gonna find a girl, settle down?”
He holds up a hand, chuckling. “Whoa there, chief. Slow down. The bachelor life suits me just fine.”
“Come on, you don’t want to end up a lonely old man surrounded by models and yachts.” I tease him, trying to imagine Ben tied down. It’s like picturing a wild bird in a cage — unthinkable.
“Lonely? Please.” Ben scoffs, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate. “I’m enjoying the freedom. No complications, no commitments.”
“All right, Casanova,” I concede with a laugh, knowing better than to push.
Ben moves to his own rhythm, always has. But I can’t shake the feeling that one day, he’ll meet someone who’ll make him want to dance to a different beat. Just like with what happened to me.
“Ready to get back?” Ben stands and stretches. “Those contracts won’t sign themselves.”
I nod, collecting my things. We weave through the tables, stepping back out into the hustle of the city. The sun is high, the air crisp with promise. For now, everything seems right in the world.
Pushing through the revolving door of my building, I’m hit with the blast of air conditioning that’s a little too chilly for the early autumn. Ben nudges me forward as we shuffle into the lobby, his mind already racing back to whatever project he’s got stewing on his desk.
“Hey, say hi to Nora for me.” Ben winks as we split towards our respective elevators, his voice echoing slightly in the marble expanse.
“Sure thing,” I call back, thumbing the button for the eighteenth floor.
The doors slide closed with a soft ding, and my thoughts drift, buoyed by the lunchtime confession and Ben’s easy acceptance. Nora and I, an “us.” It feels good — more than good.
As I step out onto my floor, the hum of productivity greets me, but it’s the sight through my open office door that kicks my heartbeat up a notch — Nora. She’s leaning over my desk, her sleek ponytail swaying as she sifts through a stack of papers. Even in this unremarkable action, there’s an elegance about her that always manages to snag my attention.
“Hey.” A smile breaks across my face as I approach her. “What brings you by?”
She looks up, her lips curving into a grin that packs more heat than the sun. “Just dropping off the Henderson contracts.”
“Ah, right.” My gaze flickers to the documents, but honestly, they could be written in ancient Greek for all the attention I give them. “You didn’t have to bring these over yourself. You could have sent an assistant.”
“Thought I’d stretch my legs.” There’s a glint in her eye, one that says she’s not here solely for logistical convenience.
“Appreciate it.” Closing the distance between us, I appreciate even more — the way her suit jacket hugs her shoulders, how her skirt outlines her hips, and that look she gets when she’s about to?—
We’re careful, mindful of the glass walls and the potential for prying eyes. But I can’t resist stealing a kiss, just one. Our lips meet, and it’s a brief encounter, a whisper of a touch really, but it sends a jolt straight through me.
“Oliver,” she murmurs against my mouth, a warning laced with temptation.
“Sorry,” I breathe, not sorry at all. “Couldn’t help myself.”
“Try harder,” she teases, though the flush on her cheeks betrays her stern tone.
“Impossible.”
This time, when she laughs, it’s music to my ears.
“All right, I’ve got to get back.” She steps away, but there’s a promise in her retreat, a subtle invitation extended for later.
“Thanks for the delivery,” I say, watching her go, the sway of her hips a sweet torture.
“Oh. Before I forget.” She lowers her voice. “Are we on for tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I respond, with thoughts of dinner at her place filling me with a warm buzz.
She pauses at the door and blows me a kiss so sly it could pass for a wave. Then she’s gone, leaving me with a lingering warmth and a stupid grin plastered on my face.
I sink into my chair, still riding the high of that stolen moment. The Henderson contracts lay forgotten as I lean back, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. On top of the world doesn’t even begin to cover it. I feel like I’ve vaulted straight into the stratosphere.
The buzz of my phone against the desk pulls me from my reverie, a harsh jolt back to reality. I glance at the caller ID — Mom. My stomach tightens, a coiled knot of apprehension.
The last time she called, it was to ask for money. And that was…
When even was that? I speak to my parents so little, I can’t even remember. Six months ago? Eight?
“Hey, Mom,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light, bracing for a lecture about never visiting or some trivial family drama I’ve managed to avoid for years.
“Oliver.” Her voice quakes, a tremor that sets off alarm bells in my head. “It’s your father… he’s…”
She chokes on her words, and I can almost hear her struggling to compose herself over the line.
“Mom, what is it?” I demand, my heart pounding against my ribs, dread creeping up my spine.
“Your father has cancer.”
The words hit me like a freight train, derailing any semblance of control I thought I had over my day, my life.
I grip the phone tighter as if that could somehow steady the world that’s suddenly tilting on its axis. Thoughts of my day’s to-do list dissipate like smoke, replaced by the image of a man I barely recognize anymore — a man whose approval I’d once craved more than anything. Dad.
“Oliver, we need you to come home.” Her voice is a mix of desperation and hope.
“Home” is a foreign concept, a place that exists only in the past, tangled up with memories I’ve tried so hard to leave behind. I haven’t seen them in years, haven’t wanted to. But this… this is different.
“I’ll be there,” I find myself saying, though every fiber of my being screams against the idea. It’s an automatic response, the dutiful son still lurking somewhere inside me despite all the reasons I have to stay away.
“Thank you, honey.” Relief washes over her words, and I can picture her wiping away tears, holding onto this lifeline I’ve unwittingly thrown her.
“Of course, Mom. I’ll make plans and text you soon.” I end the call, the weight of the decision settling around me like a shroud.
I don’t want to go, don’t want to face the ghosts of my past or the man who became one long before his diagnosis. But the thought of regret, of missing the chance to say… whatever it is I need to say, pushes me forward.
The office around me feels suddenly claustrophobic.
I’ll go. I have to. Maybe it’s the chance to close the book on a chapter that’s been left open far too long, or maybe it’s just guilt. Either way, I know I’ll be calling the company that manages my private jet, heading towards a confrontation years in the making.
“Please let this trip go smoothly,” I mutter to no one, knowing full well that smooth is the last thing it can be. Not when it comes to them. But I’ll face it head-on. After all, isn’t that what the Oliver they’ve never known — the CEO, the dreamer, the fighter — is supposed to do?