Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Fifteen minutes early.
Typical. It’s like I’m programmed to preemptively counter any possibility of being late.
Dr. Cockwomble isn’t in today, which is a rare blessing and means I can breathe a little easier and take a few extra minutes to calm my jittery nerves before meeting Oliver.
I’m so anxiously excited to spend time alone with him that I could puke.
As I make my way down to the cafeteria, expecting to wait awkwardly by myself, I’m taken aback to find Oliver already there, lingering in the doorway like he’s unsure if he should enter or flee.
“Hey,” I call out, not quite managing to keep my voice steady.
He spins around, the surprise on his face morphing into something shy and adorably awkward.
“H-hey,” he stutters, his eyes darting away from mine.
Glancing down, I catch a glimpse of his phone screen before he can hide it, a blog page glaring back with the headline, The Best Conversation Starters for a First Date.
I bite my cheek to suppress the grin threatening to break through. When I look up again, not only the tips but his entire ears are a dark shade of red.
His obvious insecurity makes me bolder than I feel. Smiling, I tilt my head and ask, “Should we?”
“Of course,” he replies quickly, almost relieved, gesturing for me to lead the way. As we walk toward the coffee station, my mind whirls.
Does he think this is a date?
I mean, I asked him to go for a coffee. That could be a friend date or a date date.
I’m struggling to figure out if his hesitance toward me is because he doesn’t like me as much as the others do or if it’s just his shy nature. But it seems to be the latter if he thinks I asked him out on a date and still agreed to come.
Right?
At the coffee station, Oliver goes first. He works the machine with an ease that speaks of routine, adding two sugars and cream—just the way I like my coffee. I’m about to file this observation away as a curious coincidence when he turns and hands me the cup.
“Here,” he says, his voice steady but his hands a telltale tremble.
He knows how I take my coffee.
“Thank you,” I manage, surprise evident in my words as a rising warmth blooms in my chest, spreading fast. I take the cup, our fingers brushing briefly.
He makes himself a coffee, black, not at all like the milky, slightly sugary concoction in my hands.
Then we pick a table in the almost empty cafeteria, with just a scattering of other employees bustling in preparation for lunch and a few coworkers nestled at distant tables.
Sitting down, an awkward silence envelops us. We exchange tentative smiles and then quickly avert our gazes, his fixating on his dark brew and mine on a leftover crumb on the table surface.
I wanted to get to know him, not make everything awkward.
“Do you—” I start, breaking the silence, but he speaks at the same moment.
“How are—”
We halt, our words colliding in the air, and then both laugh awkwardly.
He gestures to me, saying, “Please,” with a smile.
“No, you first,” I insist, settling back in my seat.
“I wanted to ask how you are. How’s the soreness… and everything?”
It’s so embarrassing that he knows I’m crampy, but I try not to let it show. “Much better, thanks. The soreness is almost gone. Misha’s ointment worked wonders,” I admit, managing a grateful smile.
And it really did. I felt like a new person this morning.
Well, besides the endometrial shedding, of course.
“That’s good to hear,” he responds warmly. “Are you swearing off hikes now, or was that experience motivation to do more?”
I laugh, the sound more relaxed than I feel. “Well, it was worth the pain, so I’m probably crazy enough to do it again if Misha asks me.”
“He will, for sure. He couldn’t stop talking about how cool it was to have a hiking buddy.
He always wants us to come along, but I’m more of an indoor kind of guy, and Grey just tells him fuck no every time he asks.
” Oliver chuckles, and I can easily picture Grey’s scowl.
“But I guess if you’re brave enough to face the outdoors, I should try it too sometime. ”
Hiking with Misha and Oliver would be so much fun.
“You really should. You’re fit, I mean, you look fit. You’re always working out and have those muscled calves in shorts,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Oliver looks at me, surprise etching his features. “You think I have muscled calves?”
Did I just admit to ogling him in the gym?
I’m such a nutter.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I just… I mean, my calves hurt because I don’t have a lot of muscles, but you have many muscles, and you’re working out, and—” My words tumble out in a nervous stream until Oliver reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Thank you. I guess my calves should withstand a hike with Misha, although I’m not sure my ears can handle his singing. Did he sing on your hike? He’s always humming and yelling random lyrics when we’re outside,” he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
I chuckle, recalling the morning and Misha’s version of “Midnight City.” “Well, he did some yelling when the sun came up.”
“Next time, tell him to shut up. It works when Grey does it,” he advises with a grin.
I laugh out loud, covering my mouth with my hand. “God, no. That’s so mean. I like him being happy and singing.”
“Why do you keep doing that?” Oliver asks, his tone light but curious.
“Doing what?” I’m genuinely puzzled for a moment, glancing around as if the answer might be strewn somewhere on the tabletop.
“You muffle your laugh with your hand.” His eyes narrow, not accusingly, but as if he’s peering into a small, curious detail of my character.
“Oh,” I say, a blush creeping up my cheeks as I let my hand sink into my lap. It’s a silly yet deeply ingrained habit. “Because my laugh sounds like a rubber duck.”
“Who told you that?” He frowns, the concern in his voice sounding as if I’d announced a minor injury.
“My mother,” I admit, her voice echoes in my head, her tone icy.
“The Lord help us, Amelia Charlotte. You sound like a dying rubber duck with that laugh. We smile gracefully. We don’t laugh like clowns in a circus.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“At least cover your mouth. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Well, that’s awkward then,” Oliver says after a moment, his expression unreadable.
“What is?” I whisper, half-dreading his answer.
“That my favorite sound is a rubber duck.”
My heart skips a beat or maybe two.
Is he flirting with me?
The thought sends a flutter through my chest, mixing with a swirl of old shame. It’s a strange cocktail of emotions, making me both want to hide and lean closer.
His gaze lingers on my face as if he’s trying to read my reaction, to gauge whether he’s stepped over a line or perhaps encouraged one to be crossed, and I nervously tuck a stray hair behind my ear.
“Sounds like your family is lovely,” he comments dryly, letting me off the hook when I don’t say anything to his comment.
I should have told him that his laugh is my favorite too.
“They never claimed to be lovely,” I say, the words heavier than I intend, laden with more truth than I usually allow. “But maybe I just wasn’t a good enough kid.”
“Well, that sounds even worse and wrong,” he replies, his voice softening.
I shrug in an attempt to brush off the gravity of our conversation. “Let’s just say I’m glad I’m not there anymore.”
“Same. For you,” he adds quickly, and there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes me feel seen.
He looks like he wants me to continue, but something holds me back. This isn’t the right place to have this conversation, not here, not now. I want to get to know him, yes, but not lay down all my problems on him—although, looking into his eyes, it feels like I could.
A stretch of silence falls between us, filled only by the quiet clinks of our coffee cups and the distant hum of the cafeteria.
Finally, Oliver breaks the silence, leaning forward as if deciding on his words carefully.
“I was the good kid, and it got me nothing,” he admits, his gaze fixed on his hands wrapped around the coffee mug.
“I guess you had too high of expectations on you. I never had any. Because my mother never cared. She was too caught up in her self-loathing. Morgan’s dad died soon after her birth, and a few years later, Mom met my dad, who was the love of her life, as she always told us.
But he left us when I was four. We weren’t worth staying for him.
” His voice falters, and the pain behind his words is palpable.
“And my mom, she just fell apart and into a deep, dark hole of depression. Most days, she didn’t even leave her bed, and Morgan and I had to fend for ourselves.
Morgan was so good at keeping the house together, telling people lies, explaining her absence away, and making her go to the important stuff so she wouldn’t lose custody of us. ”
He pauses, his eyes distant. “I guess it would have been better if she hadn’t done that. It stole her childhood, and maybe we would have been better off in a new family. But back then, it felt like the right thing to do.”
I can practically see the small boy in him, hiding behind his glasses, his big green eyes only asking for someone to care. “Is your mom better now?” I ask gently.
He smiles sadly. “I like to believe so. She took her own life on my twentieth birthday.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Oliver,” I whisper, wanting nothing more than to stand up and pull him into a hug, but it sounds like he has more to share, so I stay where I am.
“It’s fine,” he continues, his voice steady but hollow.
“She tried a couple of times after I left for college when I was sixteen, and every time I flew back, I visited her in the hospital. She never noticed me being there. It just proved that she really didn’t care about me.
And I didn’t care much either. What I did care about was that Morgan stayed home with her, kept her alive basically, and ruined her own life for her. ”