Chapter 11 #2
I nod in agreement, glancing out the window at the gray sky.
It’s been a rough winter by anyone’s standards and doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.
I don’t mind it myself—and certainly not when it seems to push Oliver further into my orbit—but it’s hard on my parents.
Mom’s arthritis, bad on any day of the week, is almost unbearable during harsh winters like this.
As I always do, I wish there were an easy way for them to live in a more temperate climate.
But Dad’s business is here, not to mention my sister and I.
Jasmine is here. No amount of arthritis or pain will ever be enough to convince them to leave their granddaughter.
“Plus,” Oliver continues, “you can heat it up for leftovers. Sometimes I eat the leftovers cold, honestly.”
“That’s perfect,” I compliment, a ray of sun shining directly on my face when he smiles. Putting a hand on his shoulder, I lean in and press my lips to the soft hair on his temple.
It’s a quick, barely there sort of kiss, but enough of one that I hear Oliver’s breath catch. He sways toward me slightly, cheeks pink. I wait, pinching my lips together when the silence starts becoming loud. It would appear Oliver has a reset button.
“Spae-spae-spae-spaetzle?” I prompt, struggling with the new and slightly foreign word. He clears his throat.
“Oh, yes, right. That. Let me get that started, and then I can help you with evening chores. And we can give Zeke a cuddle.”
Leaning a hip against the counter, I think maybe the chicks don’t need a cuddle, but Oliver does.
I watch for a moment, listening to him hum and trying to guess the song.
He moves easily around the space, like this is his kitchen and he’s cooked here a hundred times, not a handful.
After a minute or two, I leave him to it and go to light a fire in the grate.
A cold winter day, spaetzle, and Oliver’s singing to provide warmth where the fire doesn’t reach. Perfect.
Feeling a bit ridiculous, but mostly thinking about the look on Oliver’s face when I kissed his temple, I light a pair of candles my sister bought me that I’ve never used.
They smell fine—almost like the fire itself, smoky and woodsy and warm.
Mostly, I’m thinking about how the low, flickering firelight brushes its fingers across Oliver’s face and makes him glow. Candles can only help.
My stomach begins grumbling when the smell from the kitchen begins outweighing the smell of the candles.
I hadn’t rejoined him just yet, instead fixing a few things in the living room and tidying up a bit.
Instead of leaving him behind to check on the chickens, I once more take my place in the doorway of the kitchen and admire that blue shirt.
I could probably wear it, given that he and I are almost exactly the same size, but I doubt it would look half so good on me.
He peeks over one shoulder, grinning, and pats the stove.
“Just put it in. Did you start a fire? Something smells good.”
“You,” I tell him quietly. Another satisfying bit of pink colors his cheeks, and he shakes his head at me. Maybe romance isn’t as incomprehensible as I always thought it would be.
I’m not even pouring honey in his ear either.
He really does smell good. Like the mix of lavender and wildflowers that grow along the back of my property—fragrant and earthy.
I want to put my nose against his neck and breathe him in.
He clears his throat, apparently flustered by the compliment.
I can’t imagine he’s new to receiving them, the way I am to providing them.
Perhaps we’re both out of practice with romance.
“Well, that’s…thank you. I wasn’t sure. I don’t usually wear…
I put on perfume,” he tells me, the pink darkening into something deeper.
I smile, and his expression relaxes enough for him to return it.
“Uhm, but yeah, dinner’s in the oven, so it’ll be a little bit.
We should check on the chickens, right?”
“Chimkins,” I correct, happy when this makes him laugh.
“I am never going to live that down,” he says, grimacing and wiping his palms on his thighs as he approaches. I shake my head, because no, he probably won’t.
I take him out back to help with the evening chores, making sure the flock is okay and staying warm.
He says hello to them all, stroking feathers and cooing softly the way people do to small children and puppies.
When we get upstairs to the guest bedroom bath, he sits down on the floor, resting an elbow on the lip of the tub so he can dangle his fingers in.
The chicks—Zeke, Danger, and Seaweed—kick up a fuss, making a racket as they test whether or not he’s edible.
“You know,” Oliver says, smiling down at the little balls of fluff, “I think baby chickens might be the cutest of all animal babies. Seriously. And I say that as a person who has always wanted a puppy or a kitten. Or a baby raccoon.”
I snort, shaking my head when he glances up at me. He definitely does not want a pet raccoon.
“When can they go meet the other chickens? I assume they can’t live here forever.
Indoor chickens—can you imagine?” He chuckles, rising from the floor and brushing off the seat of his pants.
“Have you rescued babies like this before? You’re going to have to expand the coop if you get any more.
A whole chicken army. I would be in egg heaven. ”
He nudges me with his elbow as we leave the bathroom, the smell of flowers wafting off him like a pheromone.
When I put a hand on the middle of his back, just above the waist of his jeans, he leans a little closer.
I can’t help but feel a little proud of myself. It turns out I am a natural at dating.
Or, perhaps more likely, Oliver is just easy to please, and I’m getting lucky, finding all the correct buttons to press.
I try not to think about how this is probably just the simple part—eating dinner and enjoying a peaceful evening, casual touches and a safe kiss on the cheek.
The hard part will come later when he wants—needs—more.
Which, I realize as we walk back into the kitchen and Oliver washes his hands, is something of a new phenomenon for me.
Not just the thought of having sex and it actually being available to me, but the desire to do so.
For so much of my life, intimacy has been relegated to family—a neat little box in my mind where I hold the kisses my niece likes to give, and the hugs from my parents, the slightly biting remarks from my sister the way only a sibling could pick at you.
There has never been space for a partner because I never thought it would be necessary.
Why dream of something that’s impossible?
If I gave in to fantasies, I’d be wishing for a life free of a stutter and only making the life I do have harder for myself.
But now, an impossibility is standing in my kitchen, bent over at my stove while he talks to himself about how much longer is needed on the spaetzle and trying to remember the German words he learned on his vacation.
Impossible sounds like birdsong and smells like jasmine.
It’s no longer hovering in the periphery but here, real and inviting and possibly wearing something made of lace.
A few nights ago, I pulled up a private browser and lay in bed, scrolling through pages of gay porn.
I didn’t make it far before I shut it down, realizing two things simultaneously—one, that porn isn’t for me, and two, that trying to learn what Oliver likes from anyone but Oliver himself is a waste of time.
Now, I’m wondering if it’s something I should just trust in biology for or if it’s something I need to ask for directions on.
In a perfect world, Oliver would simply tell me what to do, and I’d never have to guess.
“Ta-da!” Oliver says, pulling the pan out of the oven with a flourish. His lips twitch, dimples trying to show themselves, as he attempts to hold back a smile. The spaetzle doesn’t look particularly pretty, and he knows it.
“Smells good,” I compliment, while hoping he remembers my comment earlier about him smelling better.
“It’ll taste good, too, I promise. If there is one thing I can do, it’s cook a mean spaetzle.
Eat in here?” He looks at me. “No, the living room, you’re right.
The dining room is so formal. Hard to accidentally-on-purpose touch you if you’re across the table and not next to me on the couch.
Although there is something to be said for footsie.
It is a little gross to touch people with your toes, though.
I suppose it’s not so bad if you have shoes on, but then you’ve got to worry about what you’ve stepped in.
Imagine smearing goose poop all over your date. ”
Snorting, I reach for one of the cabinets and pull down two plates. Television shows are full of horrible dates, as though things like that happen on a regular basis. It’s hard to imagine any date with Oliver being terrible, no matter what he had stuck to the bottom of his shoes.
I carry the plates into the living room, smiling when he stops to sniff one of the candles. I’ll have to remember to thank my sister for those. When I sit down and catch his eye, Oliver smiles.
“Romantic,” he notes. I shrug. Yes. Yes, it is.