Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
NILS
When Oliver gets nervous, his hands flutter. Some people talk more when they’re anxious, but since Oliver talks all the time, it’s not an indicator of discomfort. His fingers, though, will tap out a pattern of nerves against the nearest surface. As I follow him upstairs, it’s the banister.
I watch that hand as we go, listening to him chat aimlessly about the different paint samples he’s been testing on the walls.
Indeed, there are several patches of blue, green, and gray decorating the different surfaces.
Painting seems to be the thing Oliver is most excited to get to, and probably the thing that he’ll be best at doing himself.
Not that I can blame him for the enthusiasm.
The color the previous owner chose is a yellow that they probably hoped would be cheery and bright, but instead looks like a color I’ve only seen inside of a toilet bowl.
“Sorry, ignore those. The tiles, remember?” he asks, gesturing toward the boxes of samples in his bedroom.
I nod, smiling at him. I don’t forget things he’s told me.
“Now that the heat is fixed and the weather looks clear enough for the roof people to come by next week, I’m going to hit the bathroom next.
I think I’ll get the master bedroom done and leave the spares for last since it’s not as though I need an office or will have company coming to stay.
And then the floors, obviously. But I still don’t know what to do about those. ”
“I’ll help,” I offer, kneeling down to peek into one of the boxes, curious as to what type of tile Oliver would choose.
They’re white, which surprises me. I’d been expecting something bold and fun.
Fish scales, perhaps, or a floral pattern.
At the very least, a color as bright and eye-catching as Oliver himself.
I lift one of the white tiles out of the box, meeting his eye and raising an eyebrow in question. He shrugs.
“I thought something monochromatic might be the best choice, since it would go with everything. Black is too dark since I don’t have a ton of natural light. So…white it is.” He shrugs again, fingers tap-tap-tapping on his leg.
I put the tile back and stand, slipping my phone out of my pocket and pulling up a browser.
After a few moments of searching, I hold it out for him to see.
It’s a terrazzo tile, but it’s not so much the type that I want him to see but the style.
The one I chose is a simple design—strips of speckled green rectangles, separated by lines of white—but more of what I imagine Oliver’s taste to be.
He can still have fun without making it difficult to decorate.
“Oh,” he says, leaning closer and peering at the screen.
“I like that. That color kind of matches one of the greens I have a sample for. I painted it on the hallway wall.” I nod, having seen it on our way up.
“Well, shoot, I really like that one. Now I’m wondering why I ever thought white was the way to go. Talk about boring.”
Something tells me his indecision when it comes to renovating this house has less to do with him being unable to choose and everything to do with being influenced by things people have told him in the past. I wonder, if I were to visit his parents’ house, if the tiles in their bathrooms would all be white.
“More you,” I agree, putting a bookmark on the webpage so I can come back to it later if he indeed wants to go with this option. Oliver smiles like I’ve said all the compliments I’ve ever thought about him out loud.
“Yeah, it is.” Humming, he leans down to pull off his socks, strolling over to the open bathroom door and walking in to drop them in the hamper.
I follow, but slowly. When he glances back at me, I gesture toward his bed in a silent offering to sit out here and give him privacy.
He flushes a little bit but shakes his head.
“You can stay. I’ll just…grab a few things. ”
He slips around me, fingers at the waist of his jeans, and walks over to his dresser.
After a few seconds of digging, he closes the top drawer and moves to the second, back blocking the contents from view.
Leaning back against the vanity counter, I stretch my legs out and cross my ankles, trying to look casual.
The shower is directly in front of me, glass a little smudged but otherwise perfectly see-through.
There won’t be an inch of Oliver I won’t be able to see.
Inches I’ve been noticing more and more these past few weeks; inches I’ve seen clothed and partially unclothed. Some that I’ve even put my hands on.
It’s hit me randomly, these past few weeks, that I’m in a relationship.
That if someone were to ask me if I had a partner, I’d say yes instead of no.
Nobody will ask me that, but they could.
And my answer would be yes. Yes, I do. I have Oliver Martin cooking me dinner and sitting in the same spot on my couch most evenings.
I’ve got good morning text messages and kisses that taste like cinnamon gum, the smell of flowers and the possibility of color underneath the bland.
And now I’ve got the promise of him standing naked in front of me on the horizon, and it dawns on me once more that the answer is yes.
Yes, I have a partner. No, I am not alone.
“Okay,” Oliver mutters, dropping a pile of clothes onto the vanity next to where I’m leaning.
Right on top, folded into a tiny, neat little square, is yellow lace.
The shade of yellow the previous owners of this monstrosity were likely hoping for when they painted the walls.
The shade of yellow that glows like Oliver’s personality—sunshine and warmth and joy.
Instead of commenting, he turns away, lifts his shirt over his head, and drops it into the hamper.
The jeans follow next, the movement so decisive it feels like a lie.
Like he’s pretending very hard that he’s alone in this bathroom—putting on a front of confidence and trying to act like he normally would.
Before he can continue, I grab his elbow.
His eyes, which are the sort of stunning blue green that shift depending on what he’s wearing, are bright when they meet mine.
I wonder if I could convince him to decorate his house in shades of seafoam and cyan—a space built only to enhance his beauty.
“I-I-I-I-I-I—” It takes me a moment to control myself enough to stop. My pulse is jumping with a strange mix of nerves and anticipation, arousal burning low in my abdomen. I want to tell him I can leave. That I can sit in the bedroom or downstairs or, hell, go back home.
Oliver waits, watching me and giving me the space to finish the question. If there weren’t so many other things to like, I think I could fall in love with him for that alone. I let go of his arm to gesture back toward his bedroom.
“I-I-I-I-I ca-ca-ca-can go-go-go-go-go.” I stop, chest tight the way it always is when I can feel the stutter sitting there in my lungs like a cancer.
Oliver isn’t the only one who’s slightly nervous about this situation.
My heart is pounding, and there’s enough pale skin on display to destroy any control I might otherwise have over my tongue.
“No. No, actually, I’d like you to stay.
I’d offer to let you join me, but I’m not sure I’ve got the space.
” He smiles, voice gentle and face close enough to mine that I can see speckles of aquamarine around his pupils.
My entire body thrums from the nearness of his.
“I’ll try to keep the singing to a minimum. ”
I nod, hearing the truth and realizing that maybe what I was reading as discomfort was really arousal.
Not surprising that I wouldn’t recognize it.
I settle back against the counter, watching as Oliver reaches into the shower to turn on the water, hand flat under the stream to test the temperature.
The slope of his back is speckled here and there with moles and little freckles, his forearms and the tops of his shoulders darker than the rest of him.
A higher concentration of freckles in those areas, too, I notice. Tiny little blessings from the sun.
Water on, he turns to face me, our eyes meeting across the expanse of the bathroom.
Unlike the pair waiting next to the sink, his briefs are black and plain.
Oliver’s gaze has a slightly challenging look to it, and he hasn’t moved, watching me as though I’m the one who has to come over and undress him the rest of the way. Slowly, I do so with my eyes.
Thumbs hooked into the waistband of the briefs, he bends and slides them off.
Slower than he removed the rest of his clothes, but not by much.
His movements are caught between economical and performative, conscious of me watching but fighting the muscle memory that is leading him through his routine.
The sound of the water splatters the shower walls above the soft sound of him humming.
The briefs are tossed in the direction of the hamper, but my eyes stay on Oliver as he straightens.
The press of his mouth is playful as he looks at me, as though testing to see just how much of this I’ll be able to take before I strip down and join him.
Little does he know I’m well practiced in restraint.
He angles his back to me as he steps under the spray, reaching behind and sliding the door closed just enough that water doesn’t splash out but steam can still escape.
The bathroom is almost completely silent—Oliver’s humming low enough that the shower nearly drowns it out.
Somehow, the sound of the water is slightly obscene, twisting me up and making my chest ache.
If he were singing something, the bathroom would feel more relaxed.
He never gets the lyrics to songs right.