Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
OLIVER
Iwrestle with whether or not to invite Nils to the party.
I wrestle with whether to even bring it up to him or just keep it to myself, disappear for two days and not bother him with the drama that comes with any event involving my family.
I consider not going at all, but I still haven’t quite grown out of the desire to please my parents.
Missing out on their yearly anniversary party would not impress anyone and would probably be the final nail in my disappointing-son coffin.
Sitting on my ratty couch, I try to pay attention to the estimates I got from the flooring specialists.
Nils, who seems convinced that it’s something we could handle doing ourselves if push came to shove, nonetheless supported reaching out to contractors for estimates.
His reasoning being that just because we can do it ourselves doesn’t mean we should.
And although hiring a contractor is more expensive, it would also be quicker, which is actually turning out to be something of a turnoff for me.
Nils talked me into staying over at his place until mine is finished, which means the longer it takes to finish, the better off I will be.
I glance up at my recently repaired ceiling, humming softly to myself as my thoughts twist between home projects, my parents, and Nils.
I don’t want to go to this party alone, but neither do I want Nils to come along if I’m being honest with myself.
My parents are so snobby, and Nils is just working-class enough for them to stick their noses up.
No matter that I, their own son, do the same job as him.
My dad would smirk and sneer and make little comments that weren’t overtly rude, but definitely impolite enough for him to laugh about later with his friends when they were sitting around drinking whiskey in the lounge.
I do not like to think about how they’d act if Nils stuttered in front of them.
Or how they’d act if he said nothing at all, which would be seen as equally strange.
Frowning, I pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion and bounce my leg.
It feels gross even thinking about it, no matter that it’s the truth.
Accepting is a word that I could never use to describe my parents, and my father especially.
He’s got a very specific idea of what men and women should be, and I’ve got a very good understanding of those strictures and where I, and others, don’t measure up.
I can’t bring Nils home with me. I like him too much to subject him to any length of time surrounded by my parents and their friends.
Sighing, I lever myself up off the couch, folding the estimates into a square and tucking them into my pocket.
I’ll bring them over to Nils and show him, ask him what he thinks.
I have a feeling I know which one he’s going to recommend.
Indeed, once I’m back over at Nils’ house after packing up a new bag of clothing, he looks over the estimates, brows furrowed, and taps the one I suspected he’d choose.
They’re a touch more expensive than the others, but local, which means he probably knows all of them by name and reputation.
I recognize a couple, but still being relatively new to the Point, I’m still learning everyone’s faces.
“Do you think it would be better to just contract the work out instead of trying to do it ourselves? Or me do it,” I correct, not wanting to make it seem like he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.
“I know it would be quicker to hire them, and honestly, probably safer since I doubt I’d be any good at laying floors. ”
“We could do it,” Nils replies, shrugging. Still, he taps a finger against the estimate. But this is the better option, he seems to say. I nod.
“Okay, I’ll call them tomorrow.” Puffing out my cheeks, I remember what I’ll actually be doing tomorrow. Unfortunately. “Or Monday, probably. I’ve got a family event this weekend at my parents’ country club. Their yearly anniversary. Well, obviously, since anniversaries happen yearly.”
Nils tilts his head to the side, pretty eyes on mine as he leans against the kitchen counter. He tucks a couple of fingers into the pocket of my jeans, pulling me gently toward him so the gap between us is slimmer.
“I try not to spend a lot of time with them because it’s such a downer, so I’ll drive over tomorrow, stay for the party, and then come back early the next morning.
” I perk up a little bit, a thought occurring to me.
“I should check the weather, though. Maybe a big storm will come through, and I won’t be able to go at all. Maybe it’ll be cancelled!”
Nils huffs, eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiles. The hand in my pocket gives my hips a little shake, and he keeps watching me with a question in his expression.
“I’m allowed to bring a plus-one, and I want you to come with me, but I also don’t want you to go.
It’s not like a fun-family-event sort of thing.
It’s more of a…event where family will be in attendance, if you know what I mean.
You know I’m not really super close to my parents, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of my cousins, even.
We don’t really keep in touch. So, it’ll mainly be everyone just standing around, drinking champagne, and trying to impress each other with all the cool things they’re doing right now.
It’s miserable, truly. I’d rather you not come,” I finish honestly.
Instead of looking hurt, the way I’d feared he might, Nils merely nods.
He probably understands what I’m struggling to put into words.
Family events like this are stressful enough without the additional element of bringing someone new to introduce to everyone.
Add to that the fact that I’ve never brought someone home in the past, and frankly, the whole weekend would be a recipe for disaster.
I’d rather Nils know me as the Oliver he met on the lobster boat.
The one who does renovation projects and likes pretty things and didn’t own a snow shovel until he bought me one.
I don’t want that Oliver to be shrouded by the sad, pale copy I have to become to shrink myself down into the box my father built for me.
“You’ll be okay?” Nils asks, hand resting on my hip now. Every day, he becomes more touchy, and every day, I find it harder to pull myself out of his gravitational orbit.
“Oh, yeah. Of course. They’re not, like, psychopaths or anything. Just sort of…rude and entitled and elitist.” I pause, thinking. “Okay, so yeah, maybe a few psychopathic tendencies there.”
He laughs, leaning forward and kissing my forehead.
“Lucky for us, I only inherited the good traits, right?” I joke as he steps back.
“Lucky,” he agrees.
Unfortunately, the luck does not persist past the town line as I leave Siren’s Point the next day.
My father texts me four times while I’m on the road, the messages flashing up on the lock screen, each one becoming slightly more aggressive.
My hands are tight with tension as I steer my vehicle into the parking lot at the country club, and already I can feel a low-grade headache forming at the base of my skull.
Sitting in my car, I watch a handful of people dressed in cocktail attire walk by.
I don’t recognize any of them, which feels both fortunate and unfortunate.
I’m just far enough removed from my family that the extended portion remains a bit of a mystery to me.
Those were probably cousins of some sort, but heck if I could identify them in a police lineup.
I sit in my car, humming softly and wishing I were back at Nils’ house, until another text message from my father comes through.
Sighing, I turn off the ignition, straighten my tie—decorated with tiny lobsters—and leave the car.
The air is crisp, and I tip my head back to check the sky.
As much as I was hoping for a storm that would force a party cancellation, now that I’m here, I’d prefer the opposite.
If it snows tonight, I might get stuck here, and that would be the worst possibility of all.
My mother swoops down on me like a glittery bat the moment I walk in the door.
Her perfume is cloying, the flowery scent almost sickly sweet and overbearing.
I think about Nils as I hug her, and my cheeks flush.
I put on cologne today, instead of my own preference toward flowers.
I hope I smell better to Nils than my mother smells to me.
“You look nice, Oliver James,” she says, pulling away and cupping her hands around my face, using both my first and middle names the way she’s always done since I was small. “Your hair is getting so long. We should make you an appointment for a trim while you’re here.”
And there it is, I think, smiling tightly.
A flattering comment followed up with a neat little suggestion on how to improve.
My parents are truly the masters of the backhanded compliment.
Tapping my fingers against my leg, I resist the urge to touch my hair.
It’s really not that long. Just long enough that the ends fan out around the bottom of a beanie when I’m wearing one, which Nils has told me is very cute.
I will not be cutting it, no matter what my mother thinks is the respectable length for a grown man’s hair.
“Thanks, Mother.” I think. “Happy anniversary.”
She puts her arm around my waist, heels clicking on the floor as she leads me into the party.
She’s easily the more affectionate of my parents, but it’s mostly performative.
A way to show off her son and how close she wants people to think we are.
But if I were to try and sit next to her on the couch at home, she’d slide until there was a cushion of space between us.
Affection is always withheld until there is an audience to perform for.