Chapter 10
Darius
Oliver shuffles in his seat, his hand coming to rest in my hair. He fiddles with the strands and I close my eyes, melting into the ease of being with him.
My favourite parts of the last few days are the ones I’ve spent with Oliver, and I want more. More time. More laughter. More of everything.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say when he doesn’t reply to my question. Sitting up, I twist so that I’m facing him, my hand on his leg. “But just know that I’m here if you want to talk. I’ll always listen, Ollie. I promise.”
When he speaks, his voice is distant, like he’s some place else.
“Have you ever been really afraid of doing something? So you tell yourself, it’s okay not to do it, but then you have this feeling, this deep ache in your chest that says if you don’t do it, that you’ll wake up ten years from now and regret it?”
I nod and he continues.
“And the problem with not doing it is that you can’t go back, because you can never go back. You lost your chance.” Oliver’s heart beats a little faster. “So that’s why I’m going. To my dad’s funeral.” His voice is thick and I look up into eyes glistening with tears. He’s hurting and I hate it.
“I never wanted to go back there, back to the place that was once my home. But I’m so scared of waking up a year from now and regretting that decision.
Regretting not being there to say goodbye.
” He rubs furiously at his eyes. “I want to close my eyes and have it all go away. But I’ve done that, and you know what?
It never fucking goes away. No matter how tightly you hold them shut, the shit in your life is right there when you open them again. ”
Sliding my hand into his, I lace our fingers together.
“And even though I’ll be alone in a place where no one understands me, or sees me, where people think I’m the one who broke up our family, I can’t have regret be another bruise on my soul.
I can’t wake up and wish I’d gone to his bloody funeral.
I loved him, D. I really fucking did. So much that everything hurts. ”
My throat burns and there’s a sheen in my vision as I lean over and kiss his cheek, the taste of his tears salty on my lips.
“You won’t be alone. I’ll go with you.”
His mouth drops open and I wonder if I’ve overstepped, ready to take it back, when he pulls me towards him and wraps me in the biggest bear hug.
“I went to Caiden’s that day because I needed someone. I never imagined I’d find you, but I’m so glad I did.”
Melting into his embrace, I lay my head on his shoulder, thankful that while I opened the door to him that night, he’s the one that let me in.
It’s been a little over a week since I told Oliver I would go with him to his father’s funeral, and we’ve spent every evening together except Friday, when I went up to Birmingham for my usual family dinner.
Our time together has been filled with moments of casual affection that have come to be my favourite parts of the day. Shy smiles, kisses on my forehead, a hand on my lower back. Soft, sweet moments from a man who can also be rather prickly.
I’ve loved getting to know Oliver and learning all the little things that make him uniquely him.
Like the way he speeds through a crossword, while I’m still trying to work out the first three clues.
Or how he fiddles with his hair when he’s deep in thought.
He’s really smart. Clued up on the world and enthusiastic about so much when he gets talking.
It hasn’t all been sunshine though.
There were a few days this week he’s arrived at mine, expression stormy, deep brown eyes flickering with a mix of sadness and anxiety, and a posture begging for distance. On those nights we’ve sat in silence, eyes focused on the television, pinky fingers touching.
There’s something else that I’ve noticed this week, and it causes worry to form like a ball of iron in my chest.
Oliver rarely eats.
When he does, it’s tiny nibbles. One slice of pizza. Half a bowl of pasta. Always telling me he ate a big meal at lunchtime or that he snacked on the train on his way over.
I don’t believe him, but I’m not sure how to raise my worry without him shutting down or pushing me away. Maybe it isn’t my place, and I have been accused of butting into people’s business in the past, but I care about Oliver, deeply.
Putting my concerns aside for now to focus on getting through the next few days, I ring the buzzer for Oliver’s flat.
The place is an old converted house that once would have been one dwelling but has been divided into five smaller flats, if the numbers on the panel are correct.
The door unlocks with a click and I follow the narrow staircase up to his floor.
He’s waiting at his open door when I reach the top.
The sight of him makes me smile, warmth blooming like daisies in my chest.
“Hey pup,” I say in greeting.
“Hi.” Oliver steps to the side and I pause halfway through the door. He smells woodsy with a hint of sweat and I take a deep breath, holding the scent of him in my lungs as I press a kiss to his cheek.
“Come in. I’m not quite ready.” He gestures me inside.
His space is small and bright, a large sash window letting in a stream of sunlight.
There’s clothing strewn over a sofa that appears to be sitting at an angle and next to it on the bare hardwood flooring are two piles – one of magazines and another of folded newspapers.
There’s a selection of pens laying like a game of pickup sticks on the coffee table.
“Sorry about the state of the place. It’s been a long week and I haven’t had a chance to clean.
” Oliver rounds up items, stuffing them into a black duffle bag.
“I’m sorry you had to pick me up. I was happy to meet at yours.
But I got caught up at work, and then my train got delayed and –” I still his now frantic movements, resting a hand on his forearm.
Oliver looks at me, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth.
“It’s all good. I didn’t mind coming here. Take your time getting packed. We’re not in a rush. We'll get on the road when you’re ready.”
He sighs, a deep releasing of air that feels like it holds a lifetime of tension.
“You sure you’re okay to drive us?”
“Ollie, I said I was. My car’s downstairs.
Fully charged. I have road snacks. We’re good.
” I stress the word because I need him to believe it.
He hasn’t explained in detail why he’s afraid to go back home, but I’m intuitive enough to know that there’s something there that scares him.
For my part, I’ll do my damndest to make sure it goes smoothly.
And if it doesn’t, I’ll be there for him.
I will always be there for Oliver. He’s my person.
That awareness fills me with a kaleidoscope of butterflies.
It may seem soon, we may still be navigating whatever this is that’s growing between us, but I know it on a bone deep level. He’s mine.
Oliver rubs the back of his neck, then runs a hand through his hair. His curls were already in disarray when I walked in and he’s made them worse with each pass of his hand.
“Okay. Thank you. I won’t be much longer.
” He disappears through a door I presume is the bathroom and I sit on the sofa, the fabric so soft I sink right into it.
There’s a magazine lying face down next to me.
I pick it up and flip to a page that’s been dog-eared.
It’s a home DIY magazine, with glossy pages showing beautifully designed rooms, intricately crafted furniture, and lush green gardens.
The page Oliver has bookmarked is a step-by-step guide to building a bespoke alcove bookshelf.
I’m reading each step carefully, turning the page when Oliver appears in front of me. He’s changed out of his work clothes and into grey shorts and a sleeveless black tee. He has sunglasses resting on the top of his head and his duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
“This is pretty cool.” I point to an image of the complete shelving unit. It’s made from thick oak and the designer has painted the surrounding wall a mint green, which gives the whole aesthetic a country house feel.
“Yeah, I would love to build that someday.”
My eyebrows raise. “You would?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
I lay the magazine next to me in the position I found it, and Oliver holds out his hand. I take it and he pulls me up, bringing us chest to chest. He’s taller than me at a little over six feet, and I tip my head to look at him. His warm brown eyes meet mine. “Would you build it for this place?”
He lets out a breath that ghosts my lips. My heart picks up, thumping against my sternum, and Oliver’s eyes dart down. The air stills, a crackle of electricity sparking between us.
Oliver takes a breath and turns away, heading to the front door.
“No. It’s a pipe dream, really. A silly plan I’ve had since I was a kid watching those home renovation shows.”
I follow him out and we make our way down the stairs and onto the street, where I gesture to the left to a green Mini Countryman.
“You’d want to renovate your own place?” I ask, unlocking the car. Oliver throws his bag in the back, next to mine.
“Like I said, it’s a pipe dream. I try not to put too much thought into something that is unlikely to happen.
Some days I just like to look at options and remember the little boy who had dreams once upon a time.
” He brushes off the conversation like having a dream isn’t a huge fucking deal.
I don’t have one – most of the time I’m floating through life.
Happy but never quite heading anywhere. I admire him for wanting something for his future.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I turn to watch Oliver climb in.
“I think it’s good to have goals. I hope you do it one day. That you build that bookshelf and anything else your heart desires.”
“Maybe I will,” he concedes.
“Good.” I find my sunglasses in the side of the door, slide them on and start the engine.
Oliver runs a hand over the dashboard, shooting me that grin that twists me up inside. “This is a nice car. It’s very you.”
“Sexy, smart, and incredibly reliable?” I joke.
“Something like that.”