Chapter 16 #2
When the song ends, we settle back into our seats and grin like idiots.
My cheeks hurt from smiling. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable anymore—it’s warm, like we’ve shared a secret.
Oliver takes his hat off and runs his hands through his hair, shaking it out so it sticks up even more wildly, and I catch him glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
Our eyes meet for a second and we both smile before looking away.
“Not bad for someone who ruins burgers with mustard,” he says.
“Not bad for someone who thinks he invented bacon burgers,” I shoot back.
We’re still smiling when his phone buzzes again. With the cruise control on, I rotate my ankle. All those endorphins from singing make it feel better than it did only ten minutes ago.
“He’s only going to keep calling,” I say, gesturing to Oliver’s phone.
He blows air out of his mouth like he’s blowing out a candle. “I’ll talk to him from the hotel.” He checks the GPS. “We’re only thirty minutes from Columbus. My granddad can wait.”
He silences the call, but another one comes in right after.
We share a look. “Seriously, get it. I don’t mind. I won’t judge you for your family if you won’t judge me for mine.”
He chuckles, but it makes my heart flip. I grip the steering wheel tighter.
He inhales deeply, like he’s bracing himself.
“Hey, Granddad.”
His grandpa’s voice explodes through the phone. “How dare you ignore our calls? Your brother had a seizure tonight!”
My stomach drops as Oliver leans forward and balls his fist against his forehead. He’s squeezing it so hard, even by the street lights outside of Columbus, I can tell how white his knuckles are. I can hear the tension in his breathing, short and controlled, like he’s holding something back.
“Is he okay? Was it focal or tonic-clonic? How long did it last for?”
His grandpa’s voice is so sharp, it cuts. “What does that matter? He had a seizure from the stress of waiting for his brother.”
Oliver doesn’t make a sound. “Is my dad there? Or my mom?”
“No. Your dad’s with your brother and your mother’s on the phone with Evan’s fiancée.”
“And you’re stuck talking to me,” Oliver says.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You should have been here yesterday.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Oliver pounding his fist against his head. Each soft thud makes me flinch. I want to reach out and grab his hand, stop him from hurting.
“Granddad, is Evan okay?”
There’s some kind of rustling on the other end of the phone, and a moment later, the voice on the other end is different. Less … awful. But still loud enough that I can hear every word.
“Your brother’s fine. It was focal, eighty, maybe ninety seconds. He’s okay,” a man’s voice says, too worn out to be harsh.
“Glad to hear it, Dad.”
Mr. Fletcher sounds exhausted. “You need to get here, Ollie.”
“I’m trying, but there’s nothing else I can do.
I’ve driven fifteen hours already today, and the roads aren’t great.
” He gives me a sheepish look. His brother knows he’s traveling with someone, at least. Or is that a mistake he doesn’t intend to make twice?
“I don’t think I can keep going,” Oliver says.
“Keep yourself safe.” His dad’s saying the right thing, but his tone isn’t. “But get here. Everyone’s worried you’re going to miss the rehearsal dinner. We need you.”
“I’ll try,” Oliver says.
“That’s not good enough,” his granddad barks from the background. “You’ve missed every other important moment this week!”
“Every other—” He squeezes a fist. I feel sick watching him try to hold it together. “Like what? I’m coming home for Evan’s wedding, not a charity event with full press!”
“Your family is here,” Mr. Fletcher says, quieter than his father, but not quiet enough. “Cousins, aunts, uncles.”
“Grandparents,” Oliver adds darkly.
Oof. The generational trauma is strong with these ones.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad.”
“Early,” his dad says.
“I’ll do my best.”
When Oliver drops his phone in his lap, he lets out a heavy breath that I feel more than hear. I hum quietly along to the radio, hoping he’ll think I couldn’t hear every word. The air in the car feels thick, heavy with everything unsaid.
I won’t say anything unless he does.
And ten miles later, it’s clear we’re done talking.
My brain is cloudy and my eyes are sandy from two days of travel and not enough sleep. But when I lie, I lie with conviction.
“Hey, I know we’re getting close to our hotel, but I think I’m hitting my second wind. I feel wired.”
“Huh?” he asks, like I bumped him out of his thoughts. He pulls his gaze from wherever it was out the window to glance at me.
He looks wrecked. His stubble has nearly crossed over into beard territory. His shaggy blond hair is fighting to stick up at every angle. But it’s his eyes that make me feel like my heart has cracked open. They’re so raw and unguarded, it makes my throat tight.
“I said I’m kind of wired. We both want to get home tomorrow. Do you mind if we keep going for a couple more hours?”
His brow tugs together, forming an 11 that could cast him as the brooding hero in a period romance. “You can’t keep driving.”
The fact that he cares enough to protest only makes me more certain.
“Sure I can,” I say. “I feel fine. I’m a night owl anyway, so I always hit my second wind around ten. I’m not saying I can drive all night, but at this rate, I’ll be up until 2 anyway, so I may as well drive.”
Bald-faced lies, all of them.
His expression tells me he’s torn between skepticism and … not. He wants to believe me. “You were out well before 2 last night,” he says.
“How would you know?” I shoot back. “You were snoring then.”
His pause tells me he isn’t sure which of us is lying.
I keep my eyes on the road, my hands on the wheel, and my back straight.
My shoulders ache from the tension of gripping a steering wheel all day.
But I make sure to bounce a little, just enough to sell the lie that I’m all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed instead of wrung out.
Fake it till you make it to Cleveland, Poppy Grace, I tell myself.
“I don’t snore,” he finally says.
“I beg to differ. You don’t snore loudly, but you snore.”
“You break your nose taking a ball to the face in ninth grade and see how you sleep,” he mutters, and I know I’ve got him. He pauses, and I can feel his eyes on me before I let my eyes flit to him. “Only to Cleveland. And if you get tired, you have to promise to tell me.”
“I will,” I lie.
Another thing I won’t tell him: my ankle is screaming. The roads into Columbus are stop-and-go, requiring constant pressure from my bruised, swollen ankle. But once we’re past the city, I can use cruise control again. I can do this.
“And we’re talking the whole time so I can make sure you’re okay,” he adds. Then he digs into his snack bag. “Also, here. Sunflower seeds. They’ll keep your mind just occupied enough to stay sharp.”
I wrinkle my nose, my eyes fixed on the road. “Ew. You want me to spit seeds into a cup?”
He sounds either offended or incredulous, I can’t tell which. “You have a problem with sunflower seeds, Miss Spicy Cheetos?”
“Spicy Cheetos go down the hatch, pal, not back up.”
“Pfft. You don’t know what you’re missing.” He holds the bag out in front of me. I grab a single sunflower seed and chew. “No,” he says, “you don’t grab one. You grab a handful.”
“But aren’t you supposed to separate the shells in your mouth? How do you do that?”
“You keep the seeds in one side of your mouth and the shells in the other. Like this,” he explains patiently.
And my mind starts to wander, thinking about Oliver’s private kind streak—the way he got protective on the plane when the creep on my other side started flirting, the way he swapped meals with me when I’m almost certain he didn’t like the chicken fried steak.
Him doing planks and wall sits with me instead of being mad that I was delaying us.
Him trading faces with the little boy at breakfast. Talking to me, finding ways to keep me awake, worrying about me.
And that kiss …
As he demonstrates how to properly chew sunflower seeds, I can’t help watching his jaw move, his lips purse, his eyes on mine.
Oliver Fletcher is a good person.
And a great kisser.