Chapter Sixteen #2
“I’m glad,” he says gently. “Mine helps me, too.”
Then he disappears into the rest of the house, leaving me alone in the studio. This new glimpse into Oliver’s psyche makes it feel like the inside of my chest is being wrung out. I try to turn my attention back to the monitor screens, but I see nothing. My brain is fried.
Whatever time it is, it’s time to call it a day. I save our progress and exit the studio to find the rest of the house is quiet, the windows spattered by raindrops, and the world outside blanketed in thick gray clouds. It must be around dinnertime, then.
For lack of anything else to do, I pour myself a glass of wine and spend a significant chunk of time alternating between the family group chat and scrolling through my social media feeds while hunched over the kitchen island.
Eventually I get bored and wander over to the living room bookshelves.
They’re tastefully filled with knickknacks like vases and expensive books about art.
It again strikes me as odd that there are no family photos anywhere in this house.
We could be in a very nice Airbnb for all the personal touches there are—minus, of course, the professional-grade music studio.
On the bottom bookshelf, tucked in a corner, are a handful of board games: Monopoly, Scrabble, Clue, and a chess set. Even though there’s not a speck of dust, these games look like they haven’t been touched since they were placed there. Based on the style of the boxes, that was probably the 1990s.
I crouch down and pull out Scrabble. The box is still sealed with the manufacturer tape.
“Hey.”
Oliver’s voice startles me. I almost fall backward onto my ass but manage to stop myself with one hand. I look over at where he stands near the kitchen, still dressed in the white short-sleeve button-down and pale-green chino combo from earlier.
“Jesus, are you a ninja or something?” I ask as I haul myself to stand. “How are you, like, silent when you move around this house?”
He shrugs as his eyes flicker to the board game in my hands. “Where did you find that?”
“Right here.” I point to the bottom bookshelf. “Why is it still unopened? It looks like it’s been here for thirty years.”
“It probably has been. I have no idea when we got that.”
“Not a game family, then?” I ask as I turn the box over in my hands. The pieces rattle around inside.
He scoffs. “No.”
This shouldn’t surprise me, given that Oliver already told me he wasn’t close with his parents, but there’s something strange about the fact that they had these games to begin with. Like the Barlowes knew the kinds of things families often do together but never got around to actually doing them.
These boxes are just for show. They’re props.
Here is another area where Oliver and I differ. My own family loves to play games—anything from the card game Brisca to Uno to Life. That’s how we spent so many weekend evenings growing up, clustered around the kitchen table, yelling and laughing at each other in competition.
“Do you… wanna play?”
I don’t realize how much I want him to say yes until he does.
Not with his words, but with his expression, a slow grin that lights up his entire face.
He gestures to the wine bottle I left open on the counter as I bring the game to the dining room table.
I nod as if to say, You know it. He tops off my glass and pours one for himself without further prompting.
When we’re seated across from each other, the game board between us, I look down at my letters and frown. I have a terrible set. I should have picked Clue instead.
“Ladies first?” Oliver asks.
I stare at my letters as I down a big gulp of wine. “Can I play in Spanish and English?”
“Only if I can play in French.”
“Ugh. No.” I glance up at him, surprised. “Are you bilingual?”
“I used to be,” he replies as he sorts his letters on the tray. “I learned when I was a kid, but I find that I’m less proficient than I was since I use it less. Are you?”
“Yeah. My family speaks Spanish all the time.”
He looks up at me then, and even behind his glasses, I can see genuine curiosity in his eyes. “You’re close with them, aren’t you? Do you miss them?”
“Yeah, but we talk every day, so that helps.” I look around for my phone but remember that I left it on the counter. “The group chat never really stops.”
“Good,” he says before taking a sip of his wine. It sounds like he means it.
“Wait,” I say as I hold up my finger—realizing this fun fact about Oliver is news to me. “Why are you bilingual in French? Or how?”
He blows out a long breath and leans back into his chair. “Why? I guess because it’s what my parents decided when I was a kid. One day a French tutor showed up and suddenly I had French homework for the next eleven years. If you practice something enough, it sticks eventually.”
“Allegedly,” I mumble. “I still have nightmares about the strings practicums in college.”
This makes him really laugh. We both take a long pull from our wineglasses.
“I think you’re going to smoke me at this game,” he says as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve only played Scrabble two or three times in my life.”
I grimace as I look at my letters again. “Yeah, but you read a lot more than I do. My sister Amanda always crushes us when we play at home, and that girl goes through a book, like, every three days.”
“You play a lot as a family?”
“Not as much as we used to, but we usually play a game or two around the holidays.” My stomach bottoms out at the thought of possibly missing said holidays this year.
I down the remainder of my wine and let the alcohol forget that feeling for me.
“I swear, that girl will lay the most random combination of letters on the board and none of us will believe it’s a word until we look it up. ”
I rise to grab the wine bottle from the counter. When I stand up, I feel the effects of it—the languid feeling in my limbs, the pleasant buzz floating in my brain. I refill both our glasses before sitting back down, this time keeping the bottle close.
“Ready to play?” I ask as I roll my shoulders.
Oliver raises one eyebrow as he gestures to the board. “Like I said earlier—ladies first.”
We both take a sip from our glasses. The rain outside picks up. With a sigh, I put my best word on the board: D-I-R-T-Y.
He smirks as he lays down his own letters off my Y: T-H-I-R-S-T-Y.
I laugh. I can’t help it. He does, too.
“Is this how we’re going to play?” I ask as I lean forward to rest my arms on the table, head cocked to the side as we stare at each other.
Oliver’s gaze seems to burn right through me as he mirrors my body language until he’s pressed all the way into the table. He takes a long, dramatic drink of his wine before he says, “You tell me.”
I consider the weight of his words, the way he said them—like the ball is in my court. This is a dangerous game to play. But now that I’ve had almost two glasses of wine on a nearly empty stomach, I can do this version of Scrabble.
Off his word, I play W-E-T.
He runs his hand over his face as I shake a few more letters out of the bag. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he grips his chin. His cheeks are a brilliant shade of pink.
Heat zings all over my body. I thought I was getting chilly before in my denim cutoffs and old “I HEART NY” T-shirt, but I’m definitely not cold anymore.
He considers his tray of letters for a while before laying down C-R-U-S-H.
My stomach flips as I take another gulp of wine.
The alcohol has unblocked the memory of his strong hands keeping me from falling, the smell of his skin and the warmth of his body pressed against mine on that hiking trail.
All of it comes flooding back in a rush, overwhelming my senses. Clouding them.
My heart beats so loud I wonder if he can hear it, even with the storm outside.
And then I remember all the thoughtful things he’s done for me since we came back into each other’s lives: carrying my bags, making cinnamon rolls, not to mention offering up this house and spending a whirlwind few days getting it ready for our arrival.
The fact that he flew up to Maine just to turn right around and drive fourteen hours round trip to pick me up?
I thought this game might verge on flirting, but is he… trying to tell me something? If he is, do I feel the same way?
When I pull my gaze from C-R-U-S-H on the board, his eyes are already on me. The look on his face is hard to read—intense with concentration, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s trying to communicate somehow, or if he just wants to beat me at this game. Our history makes me think it’s the latter.
But then I realize we aren’t even keeping score.
I look at my refreshed letters and consider my options. My heart is still racing when I lay down the word D-E-F-I-N-E.
Oliver takes a long, slow swig of his wine, clears his throat, and drags his hand across his jaw. I bite my lip and wonder if I just played the wrong move. Maybe I read into this too much. Maybe this is all just a board game between two former competitors, reunited and tipsy.
Just as I’m starting to regret ever pulling out that stupid box, he rises to stand and says, “I’d rather show you, if that’s okay.”
“Show me what?” I ask. My whole body feels like it’s on fire.
“What I mean,” he says, voice low as he rounds the table and steps closer to me. “Talking has never been my strong suit.”
I look up at him from my seat, at the shoulders that grew so broad and strong, at one arm holding my chair in place while the other leans against the table, caging me in.
I drink in all of who he is now—from the slant of his waist up to his chest—until I finally meet his gaze where he looms over me. His pupils are blown wide.
I’m shocked—shocked by what he’s suggesting—but what shocks me even more is how much I want to know.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Show me.”
He moves his hand from the back of my chair to my hair.
With agonizing tenderness, he runs his fingers through my long, wild curls.
The sensation lights up every nerve ending in my body.
Every thought, every question about what the hell is happening right now falls right out of my brain the second I feel his other hand do the same—lightly raking through my hair, until both settle to cup my face.
It’s just me, in this body, and him, in his. No one else. The only two people in the world.
“Turn.” His voice is rough with restraint. “Look at me.”
Oh god. Those bossy commands used to fill me with rage years ago, but hearing it now, in this setting, in that tone of voice?
Turns out that is an entirely different thing.
I do as I’m told without hesitation, adjusting in my chair so I face him fully.
He holds my cheeks in his hands as he lowers himself to his knees.
We’re eye to eye now, and on instinct I open my legs to allow him to get closer. He leans forward so, so slowly that I try to meet him in the middle, but he keeps me in place with a gentle hold. Our chests rise and fall in tandem. Our shared gaze holds.
Oliver Barlowe on his knees in front of me. That is something I never even thought was a possibility in my life, yet here I am, heart racing, leaning into the touch of his hands, wanting more.
He runs a thumb over my lips as he says, simply, “You.”
Finally, he closes the remaining space between us, and my eyes flutter closed at the same moment our lips meet.
Sparks explode behind my eyelids at the softness of it, the lingering taste of pinot noir on his lips, the smell of him, clean and crisp, that expensive cologne I have yet to identify.
My hands act of their own accord, threading themselves around his neck and into his messy hair, wanting to know what the rest of him feels like.
The slip of a tongue and I’m opening for him, heart racing, knees quivering, fingers snaking down his neck to explore more of him.
We melt into each other with such ease that I wonder why it’s never felt this way to kiss someone else before.
But it doesn’t matter because right now it’s just us, and he’s running one hand through my hair again while the other slides down my neck, stopping just short of my chest.
He breaks the kiss first with a small gasp but stays close, his forehead pressed against mine. As much as I want to look at him and see his face, I can’t bring myself to open my eyes, nor can I manage to pull away. We’re holding on to each other and I’m not ready to let go.
“Does that define it for you?” he asks softly.
“Oliver, I…” Words are impossible, because what the hell just happened? In the most literal sense of the question, my brain registers that he did, in fact, answer the prompt, and so I add a quiet, “Yes.”
“Good.”
He plants one last kiss on my lips—quick but intense—before slipping out of my grasp. It’s only then that my eyes open, just in time to watch him grab his wineglass off the table and down the rest of it in one healthy gulp. His back is to me, so he can’t see the stunned expression on my face.
There’s no other word for it—I’m stunned that Oliver has a crush on me, and I’m just as stunned that the feeling is mutual.
SISTER GROUP CHAT
TODAY 8:13 PM
Celia
8:13 PM
why is no one answering my calls??
8:17 PM
hellooooo
8:25 PM
where the hell are you
8:41 PM
i’ve only been gone like a month and you’ve already abandoned me!!!!
Rosa
9:36 PM
wow chill we just got out of the movies!!
Amanda
9:40 PM
are you ok? answer your phone
Rosa
9:42 PM
yoooo we’re here now are you ok?
Celia
10:22 PM
nvm I’m good, false alarm sorry
Amanda
10:25 PM
you sure?? why aren’t you answering??
Celia
10:33 PM
yes i’m sure, it’s late and i’m tired sorry hermanas!! goodnight love you
Rosa
10:34 PM
wtf
10:36 PM
it’s not that late?
10:38 PM
goodnight?? love you too i guess
Amanda
10:41 PM
love you sis, call me if you need anything