Chapter Twenty
IT’S DANGEROUS TO get a taste of something you enjoy.
Take this job, for example—the work is hard, yes, but it’s so rewarding.
I love writing the music for a show that’s bound to be really good based on all the footage we receive from set.
I finally feel like I’m putting my expensive education to use.
The automatic student loan payments that deduct from my bank account feel justified now that I’m telling a musical story with the skills and knowledge I spent my entire life working on.
And then there’s him. Quiet, intense, immensely talented Oliver Barlowe, who gave me three orgasms in one night, then kissed his way across my body, dressed me, and walked me to my stairs.
Like we were on some kind of date that involved my back on a rug and my boobs out.
The same man who went right back to work in the days following because, as I said, the job comes first.
That doesn’t stop me from thinking about him—that mouth, those hands—whenever my mind wanders. It takes all my effort to focus on the task at hand and score parts of cello, violin, bells, whatever. Now that I got a taste of that side of him, I want more.
Just like I want more work like this, and so I have no choice but to stay locked in on music and respect my own boundaries.
For his part, Oliver makes it clear that he wants more, too, even if we’re heads down at the piano or computer 80 percent of the time we’re not asleep.
His touch is basically constant now, wherever we are.
When we run out of food and make a trip to the grocery store, he holds my hand in the parking lot and finds any excuse to brush my hair out of my face or place a hand on the small of my back.
Every time he does, a spark ignites somewhere inside me.
Day by day, I tell myself nearly a week after we defiled the studio rug. We’re taking this day by day, just like we agreed.
But then we hit a lull. My drum idea, combined with Chris and Rebecca’s enthusiastic response to it, spurred us into a frenzy of inspiration that neither of us were willing to compromise on.
Those bursts of action always peter out, though, and so we find ourselves burnt out and tired, doing little more than plinking piano keys aimlessly and sighing.
“What time is it?” I ask, because I have no idea where my phone is, let alone what day it is.
“I don’t know,” Oliver mumbles. He’s seated next to me on the piano bench and I can feel his posture wilting.
“I think we need to eat,” I say.
He sighs. “Probably.”
So, this is what Oliver looks and sounds like when he’s beaten down. He’s never let me see this side of him before, not really. A pang of empathy hits me in my gut. I’m tired, too. I can tell we’re both in the red, as my sisters would say.
“Why don’t I cook us some dinner? Or lunch, if that’s what time it is?” I run a hand along his back. “Something you can eat.”
He leans into my touch and closes his eyes. “You don’t have to.”
“No, but I want to,” I reply, then kiss his cheek before sliding off the bench. “You just chill for a bit. Don’t think about the music for a while.”
He snorts but says nothing as I head into the kitchen. The fridge and pantry are fully stocked again—with way less fish than the first trip—and I made it a point to grab ingredients for the kind of food my mom would make for me. The homesickness still hasn’t gone away.
My phone is on the kitchen island where I left it this morning.
It is, in fact, dinnertime, which means that neither of us have eaten since breakfast. I tap into Spotify and pull up some classic salsa music.
Just hearing the familiar beats puts me in a good mood again, like I’ve carved out a slice of Washington Heights in this seaside Maine town.
By the time Oliver appears in the kitchen, I’m nearly done chopping the ingredients I need for dinner.
I don’t stop swaying my hips in time to the rhythm of the music when I look up at him from where I’m prepping at the kitchen island.
It would be a crime to stop dancing when Marc Anthony is singing like he is now.
A quizzical expression forms on his face, one that’s tinged with a cautious optimism. “What’s all this?” he asks.
“Dinner!” I say brightly. “Pollo a la plancha, to be exact. I grabbed all this stuff last time we were at the store.”
He gestures to the glass bottle of dark liquid on the counter. “Is that what the rum is for?”
“No, that’s for pina coladas,” I reply. “We’re going on a little tour of the Caribbean tonight.”
“Can I make the drinks?” he asks, and the earnest tone of his question makes my heart skip a beat. “I’ve never made pina coladas, but I can Google it.”
I smile at him. “You’ve never made pina coladas, and I’ve only pumped gas twice in my life. We’re even now.”
He smiles back at me with full force, and it takes all my effort to return my focus to cooking.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Oliver as he flits around the kitchen, pulling down glasses and retrieving items from the fridge and cabinets.
He checks his phone repeatedly, as if he’s determined to get this right.
After a couple of minutes full of a screaming blender, a fresh pina colada appears to the side of the sink, where I’m washing my hands of food-prep germs.
“If it’s terrible, tell me,” he says from where he lingers at my side. “I had to use coconut cream instead of cream of coconut, which are apparently two different things? I don’t know. I had to add in a sweetener to make it work.”
“It’s hard to mess up pina coladas.” When my hands are clean and dry, I take a cautious sip from the glass.
It’s exactly as a pina colada should be—bright, crisp, refreshing, if not a little strong.
The rum burns my throat on the way down in a pleasant sort of way.
“It’s good. You should be proud of yourself, Oliver. ”
He extends his own glass toward mine and we clink them together. “Cheers.”
“Salud,” I reply.
Our gazes lock as we each take a drink. He runs a hand over my hip and squeezes. Heat simmers in my veins. If both of us weren’t so hungry, I’d take the rice off the stove half cooked and devour him instead.
I force myself to set my drink down and fire up the last of our dinner.
Oliver sets the dining room table while I cook.
Pollo a la plancha doesn’t take long—especially when you’re cooking on a powerful six-burner gas range with a cast-iron grill plate—and soon the table is filled with platters bearing black beans, rice, chicken, and grilled onions.
“Pina coladas and salsa music,” Oliver says once we’re seated opposite each other at the table. “This really is a tour of the Caribbean.”
“Arroz con gandules is really my specialty, but I don’t have what I need to make it, so this will have to do.”
As we take turns loading up our plates, he asks, “What’s arroz con gandules?”
“It’s a traditional Puerto Rican rice dish. My mom taught me how to make it.”
I watch as he takes a bite. This isn’t the first time I’ve cooked for him, but it is the first time I’ve made a family recipe while here in Maine. I want him to like it, probably more than I should.
“Delicious,” he proclaims once he swallows. “Your mom taught you this one, too?”
My heart swells with pride. “She did.”
“Then Mrs. García’s kitchen really is the finest culinary-arts institution,” he says with a smirk. “Without question.”
For a while, we’re content to just eat and drink while the music serenades us. It’s the break we both needed after going full tilt for the last few days. By the time our plates are nearly empty and our drinks are gone, I can tell that Oliver is in a better place by the easy way he holds himself.
When we’re both finished, he sets his napkin on the table and relaxes back into his chair. “Wow, I was hungry. Thank you for cooking. I had no idea I was in the red.”
“I was, too,” I reply. “But after growing up with two sisters, you learn how to spot signs of someone getting hangry.”
I move to collect our plates, but Oliver stops me with a wave of his hand. “No, I got cleanup. You relax.”
He pours us what’s left of the pina coladas—a half-glass each, maybe—and gets to work in the kitchen.
I sip my drink and try to catch up on the family group chat, which spent the last few hours discussing options for Amanda’s upcoming birthday, but I keep getting distracted as I watch Oliver clean.
Even though we’ve been in this house for weeks, doing some iteration of this same thing, it feels like something has shifted.
The domesticity of tonight feels so intimate. More than it ever has before.
Maybe it’s the rum, or maybe it’s the fact that my heart feels like it’s too big for my chest watching Oliver clean the kitchen, but for the first time, I can’t help but wonder what the future holds for the two of us. If he’ll be there when this job wraps up. If I want him there.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I can’t go there yet. I can’t get ahead of myself.
I down the last of my drink in one gulp and beeline for the kitchen. He’s standing at the sink rinsing off some dishes, so I wind my arms around his torso and lean my cheek against his shoulders. I can feel the heat of his body through the impossibly soft fabric of his sweater.
He cuts the water and dries his hands with the towel I left on the side of the sink.
He turns and wraps his arms around me. For a while, I’m content to revel in how beautiful his eyes are, to study the hues of green I never saw until recently.
But then he leans down and kisses me with a devastating tenderness, and I feel that spark ignite again.
“What now?” he asks against my lips.
I kiss his jaw before asking, “Why don’t you show me your bedroom?”
FROM: Oliver Barlowe
TO: Celia García
(Draft email)
SUBJECT: (no subject)
Hi Celia,
Not sure if you remember me, but it’s Oliver Barlowe. We went to Juilliard together. It’s been a long time but I just wanted to see how you’re do