Chapter 15
Luke
Iwatched Oliver intermittently throughout the meal. Not in an overbearing way, at least I hoped not, but in the way you might monitor someone to make sure they’re alright.
Every time he spoke, my eyes found him. I couldn’t help it. I knew what it had taken for him to accept the invitation, to walk through the front door, and to sit across from strangers. Each word he offered was a gift, and I refused to let myself miss even one.
When we finished dinner, we moved to the living room. Micah sat beside Ezra on one side of the sectional, while Oliver and I claimed the opposite end.
“Micah and I thought it might be fun to play a game to generate some conversation and camaraderie without any pressure to reveal oneself. This is a game of our own invention and requires no board, no cards, no timer, nothing. And Luke, this is the perfect opportunity for you to show off your own ability to spin preposterous tales as you so claim.” Ezra gestured to Micah to pick up.
“We call it Story Relay. Think of it as narrative adlibs, but with elevated flair. We’re going to collaboratively tell a story, but here’s the twist. Each person is only allowed to narrate four words at a time, then it passes to the next person in the circle.
No planning ahead. We follow the story wherever it leads, no matter how absurd or deranged it becomes.
Any takers for this story-telling mission? ”
“I’m so in,” I said. “Prepare to weep over the magnificence of my narrative thwarsion powers.”
“Thwarsion?” Ezra asked.
“It’s a word now. Recognized in the dictionary.”
“Luke, how many times do I have to tell you, the Urban Dictionary doesn’t count,” Ezra said.
“I’ll have you know it’s recognized by both Webster’s and Oxford.”
“If we’re inventing words now, it’ll make this story more interesting,” Micah said. He turned to Oliver. “You in?”
“Yeah, I’m in.”
“Four companions. So be it, we shall be the Fellowship of the Narrative,” Micah declared.
Ezra tapped a knuckle against his glass like a makeshift gavel. “And so begins our quest, forged in absurdity, and ultimately doomed to dissolve into cackling.”
“We’ll move clockwise,” Micah said. “I’ll start, then Ezra, Luke, and Oliver. Ready?”
“Ready,” we all replied in unison.
“Deep in the void,” Micah began.
“Lurked a dreadful beast.”
“Made up entirely of . . .” I said.
“Carnage and liquid licorice,” Oliver said.
“Specifically black, to deter . . .” Micah added.
Ezra picked up the thought. “Those weak of palate.”
“From seizing the sacred . . . “ I said.
“Vine of everlasting sweetness,” Oliver finished.
“Also guarded by demonic . . .” Micah said.
Ezra steepled his fingers over his face like some maniacal villain. “Minions. The most powerful . . .”
“Was Brutis the Destroyer,” I said.
“There was also . . . Kevin.”
“Kevin?!” Micah exclaimed.
Oliver grinned. “Every evil collective has a Kevin.”
“It’s true. Kevin’s the one who always forgets the nefarious group texts,” Ezra said.
“He brings the wrong uniform,” I added. “Shows up in paisley when everyone else is wearing all black.”
The story spun on, but I hardly followed it.
The best part, the real enchantment, was Oliver.
As the story grew more and more ridiculous he began laughing.
Not the careful chuckle of someone trying to blend into a new space, but uninhibited, bubbling up from somewhere in his belly, cracking through his hesitation.
It lit up his whole face and brought color to his cheeks.
I literally lost the plot and I didn’t care. Oliver’s happiness was the only storyline I wanted to follow, the only arc I wanted to see deepen and flourish.
When the bonker balls tale ended, Ezra said, “We have achieved peak nonsense.”
“Peak nonsense is my daily existence,” I said. “But tonight’s brand was particularly inspired.” I pointed to Oliver.
“Me?” he asked.
“Totally,” Micah said. “You’re a genius story contributor.”
Oliver ducked his head, but not before I caught the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. “I had good collaborators.”
I wished Oliver would give himself more credit.
His creativity had sparked half the detours that made our story come alive.
But he struggled to own his part in it. No surprise there.
He’d spent too long with someone who never let him claim anything he achieved.
In Vincent’s world, every success Oliver earned got twisted back toward him, reframed to look like it only existed because of Vincent.
I wanted to break that pattern and have him relearn that he could honor other people’s efforts and still claim his own, to grow into the kind of man who said “I did this” and believed in its worthiness.
“The story wouldn’t have been half as brilliant without what you added to it,” I said.
“Agreed. Having to build off your bits was my favorite part,” Micah said.
“Thank you,” Oliver mumbled.
The conversation drifted into easy, comfortable chatter, then faded into a quiet lull.
Ezra and Micah were snuggling, murmuring to each other in voices too quiet for me to catch.
Beside me, Oliver sat slack with contentment, his eyes half-lidded.
I took a chance and let my fingers brush his hand.
After a beat, he turned his hand, clasping mine.
“Ready to head out?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You two calling it a night?” Ezra asked when we both stood.
“I think so. It’s been a good night, though,” I said.
“Before you go, Oliver, let me give you my number,” Micah said.
“You . . . really?”
“Really! We can hang out without these two hooligans hanging around. It’ll be awesome,” Micah replied, reading off his digits as Oliver entered them into his phone.
“And you have a standing invitation to come with Luke anytime,” Ezra added.
“Thank you, thank you both for welcoming me into your home. I can leave you with some cookies and brownies, if you’d like. There’s more than enough to go around.”
“Don’t need to ask me twice. I will happily accept more of those snickerdoodles,” Micah said.
With desserts rationed and goodbyes exchanged, we packed up and stepped outside.
Once in the car, Oliver said, “Thank you for inviting me. Your friends are as first-rate as you described.”
“Yeah, they are.”
“Do you think I fit in? With them, I mean. I didn’t embarrass you? Or reflect poorly on you?”
The thought that he might’ve spent the visit not only navigating the natural anxiety of meeting new people, but also silently fearing his presence could reflect poorly on me, hit me.
Oliver’s nerves hadn’t solely been about meeting strangers, they were about meeting my people, about whether he’d measure up.
Vincent had probably turned every social interaction into a stage, with Oliver forced to play his part.
Hit the marks. Say the right lines. Wear the mask Vincent chose.
And if he slipped up, even a little, there were consequences.
Punishments doled out for stepping outside the script only Vincent was allowed to write.
The leftovers of that cruelty now lived in Oliver’s question, in the content of it, but also in the way he asked it, careful, almost apologetic, like even just wondering aloud whether he’d disappointed me was itself a risk.
“You were perfect, Ollie, perfect because you were you, and that’s all I ever want you to be.”