Chapter 17
OLIVER
For the last twelve hours, I’ve been trying not to think about the fact that jerking off to thoughts of Ryan resulted in getting jizz in my hair. But every time I see his face staring at me from across the booth, I remember, and my dick twitches.
“So your dad is stationed in Germany?” I ask, wrapping my hands around my iced latte. Ryan nods; his own drink is some complicated tea concoction with honey, sitting untouched in front of him.
“For another two years, at least. He calls once a month, asks if I’m keeping my grades up, and reminds me that discipline is the foundation of success.
” Ryan’s mouth twists into something that’s not quite a smile.
“Same conversation every time. I could probably record it and play it back to myself.”
“And Marvin?”
“He’s doing well. He’s in New York City, living the high life.”
I watch his fingers trace the rim of his cup, long and elegant. I absolutely do not think about those fingers doing anything else. Nope. Not going there. Not while I’m sitting three feet away from him in a public establishment where my coworkers could walk by at any moment.
“What about your parents? I remember your mom made the best lasagna.”
The mention of Mom’s cooking hits me with a wave of nostalgia that nearly knocks me sideways. “She still does. Dad claims he’s learned to cook since I left for college, but every time I call, Mom’s laughing in the background about whatever he’s burned that week.”
Ryan’s lips twitch. Another almost-smile. I want to frame it.
“They’re good,” I continue, leaning back in the booth. “Dad retired from the firm last year, so now he spends most of his time gardening and pretending he knows what he’s doing. Mom sends me care packages every month—cookies, socks, passive-aggressive notes about how I never call enough.”
“That sounds nice,” Ryan says wistfully. “Having parents who want to hear from you.”
I want to reach across the table and take his hand.
Want to tell him that he deserves people who care, who check in, who send care packages.
I want to be one of those people for him.
Instead, I take a sip of my latte and try not to stare at the way the afternoon light catches the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.
This is fine. I’m fine. I definitely did not spend an embarrassing amount of time this morning replaying every detail of last night’s fantasy while I was supposed to be showering. The fact that I got hard again and came on my feet thinking about Ryan is completely irrelevant.
“Oliver? You okay?”
I blink. Ryan’s eyebrows have drawn together, creating a small vertical crease between them as he tilts his head forward slightly, eyes searching mine.
I’ve been silent for way too long. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.” About you.
Naked underneath me. Making sounds that would put Gerard to shame.
“About the archives. We made good progress this week.” Smooth, Jacoby.
Ryan’s concern melts into dry amusement. “We organized three boxes. Out of approximately three hundred.”
“Progress is progress.”
“At this rate, we’ll finish sometime around 2047.”
“Perfect. Gives us plenty of time to—”
“RYAN AbrAMS!” The bellow comes from across the café, loud enough to make several customers jump, and one barista drops a stack of cups.
Gerard Gunnarson barrels toward our booth with his arms outstretched and a grin threatening to split his face in half.
Ryan barely has time to be alarmed before Gerard thrusts his massive hand out for a high-five. “Bestie! Hit me!”
Ryan stares at the offered palm as though it might bite him. “Gerard, we talked about this.”
“High-five, Ryan. Don’t leave me hanging.”
With a resigned sigh that I find unreasonably adorable, Ryan reaches up and slaps Gerard’s palm. The sound echoes through The Brew, and Gerard lets out a whoop of triumph.
“That’s my bestie! Learning already!” He slides into the booth next to me, forcing me to scoot over until I’m practically pressed against the window. “So, Ryan. Oliver. My two favorite people who aren’t Elliot.”
“I’m touched,” I droll.
“You should be. Now, listen up because I have incredible news.” Gerard leans forward conspiratorially, though his version of conspiratorial is still louder than most people’s normal speaking volume. “Tonight. The Grotto. Fifties night.”
Ryan blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The Grotto! You know, that cool place downtown where you can eat, drink, and dance? They’re doing a fifties theme tonight. Poodle skirts, leather jackets, milkshakes, the whole deal.” Gerard’s eyes are practically sparkling. “And we’re going. The whole team. It’s going to be amazing.”
“Gerard,” I interject, “have you actually asked the team?”
“I’m asking now!” Gerard twists in his seat and cups his hands around his mouth. “HEY! HOCKEY TEAM! FIFTIES NIGHT AT THE GROTTO TONIGHT! WHO’S IN?”
The Brew goes momentarily silent. Then, from various corners of the café:
“HELL YEAH!” That’s Drew, sprawled in an armchair near the window with Jackson.
“I suppose.” Kyle’s voice drips resignation from somewhere near the counter, where he’s been watching—lurking—Alex work.
“Sounds fun!” Nathan adds, his enthusiasm matching Gerard’s.
“I’ll clear my schedule,” Elliot calls as he emerges from the restroom. The dry amusement in his voice is palpable.
“Alex?” Gerard prompts.
A pause. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: “Okay.”
“UNANIMOUS!” Gerard throws his arms up in victory. “The motion carries! Fifties night is officially a team event!”
I glance at Ryan, who looks like he’s been hit by a very enthusiastic truck.
“Ryan.” Gerard turns the full force of his attention back to our booth. “You’re coming, right? Bestie duties require attendance at all team social events.”
“I don’t think that’s an actual rule.”
“It is now. I’m making it one. Oliver, back me up.”
I should probably help Ryan escape. Give him an out, a graceful excuse to retreat into his comfort zone without feeling pressured.
But the truth is, I want him there. Want to see him awkward, out of place, and utterly himself.
Want to dance with him, maybe, if the universe is feeling generous.
Want to keep building this thing between us, whatever it is, wherever it’s going.
“It would be fun,” I say, meeting Ryan’s eyes. “No pressure, but…I’d like it if you came. Plus, the fifties are right up your alley, aren’t they?”
Ryan’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, and the tight line of his mouth softens at the corners. His eyes, fixed on mine, flicker with something I haven’t seen since we were kids climbing the oak tree in my backyard—that moment of hesitation before taking the leap to a higher branch.
“Just wear what you’re wearing now, and you’ll fit right in,” Gerard says, sensing Ryan’s uncertainty.
Ryan glances down at his attire. “I…suppose that’s true.”
“Is that a yes? Please say yes. I’ll owe you one. I’ll owe you so much. I’ll name my firstborn after you.”
“Please don’t.”
“Ryan Gunnarson has a nice ring to it—”
“Fine!” Ryan holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, I’ll go. Just…stop talking about naming children after me.”
Gerard launches himself across the table and engulfs Ryan in a hug. Ryan goes rigid, then slowly, tentatively, pats Gerard’s broad back.
“This is going to be the best night ever!” Gerard releases Ryan. “I have to plan my outfit! And practice my dance moves!” He’s already halfway across the café before he turns back. “Eight o’clock! Don’t be late!” And then he’s gone, flip-flops slapping on the linoleum, leaving chaos in his wake.
Ryan stares after him, slightly shell-shocked.
“Thanks for agreeing to come tonight,” I say to him. “I know it’s not really your scene.”
The corners of his mouth twitch downward for a second before he steadies them. I find myself leaning forward, waiting for what he is about to say, without meaning to.
“It’s not,” he admits quietly. “But I’m trying to be more present and involved. Jackson keeps telling me I need to stop hiding, and maybe he’s right.”
“Jocks usually are.”
That earns me a small smile, and it’s like the sun breaking through clouds. I want to bottle that smile, keep it safe, make it appear whenever Ryan needs to be reminded that he’s worth knowing.
“Besides,” Ryan adds, his voice dropping even lower, “you’ll be there. That makes it easier.”
My heart does something. Flip, stutter, soar—I’m not sure which, maybe all three at once. “I’m glad. Uh, that I make it easier, I mean. I want to”—I stop, recalibrate—“I want us to be friends again. Real friends. Not just people who used to know each other.”
Ryan holds my gaze. My fingers twitch against the table, and I curl them into my palm, pressing my fist against my thigh under the table where he can’t see it.
“I want that too,” he says finally. “I think I always did. I was just too scared to admit it.”
“Well,” I say, lifting my coffee in a mock toast, “here’s to not being scared anymore.”
Ryan picks up his tea and touches his cup to mine. “To not being scared,” he echoes.
Outside, the summer sun beats down on the campus. Inside, a new friendship is forming. A bigger, stronger, better version of the one we had as kids.
Hopefully, this time, it lasts forever.