Chapter 36
RYAN
Oliver
Iread it three times. Then a fourth time, just to make sure the words haven’t rearranged themselves into something else.
Oliver wants me to wear a tux.
“Jackson!” My voice comes out higher than normal. “JACKSON!”
The bathroom door bangs open, and Jackson emerges naked with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and shampoo still visible in his hair. “Wha? Wha’s wrong? Is there a fire? Are we dying?”
“Oliver wants me to wear a tux.”
Jackson stares at me. Blinks. Removes the toothbrush from his mouth. “That’s why you screamed like you were being murdered?”
“He’s taking me somewhere special for our first official date! And I need to wear a tux!” I thrust my phone toward him while dutifully ignoring the morning wood situation going on downstairs. “Jackson, I haven’t worn one since—”
The words die in my throat. Since Mom’s funeral.
Jackson’s expression shifts immediately, the teasing evaporating into something softer. He crosses the room, shampoo dripping onto his shoulders, and takes my phone gently from my trembling hands.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. We’ve got time. We’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t know if I can—”
“You can.” His voice is firm but kind. “And I’m going to help you. Just let me rinse this shampoo out and take care of my boner, and then we’ll find you a tux that’ll give your boyfriend a boner.”
Jackson disappears back into the bathroom, and I hear the shower start up again. I glance down at my phone, at Oliver’s message still glowing on the screen, and try to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
A tux. Our first date.
We found a tux at the mall, and it fits perfectly.
This is either a miracle or a curse, depending on how you look at it. The black fabric hangs correctly on my frame, the pants break at exactly the right point above my shoes, and the jacket buttons without strain.
I stand in front of the mirror on the back of our closet door, staring at my reflection as if it belongs to a stranger. The last time I wore a suit, I was sitting in the front pew of a church, trying not to cry while a priest said words I couldn’t hear over the roaring in my ears.
“Okay, looking sharp!” Jackson appears behind me, dressed in casual clothes. The contrast between us is almost comical. “Very James Bond. Very leading man. Very—” He pauses, tilting his head. “Why isn’t your tie tied?”
I look down at the strip of black silk hanging loose around my collar. My hands, I realize, are shaking.
“I can’t,” I admit quietly. “I don’t—I never learned how.”
“You never learned to tie a tie?” Jackson moves closer, studying the situation. “How is that possible? You’re the most put-together person I know.”
“Clip-ons,” I confess. “Mom got them for me when I was young, and I never stopped. The only time I wore a real tie was—”
The funeral.
Jackson’s face softens with understanding. “Who tied it for you then?”
“My grandmother.” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw by memory. “She flew in from Ohio for the service. She stood in the hotel bathroom, tying my tie while I stood there. I couldn’t even lift my arms. She did everything.”
I can still remember Grandma’s weathered hands, steady despite her grief, working the silk into a perfect Windsor knot. The smell of her lavender perfume mixed with the hotel soap. The way she cupped my face afterward and said, “Your mother would be so proud of you, sweetheart.”
She passed two years later. Heart attack in her sleep. I didn’t even own a suit that fit anymore by then.
“Hey.” Jackson’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Let me.”
I gape at him, this ridiculous, wonderful person who somehow became my best friend. “You know how to tie a tie?”
“My dad taught me when I was twelve. Said every man should know.” Jackson moves to stand in front of me, taking the ends of the silk in his hands. “Hold still. And don’t cry, because if you cry, I’m going to cry, and then we’ll both look like disasters when Oliver gets here.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out strangled.
Jackson’s fingers work with surprising dexterity, looping, folding, and pulling the fabric into shape. He’s close enough that I can smell his shampoo—something coconut-scented that Drew apparently loves—and see the concentration furrowing his brow.
“There,” he says finally, giving the knot a final adjustment. “Perfect.”
I look down at the tie, then up at my reflection. The knot is flawless, sitting precisely centered against my collar. And suddenly, without warning, the tears come.
They spill down my cheeks before I can stop them, hot and silent, blurring my vision until Jackson becomes a smear of color in front of me. I’m not sobbing exactly, but I can’t seem to make the tears stop either.
“Ryan, hey.” Jackson’s voice is alarmed. “What’s wrong? Did I do it too tight? Is it crooked? I can redo it.”
“It’s not the tie,” I manage, swiping at my face with the back of my hand.
“Come here,” he says, and then his arms are around me, pulling me into one of those bone-crushing Jackson Monroe hugs that I used to hate and now can’t imagine living without. “I’ve got you, buddy.”
I let myself be held. I let myself cry into the shoulder of a guy who was a stranger three years ago and is now closer to me than anyone except the boy who’s about to pick me up for our first date.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re being human.” Jackson pulls back, keeping his hands on my shoulders.
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the door.
My heart seizes. “That’s him. I can’t let him see me like this.”
“Too late.” Jackson releases me and crosses to the door, yanking it open before I can stop him.
Oliver stands in the hallway, and for a moment, all thoughts of tears and funerals and grandmothers evaporate from my mind.
He’s wearing a tuxedo that appears to have been sewn directly onto his body, the black fabric emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. His dark hair is styled back from his face, and his green eyes are bright with anticipation.
Those eyes find me immediately, and the anticipation transforms into alarm.
“Ryan?” Oliver is across the room in three strides, his hands cupping my face before I can blink. “What happened? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
His gaze swings to Jackson, and something dangerous flickers in those green depths. “What did you say to him?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Jackson holds up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything! Well, I said a lot of things, but nothing that would—this isn’t my fault!”
“Then why is he crying?” Oliver’s voice has dropped into a register I’ve never heard before—low and protective and slightly terrifying. “If you upset him, I swear to God—”
“Oliver.” I reach up, covering his hands with mine, where they still cradle my face. “Oliver, stop. Jackson didn’t do anything wrong.”
Oliver’s attention snaps back to me, the protective fury softening into concern. “Then what happened?”
“He tied my tie.” The words sound foolish even as I say them. “The last person who tied my tie was my grandmother before my mom’s funeral. And she’s gone now too. And Jackson, he did it so carefully, and I—”
I don’t need to finish. Oliver’s expression shifts from understanding to sympathy, then to something so tender it makes me want to cry all over again.
He pulls me into his arms, and I go willingly, pressing my face against his shoulder. He smells like expensive cologne, and his hand rubs slow circles on my back as I breathe through the last of the tears.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble into his jacket. “This is a terrible start to our first date. I’m a mess.”
“You’re not a mess. You’re processing grief in a healthy way.” Oliver’s lips brush my temple. “Also, you look incredible in that tux, so I’m having a hard time being upset about anything right now.”
Behind us, Jackson clears his throat. “So, uh, not to interrupt this very tender moment, but I just want to make something clear.”
Oliver and I separate slightly, turning to look at him. Jackson has his arms crossed over his chest, and there’s an expression on his face I’ve never seen before—serious in a way that doesn’t quite suit his golden retriever energy.
“Oliver,” Jackson says, and his voice carries an unusual weight. “Ryan is basically my brother at this point. He’s the best person I know, and he’s been through more than anyone should have to deal with. So I’m going to say this once, and I need you to hear me.”
Oliver straightens, his arm still around my waist. “I’m listening.”
“If you hurt him—” Jackson’s brown eyes are steady, unwavering. “If you break his heart, or make him cry for any reason that isn’t happy tears, or do anything to make him regret letting you in? You will have me to answer to. Got it?”
Oliver’s expression shifts from protective intensity to solemn.
He meets Jackson’s gaze directly, unflinching.
“I understand. And I want you to know that I would never do anything to hurt Ryan. Not intentionally, not carelessly, not ever.” His grip on me tightens slightly.
“He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in longer than I can remember. I’m not going to mess that up.”
The two of them stare at each other, some silent communication passing between them that I’m not entirely privy to. Then Jackson’s serious expression cracks, and his usual grin spreads across his face like the sun breaking through the clouds.
“Good talk.” He claps his hands together, the sound making me jump.
“Now get out of my room. You two have a fancy date to get to.” He herds us toward the door, his large hands making shooing motions that are frankly undignified.
“Make good choices!” he calls as he practically shoves us into the hallway.
“Use protection! Remember that consent is sexy!”
“Jackson—” I start.
“Oh, and I’ll be staying at Drew’s tonight.” His grin turns absolutely wicked. “You know, in case you two want to come back here afterward for a little hanky-panky. I changed the sheets and everything.”
I make a sound that can only be described as a squawk—high-pitched, mortified, and completely involuntary. Beside me, Oliver makes a choking noise that suggests his tongue has attempted to retreat down his throat.
“Have fun, lovebirds!” The door slams in our faces.
I stand in the hallway, face burning hot enough to power a small city, staring at the closed door like it personally betrayed me. It kind of did, by existing between me and the ability to strangle my best friend.
“Did he just—” Oliver’s voice is strangled.
“He did.”
“And he said—”
“He did.”
We stare at each other. Oliver’s face is flushed, his composure cracked in a way I’ve rarely seen. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then Oliver starts laughing. I try to maintain my dignity, try to hold on to my mortification, but his laughter is contagious, and within seconds, I’m laughing too.
“Hanky-panky,” Oliver wheezes. “He actually said hanky-panky. Who even says that?”
“Jackson Monroe, apparently.” I wipe my eyes. “I’m going to kill him.”
“After dinner.” Oliver straightens, still grinning, and offers me his arm like a gentleman from a different century. “First, I’m taking my boyfriend somewhere special.”
I take his arm, letting him lead me down the hallway toward the stairs. The tux feels different now—less like armor against grief and more like something that’s mine and Oliver’s, not mine and the past’s.
“So,” I say as we descend the stairs, “where exactly are we going?”
Oliver’s smile turns mysterious. “You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.” He holds the door open for me as we exit the building, and the evening air hits my face. It’s warm and soft, carrying the scent of summer flowers. “Trust me?”
I glance up at the boy who’s been my friend since childhood, who kissed me under the stars, who just promised Jackson he’d never hurt me. The boy who’s wearing a tuxedo and taking me out to dinner.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I trust you.”
Oliver’s answering smile could light up the whole planet.
His Jeep is parked at the curb, freshly washed and gleaming in the evening light. He opens the passenger door for me with exaggerated chivalry, and I slide in, arranging my tux carefully to avoid wrinkles.
“You really do look incredible,” Oliver says as he climbs into the driver’s seat. His eyes trace over me in a way that causes heat to pool low in my stomach. “That tux is…yeah. Wow.”
“You mentioned.” I’m smiling. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“Don’t I?” He grins, starting the engine. “I spent forty-five minutes on my hair. Drew threatened to shave my head if I didn’t stop hogging the bathroom mirror.”
“It shows. The effort, I mean. Not the threat.”
Oliver laughs and pulls away from the curb. The radio is already tuned to the oldies station—my station—and Frank Sinatra croons softly about the way someone looks tonight. The coincidence is almost too perfect.
“You planned this,” I accuse.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The song. You timed it.”
“Ryan Abrams.” Oliver’s voice is mock-offended. “Are you suggesting I would manipulate the radio to create a romantic atmosphere for our first official date?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” He reaches over, taking my hand and threading our fingers together. “You’d be absolutely right.”
We drive through campus as the sun begins its descent, painting everything in gold. Students walk in pairs and groups, enjoying the warm evening, and I catch a few of them staring at the Jeep as we pass. Staring at us. I wonder whether we look as happy as we feel.
The Jeep turns onto the main road, heading away from campus. The familiar landmarks of Berkeley Shore fade behind us—the coffee shops, bookstores, diners, and pizza places that have become the backdrop of my college life. Wherever Oliver is taking me, it’s somewhere new.
“Can I ask you something?” I say as we pass the city limits sign.
“Always.”
“Why a tux? I mean, I’m not complaining, but it seems elaborate for a first date.”
Oliver is quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of my hand.
When he speaks, his voice is softer than usual.
“Because you deserve elaborate. Because I’ve been waiting years for this, and I wanted it to be special.
Because…” He pauses, seeming to search for words.
“Because I wanted to give you a new memory. One that doesn’t hurt. ”
My throat tightens. “Oliver…”
“Too much?” He glances at me, suddenly uncertain. “I know I can be intense sometimes. If it’s too much, we can turn around. Go somewhere casual. I just wanted—”
“It’s not too much.” I lift our joined hands and press a kiss on his knuckles. “It’s perfect.”