Chapter 7 #2
The moment Oliver steps inside and I close the door behind us, a strange awareness prickles at me.
It’s the middle of the night, and he’s in my house.
The lights are low and intimate, the fire suddenly seeming like a romantic overture instead of a safety tool.
When he sheds his jacket, I can see clearly the cozy sweats that were hiding underneath the blanket at his place, can see the flush of red on his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes, the thin green strap visible when he fiddles with the neck of his sweater, so similar to the hint of black I saw the other evening.
I point him toward the couch, wanting him to sit by the fire, and walk to the kitchen to make something warm to drink.
I should ask him if he wants to try and sleep.
I should want to sleep. But instead, I go through the motions of making hot chocolate in the near dark, less concerned with getting rest than I am with spending one-on-one time with Oliver.
It feels a little ridiculous, me going over to rescue him from a little bit of snow.
He was fine. But he’ll also clearly be better off here, so hot chocolate in front of the fire it is.
The electric kettle clicks off, and I reach for my favorite mug, silently mouthing common words in case I need to say any of them out loud.
Oliver isn’t seated on the couch when I re-enter the living room, but cross-legged in front of the fireplace.
His blanket is still wrapped around him but pooled around his hips and legs.
His eyes are on the flames, and the light washes over him, turning him from silver to gold. I almost drop the mugs.
There’s no noise beyond the crackle of the fire.
No humming or singing coming from my rarely silent companion.
When I step further into the room, he breaks eye contact with the fire, looking over at me and smiling.
I smile back, trying not to think about what an ambiance like this usually precedes.
He’s probably warm enough not to need me to stretch out on top of him naked. I’m being ridiculous.
“Thanks. Cute mug,” Oliver compliments when I give him my favorite one, hand-painted with different-colored chickens.
I sit down next to him, trying not to stare at his face. He looks nice, all sleep rumpled and flushed from the fire. He’s in my living room in the middle of the night. I take a sip of hot chocolate, hoping that a minor burn will set my head back on straight.
“Oh my gosh, the chickens.” Oliver gasps, looking up from the mug to me before his eyes settle on the doorway that leads to the kitchen. I shake my head. The chickens are fine. He adds, “Maybe we should bring them inside.”
I laugh, leaning back on one hand and stretching my legs so my socked feet are closer to the fire.
“They’re fine,” I tell him. This isn’t the first cold night we’ve experienced together, nor will it be the last. The chickens are probably warmer than we are, honestly.
We’re quiet for a length of time that I’ve never seen Oliver achieve before.
His eyes stay on the fire as he sips his drink, occasionally adjusting the blanket or his sweater.
I stare at the thin green strap that periodically comes into view, wondering.
He seemed intent upon hiding it last time, but comfortable now.
Maybe with the excitement of the storm, he’s merely forgotten to be embarrassed.
I can’t imagine what he thinks he has to be ashamed about anyway.
The calm, quiet atmosphere breaks when Oliver laughs, suddenly. He leans forward over his legs, mug cupped between his hands. I watch him, grinning. Unless he was telling jokes in his own head, there’s not a single thing he could be laughing about.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, smile wide as his crystalline eyes meet mine.
“I just had a thought. I was at the Temptress tonight, and Dryden Roy was there—you know him, Shiloh’s old boyfriend?
” I nod. I know him. Never talked to him, but I know him.
Oliver nods, understanding what I mean without me saying it.
“Well, I’m pretty sure he went home with Ryan, the bartender.
I just thought…can you imagine how mad he probably is right now?
Dryden? Snowed in during a one-night stand? ”
He laughs again, the sound low and mirthful and beautiful. I wonder if excess smoke inhalation from the fire is causing me to be low on oxygen. Yes, Oliver has always been pretty, and yes, I’ve always known it. I don’t usually want to touch so badly, though.
“Oh, gosh, I bet he’s just stewing,” Oliver continues, delighted. “Maybe they’ll be stuck together all weekend and fall in love.”
“Murder,” I correct, which makes him start laughing again.
I think about it for a second, finding less to care about concerning Dryden Roy’s love life and wondering more about why Oliver was at the bar.
Does he go there a lot? Was he with someone?
Apparently not Dryden Roy, since the man went home with the bartender instead.
Tonight could have been a hell of a lot more awkward had Oliver not been alone when I came knocking.
I hadn’t even considered the possibility.
“Well, hopefully they’re both alive and staying warm,” Oliver continues, mouth twisted into a smile as he takes a sip of hot chocolate.
“You-you-you were meeting someo-o-o-one?” I ask, going for casual but getting railroaded by my tongue instead.
Sometimes it doesn’t even matter that I’m not stressed or anxious or in any sort of distress at all.
My own body is always trying to betray me, no matter what is happening externally.
I try to ignore the self-hatred that burns through my gut and instead focus on Oliver. This isn’t the time for self-pity.
“Oh, no. I just get lonely sometimes at home, so I go sit and bother Ryan.” He grins over the rim of his mug.
“He can’t run away and hide since I’m also a paying customer.
Well, unless there are other paying customers that need his attention.
But tonight was slow. Just me, Dryden, and Ryan.
Dryden’s not so bad. I know people like to bad-mouth him, but he’s pretty nice, actually. ”
I don’t know about him being nice, but I do know about the bad-mouthing.
I shrug, trying to convey that I don’t care what people say about Dryden or anyone else.
I’ve been on the receiving end of town talk too many times to wish it upon someone else.
Even someone like Dryden Roy, whom I’m pretty sure has strong enough shoulders to bear it.
“You can come here,” I tell Oliver, surprising myself both with the ease of the sentence and that I spoke it at all. He stares at me.
“What, you mean like instead of going to the bar? When I want company?” he asks.
I turn away again. Everything about him looks welcoming right now.
Soft and enticing, skin warm from the fire.
I nod, not wanting to ruin everything by opening my mouth and stuttering.
Oliver’s lips, which I’m also now noticing are very smooth and soft-looking, part, the ends curled upward into a small smile.
“Well, thanks. I might just take you up on that.”
I nod, feeling well past my allotted words for the day. It doesn’t matter, anyway. With Oliver, it’s safe to be silent.