Chapter 11 #3
The spaetzle is, as all things Oliver touches are, delicious.
My eyes practically roll into the back of my head when I take the first bite, earning myself another pretty blush and a pleased look from Oliver.
We hardly talk until I’m coming back from the kitchen with a plate full of seconds, Oliver reclined on the couch with his feet stretched toward the fire.
His hands are resting on his belly, and the firelight shines off his light hair.
The room is dark, and although it’s not snowing outside, I can’t help but think about all the ways this night is similar to those we shared during the storm.
I also can’t help but give in to the small burn of hope that maybe he’ll still be around to enjoy the snow with me next year.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks when I reclaim my spot next to him.
Turning so I can enjoy the play of warm light over his cheekbones as I eat, I give the little shrug-nod combo that means nothing.
“Want to help me do the blinds? I’ve got some jerry-rigged ones up in the bedroom, but none of the other windows are covered.
I saw an episode of Dateline the other day about a stalker where this man was standing outside this poor woman’s house in the dark, watching.
But because she was backlit by the light from the room, he could see her perfectly, and she couldn’t see him at all. Terrifying.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. He grins, chuckling softly.
“No, I don’t have a stalker. But I don’t want the deer watching me either.”
“I’ll help.”
Of course I will. I’d have helped with everything if he’d asked me from the beginning. I wish I’d realized sooner what he was doing over there on his own. And, now that I think about it, I’m not the only one who is capable of assisting either.
“My dad can help with things, too.”
Oliver tilts his head, cocking it just slightly where it’s resting on the back of the couch.
I shrug, not feeling up to giving him the entire list of skills my dad and I have between us, but trusting it’s also not necessary.
Sometimes I wonder if Oliver can read my mind with how well he picks up on the things I don’t say out loud.
“Really?” he asks. “That would be kind of nice, actually. Might help get some things done quicker. Once spring finally gets here, I’m going to have to go up and check out the roof. Yesterday, I noticed a damp spot on the floor. I think I might have a leak.”
I close my eyes for a brief moment. That fucking house.
“And I can’t do the floors myself, no matter how many how-to videos I watch.
Now, tiling…I think I might be able to manage that.
” I shake my head and point at myself. He adds, “Well, we can manage it together, anyway. My problem is picking out things, to be honest. I decided on some subway tile for the bathroom, and then now I’m looking at your bathroom and going… actually, maybe I’ll change it.”
He grins at me when I snort a laugh, popping another forkful of spaetzle into my mouth. This might be the best thing he’s ever cooked, and that is truly saying something. I wonder if he’d be willing to share the recipe; my sister might be able to make it for my niece.
“So, I don’t know. I’m in limbo a little bit.
Also, I called about the heater. Yes, I know, finally.
” He glances at me, playfully rolling his eyes.
“And they can’t get anyone out until next week.
I told them what had been going on, and they quoted me an estimate, and it is…
not good. So, might have to hold off on everything else right now.
Other than the stuff I already have materials for, obviously. ”
I nod, still working my way slowly through the second helping of dinner.
Livable is the goal with his house right now, with comfort coming in at a very close second.
A roof leak isn’t great. Slightly functioning but mostly faulty heat in winter also isn’t great.
Live here, with me, I want to offer, and for one of the first times in my life, I’m glad for the stutter in helping stay my tongue.
Oliver sits somewhat quietly as I finish eating, hands resting on his belly and eyes on the fire.
Every now and then, he’ll hum a little bit, eyelashes fluttering like he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open.
When I finish, he blinks, rousing enough to push halfway up from the couch and reach for my plate as though to take it.
I intercept his hand, shaking my head. If you cooked, you don’t also clean.
He trails me into the kitchen anyway, arms lifting over his head and back arching into a stretch that bares a pale strip of skin above his waistband.
As I rinse the plates at the sink, he stands behind me, chin hooked onto my shoulder and hands very lightly resting on my hips—both of us testing the waters of this thing, pressing gently against the barriers of our friendship to see what shifts with us.
I’m starting to learn how things have changed between us, but the differences are so small it doesn’t hurt to accommodate them.
We do so much of the same stuff we used to, and he hasn’t altered the way he speaks or acts around me.
The difference is more at a cellular level—a current of awareness that makes my body thrum when he’s near, the sensitive hair on the back of my neck seemingly always standing at attention, straining for him.
And now this—the length of him pressed closely enough I can feel the heat of his body through my shirt, a line of warmth down my spine and ten points of contact where the pads of his fingers are resting.
If I were to turn around, we’d be face-to-face, and I could try something else I never thought I’d have the chance to experience.
“Very clean. Solid work,” he murmurs, mouth so close to my ear I shiver. Huffing a soft laugh, I turn my face. My lips brush his cheek, so I press a little closer, kissing him opposite of where I did earlier. This time, there’s a pleased smile instead of a blush.
He backs away then, helping me wipe down the rest of the kitchen and pack up the leftovers.
It makes it easier to do the dishes, but also makes it less enjoyable.
He’s no longer touching me, but I’d swear I can still feel his hands on my hips and the sharp point of his chin pressing into my shoulder.
I can’t smell spaetzle any longer, just flowers.
The fifteen minutes it takes us to put the kitchen in order gives me just long enough to dream up a scenario where Oliver is touching me again, and I’m touching him back, searching for anything that might be hidden beneath blue jeans and fear.
I’ve had fifteen minutes to mentally practice a few things I’d like to say, starting with a reiteration of how much I liked what he was wearing the other night and how much I’d enjoy seeing more.
I’m well practiced in shame, in hating parts of myself that are “other.” I know precisely how it feels to be painted as wrong in a room full of people who are considered right.
Oliver might be able to read me well, but I’m starting to become just as adept with him.
He hadn’t been fully convinced after our conversation following the drunken evening, and the lack of him bringing it up again is glaring.
Oliver doesn’t shy away from conversations.
He might talk around things and scatter into side tangents, but he does talk.
The absence of this one means he’s avoiding it on purpose, and the only reason he’d do that is because he’s frightened.
Because he’s been taught that wearing pretty underwear and perfume is something dirty, something he needs to hide.
He doesn’t have to hide it from me, and stutter or not, it’s my job to make sure he knows that.
Words are something I have to work up to, though, so the fifteen-minute kitchen clean isn’t quite enough time for me to fully practice the sentences.
Fifteen minutes was enough time for Oliver to grow weary of silence, though, if the way he is currently monologuing on different types of wood flooring is any indication.
I make us mugs of tea and nudge him back toward the living room.
Talking is easier in lighting that isn’t so harsh, and I’m really starting to appreciate the things fire does for Oliver.