Chapter 14 #2
He chuckles and I try to pretend I didn’t just say inside leg to the potential love of my life as he finally considers his seating options. The open seat next to me on the sofa or the empty chair. When he takes the chair, the rollercoaster inside my stomach pitches straight down.
‘Had to wean myself off the sweet stuff.’ He nods at my drink, the whipped cream on top deflating almost as quickly as I am. ‘Caffeine addiction is one thing but I was this close to losing all my teeth. Black coffee only for me.’
‘So Hemingway of you,’ I tease.
‘I don’t think Ern would be my biggest fan,’ he returns with a wry smile. ‘I’ve never shot a gun and if I ever came face to face with a lion, I’d be dead within three minutes.’
‘Maybe more of an L. Frank Baum then. Supposedly he drank a ton of coffee when he was writing the Oz books. Said he liked it strong enough to float a spoon.’
‘It would be a miracle if the only thing he was on when he wrote those books was coffee.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I say innocently. ‘Talking scarecrows and tin men and cowardly lions? Completely normal, everyday characters in Kansas.’
‘What about the witches?’
‘Yeah, they’re more of a Massachusetts thing,’ I confirm, reaching for my mocha. ‘Pretty easy to get a hold of, you can hire them on Etsy.’
My internal rollercoaster clicks its way back up to the top of the track when he looks at me, the easy conversation flowing.
I know it’s stupid to get too excited too quickly but it’s almost impossible.
Besides, isn’t that the entire point of spending time with someone you like?
If you don’t get butterflies when they look your way then there’s no point leaving your house in the first place.
I’m not saying it’s a good idea to skip to the end five minutes into a first date but when I brave a glimpse into Oliver’s grey-blue eyes, it’s not difficult to imagine what might come next.
His strong hands wrapped around the stark white mug, the tendons in his forearms flexing, the way his throat contracts as he swallows.
I take a deep breath in through my nose to ground myself but the warm smell of coffee and the scent of Oliver’s leather jacket only push me closer to the edge.
‘How was Quinn? Did he spring an insanely convoluted essay question on you?’
‘Oh my God, yes!’ I slam my mug down on the table with so much force, my blue hand is now also covered in coffee. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because he does it every year.’ Oliver shakes his head, eyes closed. ‘The man is one big power trip. People apply to Hemden from all over the world just to take his course and how does he repay them? By throwing them right in the fire and watching them burn. Which book did he choose?’
I flip through my bag, searching for my notes, because I have no idea, even though it was literally the only thing I could think about ten minutes earlier.
‘Uh, David Copperfield?’
He scoffs and takes another sip of black coffee before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Think yourself lucky, it was Martin Chuzzlewit last year. Doesn’t matter, you’ll ace it, I’m certain.’
‘And what exactly are you basing that prediction on?’
‘The fact you’re here.’
He crosses his legs and his knee brushes against mine. When he doesn’t move it away, I’m retroactively thrilled that he chose to sit in the armchair instead of beside me on the sofa.
‘If you weren’t clever enough to kill it, you wouldn’t be at Hemden, and Quinn personally vets everyone who applies for his class. He must think you’re up to it.’ He gazes out at me from under a heavy fringe of dark blond lashes and I go limp. ‘I bet you’re brilliant.’
‘I feel brilliant,’ I whisper back before my eyes pop wide. ‘What I mean is, I feel brilliant now I know that. I didn’t realize Quinn hand-picked his class. I guess he must have some kind of faith in me.’
‘Clever, pretty and humble?’ Oliver’s eyes slip skyward and he takes a deep breath in. ‘You’re a dangerous one, Mia.’
‘Only when I’m behind the bar,’ I say, blushing so fiercely I’m worried my actual face might melt. ‘For real, you were smart not to come inside last night. I broke more bottles than I served.’
‘Was Alice playing Coyote Ugly again? She’s been told not to climb on the bar.’
‘If only,’ I laugh, even as I’m silently freaking out at the thought. ‘No, just me and my own clumsy hands. Somehow I don’t think I’m destined to be a famous mixologist.’
‘Somehow, I don’t think so either.’ He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, close enough for me to see a tiny scar in his left eyebrow. ‘I think you’re destined for much greater things.’
All the words I have accumulated in almost twenty years on this planet dissolve into a syrupy sludge, not a single one available to me in that moment and so, instead of a witty comeback or a coquettish riposte, I snort out a laugh so loud, everyone in The Snug turns to stare at me.
Even Ethan manages to tear his attention away from some blonde girl who has found her way onto his sofa.
Oliver’s trademark sleepy half-smile flickers momentarily and I have to marvel at my ability to ruin a perfectly good moment.
‘So, I wanted to say thank you for the playlists,’ I say, rushing to pull his iPod out from my bag and press it into his hand before he can make an excuse to up and leave. ‘They were so great, so much new stuff on there I hadn’t heard before.’
He holds it up in acknowledgement then unravels the cord of the earbuds that I’ve wrapped around it, gently looping it lengthwise instead of across. Wow, I even found a way to mess that up. Impressive, Mia.
‘What did you like best?’ he asks, raising one rakish eyebrow. ‘And yes, I will judge your answer so be warned.’
‘At least you’re honest,’ I reply, rubbing my bracelet to soothe myself because is he even joking?
Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit. ‘“Silver Springs” was my absolute favourite,’ I tell him, biting my lip when he offers a tight grimace in return and I try to remember the other song titles I’d memorized, the ones I thought he’d be most impressed by.
‘You were right about the Radiohead too, so, um, cerebral. Like, transcendent math rock.’
‘Exactly! That’s exactly how I would describe them.’
Which is a relief because I’d spent a whole hour in the library before class reading every available comment, reviews and analysis of this damn band I could access on our limited network and it was still endless.
Men online had very, very strong feelings about them.
Disturbingly strong, if I’m being honest.
‘I’ve always called Thom Yorke’s voice fragile titanium. There’s no one else like him in the entire world. I’m so, so happy you get them. A lot of people don’t.’
He sits back and stares at me with a degree of wonder that almost makes me uncomfortable.
‘You know, if you’re stressed about that Dickens essay, I’d be more than happy to help you with it.
Not that you need my help, I’m sure, but I don’t think I had a single seminar with Quinn last year that didn’t end in a stiff drink.
Having an accountability partner might help you get through it with your liver intact. ’
Okay, so he isn’t exactly demanding I allow him to tell me how he ardently admires and loves me, but offering to protect me from the scurrilous Dr Quinn is almost as romantic.
‘When’s the essay due?’ he asks.
‘Monday, nine a.m.’ My hands shake as I raise my mocha to my mouth as nonchalant as possible. Honestly not that nonchalant at all. Almost entirely chalant. ‘He’s given us a whole five days.’
‘Such a generous soul. How many words?’
‘Two thousand.’
‘Pssht, you could knock it out in your sleep.’ Oliver’s eyes sparkle. ‘Why won’t we set up some study dates, work through the pain together?’
I like the sound of study dates a lot more than I liked the sound of accountability partners.
‘I’m all yours,’ I tell him and damn if it isn’t the truth.
‘Mia.’ He leans in towards me, eyes fixed on my mouth. ‘You’ve got a little …’
When he gently brushes a fingertip against my lower lip, I’m quivering. But when he swipes away a fleck of whipped cream and raises the same finger to his mouth and licks it clean, I almost implode.
‘Delicious,’ he murmurs as my entire body liquifies. ‘I’ve been denying myself the sweet stuff for too long.’
‘It’s never too late to start up again,’ I reply, my voice shaky and high-pitched and deeply unsexy but Oliver doesn’t seem to mind.
‘Giving in to pleasure isn’t good for creativity though. All the best songs are about heartbreak.’
Definitely a Tortured Poet and not a Showgirl.
‘You’re saying black coffee inspires good writing and a whipped cream mocha latte doesn’t?’
He picks up my mocha and takes a sip, his lips touching the spot my lips touched only seconds ago.
‘I’m saying happy people don’t create meaningful art. At least not very often. But …’ he hands me the mug and our fingers touch, the sensitive skin tingling on contact, ‘there’s always an exception to the rule. Especially if an artist finds their muse.’
Fuzzy vision, parted lips, my mind swimming.
This is the exact moment I have been dreaming of ever since my English teacher gave up trying to make the class read Pride & Prejudice and let us watch the Kiera Knightley adaptation instead, inadvertently and fundamentally changing my DNA forever.
This is my hand flex. This is my Mr Darcy.
Only instead of leaning in to touch his lips to mine, he jerks his head away, leaving me cold.
‘Oh shit, is that the time?’ Oliver’s eyes flick over to the clock on the wall and flash wide. ‘I’m going to be late for band practice.’
‘But you only just got here—’
I start to protest then shut myself down. I can’t say for sure but I assume the muse is usually very chill and doesn’t complain when their artist is called away by their art.
‘What are you up to Friday night?’ he asks, slipping the iPod into his messenger bag before standing to leave. ‘We could dig into that essay of yours if you’d like?’
‘I would like. I would definitely like.’
‘Same place, same time?’ he suggests, shrugging on his leather blazer. ‘One taste of that fancy coffee of yours and I’m as good as addicted.’
‘I’ll be here,’ I promise. ‘Fancy coffees on me.’
‘It’s a date.’
He said it, not me. It’s official this time.
There are no more words, we’ve said all that needs to be said and I’m flying as I watch him leave. My karmic reward for last night’s shitshow at Members and the trauma of Dr Quinn’s lecture. Everything I ever wanted and it’s all mine.