Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
POPPY
Istare at Arrow’s response.
Can you give me a couple of days to think about it?
The three dots appeared and disappeared for so long before that message finally came through. I watched them, hoping he’d say, “Yes, let’s do this. Let’s finally meet.”
But I got this, instead: Arrow-speak for “No, but I’m trying to be polite.”
I’ve been standing in this bathroom stall for ten minutes, my right foot propped up on the toilet handle, and this is what I get. A soft no. Again.
I cover my face with one hand, rubbing my forehead.
He doesn’t want more. Whatever we have is enough for him—maybe too much. Once again, I’m throwing myself at someone’s feet, begging to be chosen, and he just ... won’t.
This is why I got into sentencing advocacy. Not just because of Dad, but because everyone deserves to be seen. To be cared for.
Mom always loved me—I know that. But love and presence aren’t the same thing.
She worked two jobs after Dad was incarcerated.
We had breakfast together but never dinner except Sundays, when she’d teach me to cook.
Those memories are sweet, but they were also practical.
I was home alone so much I had to learn everything: laundry, dishes, how to unclog a drain, use the stove safely, operate the fire extinguisher (could have used that one a lot earlier than she ever knew).
Her love wasn’t in question. Her time was. Her energy was.
Meeting Tim has changed that for her, but they’re in Florida now with his kids. She gets a do-over. I don’t. Present happiness isn’t a time machine for past sorrows.
Especially when that happiness isn’t yours.
I squeeze my eyes closed, wanting to pull myself out of this headspace.
I came in here because I needed a break from the intensity of the last two days.
Pain pulses in my ankle with every heartbeat, reminding me I can’t stand like this much longer.
But moving means going back out there and facing Oliver after that kiss.
I kissed Oliver.
It was incredible, but every time I replay that toe-curling, heart-stopping kiss, I’ve worried I’m being untrue to Arrow. He’s the one I’ve been wanting to pursue a relationship with.
And now I’ve thrown myself at his feet and he’s rejecting me.
I really should be used to it by now.
I start typing:
GracieLou
Of course. Your friendship means a lot to me. No pressure. :)
And then, I write out what I really want to say.
Hey, let’s tell it like it is: we’re not going to meet up. There’s no “will they, won’t they” here. We won’t. Let’s just admit that and never talk about it again so I can move forward without this question mark hanging over my head.
My thumb hovers over send.
Shifts.
And I delete it.
You’re spunky, not snarky. You’re gracious, not bitter.
Although right now, I’m feeling kind of bitter.
But let’s be clear: you didn’t delete that to be gracious, you deleted it because you know the truth: you’re a way for him to pass time. You’re not special. Not to him, not to Dad.
You’re convenient.
Oh, shut up.
Whatever I am, I’m done standing on one leg in a bathroom stall, waiting for more.
“I guess you didn’t fall in,” Oliver says when I sit down.
If looks could kill, well, mine would sting like a vicious mosquito. “There was a line,” I lie.
“No there wasn’t. You’re avoiding me.”
I shift and prop by injured foot up on the bench. My shoe squeaks on the faux leather. “Why would I avoid you?” I ask, dipping a fry in ketchup. “I’m stuck with you for the next thousand miles.”
He picks up his burger and looks me head on. “Because we kissed.”
And then he takes a bite, like he didn’t just drop that bomb.
Heat creeps up my neck, and my mouth almost falls open at his audacity. I jab my fry in his direction. “That wasn’t a kiss. That was … duress. They pressured us into it.”
“We could have walked.”
I almost laugh in his face. The only thing stopping me is that he doesn’t know about my ankle. His back is to the bathroom, or he’d have seen me favoring my other foot.
“We couldn’t have dug the car out,” I say before taking a bite of my own burger.
What is with him staring at me? “You copied my order,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I ordered first.”
“From yesterday. You copied my order. Burger, medium rare, no pickles or onions, add bacon. I get it everywhere.”
“Get over yourself. Mine has mustard.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he says, taking another bite.
I choke on a laugh. And a bite of burger, which is as delicious as yesterday’s. What have I been doing ordering other meals all this time? “Who’s watching me right now? Who in this diner is embarrassed that I took your order … and improved it?”
Something in his eyes sparks. “Improved it? You ruined it. Mustard sucks.”
“You suck,” I say, fully laughing now.
“Are you five?”
“No, but your face is.”
He snorts. “Eat your burger, Elf,” he says.
I take another bite. “I am,” I say, my mouth full.
“Classy.”
We keep eating and eying each other across the booth, like we’re both waiting for what the other person’s going to say.
Every time I reach for a fry, I’m aware of how close his hands are.
When he shifts his weight, the table moves, taking me with it.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were flirting.
When I finish my burger, I’m too full to eat the rest of the fries, so I push them to the middle of the table, and Oliver takes them, eating off my plate casually, like it’s our thing (which it kind of is).
“How was it?” he asks.
“Delicious.”
“I thought you were all about adventure. Trying new things on menus.”
I lean back in the booth, rolling my ankle.
I’m glad I remembered compression socks for the flight yesterday, because they’re doing their job, as is the extra strength ibuprofen I bought while Oliver filled the car with gas.
When I peeked at my ankle in the bathroom, the swelling was under control, and the bruising wasn’t too bad.
It hurts, but I’ve sprained an ankle before. This is manageable.
“I guess I’m not feeling that adventurous today,” I say.
Oliver cocks his head. “Or maybe you realized it’s okay to get something you actually like instead of what someone else wants you to get.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He fixes me with a tired stare. “Come on.”
“No, I mean it.” I hate that I’m starting to feel defensive when we just got through an entire meal without arguing. “You think I only do what other people want me to do?”
He shrugs, and his energy shifts, like he’s sweeping floors and closing blinds—all the steps to close up shop for the night. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Okay,” I say, annoyed, but I’m not going to press. I’m not going to make him uncomfortable.
“Fine,” he grumbles.
“Fine,” I echo.
And with that, we head to the car, me limping behind him.
Unfortunately, my ankle is getting worse. I keep it pressed lightly on the gas pedal, rotating it whenever I can use cruise control. The ibuprofen is wearing off, and I can’t take more without him noticing. Every time I have to brake or accelerate, a sharp pain shoots up my calf.
I don’t tell Oliver. What would I say? “Hey, funny story, I actually twisted my ankle this morning and have been hiding it all day. Lol!” He’d insist on driving, even though he genuinely doesn’t fit in the driver’s seat. His knees are practically up around his chin, as it is.
Besides, we’re almost to Columbus. I’ve been smiling through the pain most of my life.
If the road to Columbus is paved with stubborn silence, the soundtrack is punctuated with ignored phone calls.
Seriously, Oliver’s family is obsessed with him. He keeps grumbling and tsk’ing as he gets a new message from one family member or silences a call from another. Each buzz makes his jaw tighten a little more. How many times can a grandfather call in one night?
Seven.
That’s right, he’s called seven times in two and a half hours. It’s 10:30 p.m, his grandson is getting married in two days, and he runs that big baseball academy that sponsors half the rec teams in Rochester. Doesn’t the man have anything better to do?
“Do you need to take that?” I ask. “I don’t mind.”
“No, I’m not taking it. He’s just mad I’m missing events for his academy and wants to make sure I know how embarrassing it was to have ‘Ollie Fletcher’ on the program when Ollie Fletcher wasn’t there.”
I feel my forehead scrunch. “Man, Oliver.”
“Tell me about it.”
He silences the call. In the background, Toto’s Africa comes on, and we both reach for the dial at the same time. The warmth of his hand zips through mine, and we share a half-smile.
“You’d better not turn that off,” I say.
“No way. We turn Toto up.”
I crank the dial as Oliver drums his fingers on the dashboard. Then he starts humming under his breath.
I hold back a gasp. It’s quiet, but he’s absolutely humming along to the melody. And when the harmony kicks in, he sings along.
Oliver Fletcher is singing the harmony.
I join in with the melody, singing just loud enough that he can hear me, too.
Oliver looks at me.
I look at him.
And when the chorus starts, we rock out.
He turns the radio up even louder, and we belt it at the top of our lungs in the dark night, blessing the rains down in Africa.
We sing our hearts out, and I shimmy in the driver’s seat while Oliver is drumming his own knee. The car fills with our voices, too loud, sometimes off-key, and absolutely perfect.
“Doo doo doo da-doo doo doooo,” he sings.
“Doo doo doo da-doo doo doooo,” I sing.
And when he hits the falsetto, I can’t hold back my grin. I sneak a glance at him and bite my lip at the way his head is thrown back, eyes closed, with a completely unselfconscious smile on his face.
And my word, what a smile.
I never realized he had so many teeth. He’s so handsome and broody all the time that this handsome, happy version feels almost foreign.
Yet, fitting, too.
He has a gorgeous smile.