Chapter Nine
When the black Mercedes SUV rolled to a stop in a loading zone a few feet away from me, I ignored it initially.
The hazard lights were a mere annoyance in my peripheral vision while I scanned the street for a more sensible car.
A Camry, or perhaps a Volvo, as an indicator of the upper-class life.
It wasn’t until Oliver jumped out—dressed uncharacteristically casual in a pair of slim-cut jeans, a white T-shirt, and a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose—and jogged around to the back that I realized this was his ride.
“Hey,” he calls out to me as he pulls open the trunk door, which opens to the side. “Is this everything?”
Behind my own sunglasses, I gape at the sleek vehicle.
I don’t even glance at my own pile of luggage at my feet.
The fact that I was able to fit most of my belongings—namely, clothes and toiletries—into one carry-on and one huge suitcase is a miracle on its own.
But to ride up to Maine in a car this nice? This will be a revelation.
“Yeah. This is everything,” I finally manage to say. My voice is barely loud enough to cut through the traffic noise, sirens, and Reggaeton music blaring from somewhere down the street. Together we load my mismatched luggage into the rear of the SUV next to his matching silver set.
I hop into the passenger seat and try not to gawk at the flawless tan leather interior.
The car itself isn’t brand new, but it’s clearly been meticulously kept; there’s not a single flaw in the dash or stain on the floor mats.
Carefully, I set my tote bag onto the floor while clutching my bodega coffee in one hand; it would be humiliating to be the first person to make a mess in this car.
As Oliver taps off the hazard lights and throws the car into Drive, I can’t help but notice the cords of muscles wrapping around his forearms. They tense and flex as he angles the steering wheel to veer us into the flow traffic.
I’ve never seen him not in a blazer, at least not as an adult.
The effect is jarring—I don’t want to think of Oliver as a man, let alone notice the bits and pieces of him that are attractive.
Still, I find that I’m grateful I took the time to swipe on a bit of makeup this morning even though I’m dressed comfortably in leggings and a T-shirt.
Makeup is something I normally do for me; I like the way I look with a bit of concealer, mascara, and some blush.
For nights out, I’ll add a little more—lip gloss, highlighter, whatever makes me feel good at the time.
I don’t do this for the male gaze, but I’m suddenly very aware that I am in close proximity to a male with a gaze. And will be, for months.
“Is this your G-Wagon?” I find myself asking, by way of distraction.
“Not exactly. I don’t have a car in New York.” He doesn’t look at me when I ask this, instead opting to keep his focus on the chaos as he turns onto Broadway. “This car usually lives at the Maine house. It doesn’t get driven much.”
“How did it get here, then?”
“I flew up to get the house ready on Tuesday and drove it back.”
For a brief moment, I’m so flattered that I’m speechless. He… flew to Maine to prep the house? And then drove the SUV down to New York, only to turn around and drive back? “Are you serious?” I ask after a long beat, followed by an immediate, “Why?”
Oliver does that thing he did before; he sucks both lips between his teeth, which effectively shuts his mouth into a single, tight line.
Using my sunglasses as some guise of protection, I stare at him while he does this.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess that he was choosing his words carefully.
As if he was hesitant to tell me the truth.
The silence between us stretches on for so long that I prompt him again. “Oliver?”
“Getting to Boothbay Harbor is kind of a hassle,” he admits.
“It’s a bus to a train to a bus, or a plane to a bus, unless you hire a car service to pick you up in Portland or Boston, but that gets expensive.
The house itself is on the outskirts of town.
With all our stuff, I figured this would be easiest.”
How annoyingly thoughtful. And selfless.
I move so that I’m facing forward and adjust my seat belt across my chest. Whoever sat here last was at least a foot taller than me. “Well, thank you. I’ll pitch in for gas, obviously.”
To this, he says nothing. The SUV is so expensive and well-engineered that the road noise is minimal, even as we crawl along in standstill traffic and the heart of NYC beats all around us. The effect is a muted, somewhat tense ride, during which I cautiously sip my coffee.
It’s the quietest my life has been in a very, very long time.
Frankly, it makes me uncomfortable enough that I start subconsciously tapping my feet on the floorboard without rhythm. Oliver notices; he reaches forward to fiddle with the controls on the dashboard. Shortly after, the hum of the radio picks up, the SUV filling with the music of Bruce Springsteen.
“Have you made it far with the script?” he asks.
A breath escapes my lips in a gust. “No. I was so busy packing for this move that I barely got to page ten.”
Just several hundred more pages to go.
“Same here.” For a moment, I think that’s all he’s going to say, but then he continues on. “Do you happen to have it with you?”
I lean forward to pull a very thick stack of papers out of my tote.
This is one of those errands that ended up being a time suck; I had the script printed and bound at a shop around the corner from my place instead of going to my trusted guy uptown.
The intention was to make it easier to take notes on it, but after a long wait time and a miscommunication with the print tech, the whole trip wound up taking me two hours longer than I’d planned. Hence, only ten pages read so far.
After glancing at it, he does that thing again where he presses his lips between his teeth. “Would you be willing to read it out loud while I drive? If you’d rather not, I understand. Just figured since we’ll be stuck in the car for hours, it would make sense—”
“Oliver,” I cut in, interrupting him for the third time since our first meeting at the café. “It’s fine. I don’t get carsick or anything. I can read it. Where did you leave off ?”
“Page five.”
Gingerly, I set my coffee in the middle console and adjust so that I can hold the script in my lap.
This whole exchange has me a little off-kilter, so much so that I drop the papers twice before managing to angle them so I can read.
In all the time I’ve known him, I can count the number of times I’ve seen Oliver flustered on one hand.
To hear him ramble on while he asks for my help is endearing.
Humanizing, even. Like a brittle piece of his cold, aloof exterior has cracked and fallen off. Just a tiny one, but it’s something.
From this point forward, it’s just the two of us—whether we’re stuck crawling down Broadway or holed up in some house in Maine.
After turning the radio down, I clear my throat, flip to page five, and start.
This is all I do—for three hours, I read out loud, while the towering buildings of Manhattan give way to the squatter, wider buildings of the suburbs.
I try to keep it entertaining by mixing up my voice for different characters.
Every now and then, I chance a glance at Oliver to see his sights set on the road, his lips pulled into a flat line.
It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking.
The tick of the blinker and the reduction in speed pull me out of the story and into the present.
I dog-ear the page I was reading—somewhere in the midst of episode four—before closing it and looking around.
Oliver has taken an exit ramp off the highway.
In the distance, I see a gas station looming, its LED lights blaring at full blast even in the midday sun.
“We need gas,” he says. Hearing a voice other than my own is so strange it nearly startles me.
“Yeah. Okay. I need water, too.” This is true; my mouth is dry and my tongue feels like it’s made of sand after reading out loud for hours.
We slow to a stop next to a gas pump a few minutes later. I’m quick to hoist my purse off the floor and fish my wallet out of my bag. “I’ll get this one.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Without further preamble, Oliver flips a lever on his side of the car to open the gas cap and slides out of the SUV.
I follow suit. Stifling a groan, I stretch my legs and fill my lungs with fresh air.
It’s windy in Connecticut (or at least, I think we’re in Connecticut), the landscape uninterrupted by the skyscrapers of NYC’s concrete jungle.
My hair whips around my face as I survey the gas pump.
It’s oddly colorful—the whole thing is a puzzle of vibrant blues and reds, with more buttons and nozzles than I expected.
In the center of the whole thing, a D-list celebrity in a tiny TV pitches me the gas station’s rewards system.
It occurs to me then that I don’t know how to do this.
I’ve only ever pumped gas once, when I was sixteen, on a trip to Florida with my family.
Back then, we’d paid for the cheapest fuel with cash—it was a rental car, so no one really cared.
I don’t know what kind of gas a Mercedes takes, nor do I know when to insert my credit card. Do I do that before, or after I pump?
Shit. This is embarrassing.
“Oliver?” I ask tentatively, hoping he’s still around.
When he doesn’t respond, I peer around the pump to find that he’s nearly to the door of the gas station.
The wind is lifting the hem of his T-shirt, exposing a lean set of hips and a strip of patterned boxers that peek out from under his jeans.
I clear the dust from my throat and call his name a little more forcefully. “Oliver?”