Fifteen #2
As the sun starts to slide behind the Jersey City skyline, I tell Oliver to look behind us, at the glow that illuminates 57th Street.
I watch Oliver as he takes in the orange and yellow haze along the street.
His eyes widen ever so slightly, and a contented look comes across his face.
I feel a big smile squeeze my cheeks. I am so happy that he appreciates this.
This isn’t a big New York City landmark or tourist trap.
It’s just a small thing that makes me smile most days, and I can see it has the same effect on him.
I can only hope it’s changing his mind about New York, even just a little bit.
“That is a pretty good sunset,” he says. He looks down at me, his smile growing, and I don’t look away. I feel a warmth in my chest, a burning that moves my body closer to his, just by an inch. When I notice myself gravitating towards him, I pull back and clear my throat.
“I wish it was Manhattanhenge. That would have made this way more dramatic,” I say, leaning over the rail to watch the river play with the shoreline.
“What’s that?” he asks, either ignoring or oblivious to the moment we just shared.
“It’s when the sunset lines up with all of the east-west streets of Manhattan. Like Stonehenge—”
“Shut up,” he interrupts. “That can’t be a thing!”
“It is! It happens three weeks before and after the summer solstice. If my New York City tour was a few weeks later, this could have been even more awesome.”
“There’s no way they could have planned that,” he replies, still skeptical.
“They didn’t, you goose. It’s just one of life’s coincidences.” Oliver looks at me for a moment, and I get lost in his eyes. They’re the kind of dark brown that feels like melted chocolate—a pool of it that I could drown in.
I walk over to a nearby bench, coaxing Thor to sit with me. He can’t manage the jump with his short legs, so I pick him up and hold him in my lap.
“He’s not a baby, you know,” Oliver scolds, sitting beside us.
“Do we know him, Thor? I don’t think we do,” I say in my baby voice, smushing Thor’s face between my hands. Oliver shakes his head at us. He yawns and leans forward, placing his head in his hands.
“These hours are killing you, huh?” I ask.
Oliver nods, interlacing his fingers behind his neck.
“I’m not sure how you’re doing this when it’s not something you’re truly passionate about.
I can’t imagine losing sleep over a job unless it was a lifelong dream come true or something,” I say, ignoring my instinct to reach out and rub his back.
“Actually, no, not even that could sway me from a full night’s sleep. ”
Oliver turns his head towards me, still holding it with both his hands. A shy smile appears on his face. “You’re weird,” he mumbles.
“Duly noted.”
He sits back and puts his arms along the back of the bench, and his hand just barely grazes my shoulder.
“It is a lifelong dream. It’s just my father’s, not mine,” he says, his voice gravelly.
“I thought he was going to disown me when I didn’t match for a surgery residency.
” I tilt my head at him, unsure of what that means.
He clarifies, “After med school, you have to match with a hospital to do your residency.”
“Like on a dating app?”
He lets out a short laugh. “Kind of. Well, I didn’t match with anyone. I’m not the most personable guy—”
“Nooooo!” I say sarcastically. Thor licks my face, surprised by my deep voice. Oliver scowls at me. “Sorry, so how did you get here?”
“Good old Andrew Cole and his connections,” he says, flipping his hands up. “Straight-up nepotism.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
“No, it’s not a great feeling when you’re doing a job you don’t feel like you deserve to be doing,” he says, drumming his lips. “I like to earn things. I’ve had to earn my father’s approval all my life.”
“So all these extra hours…?” I ask, trying to read between the lines.
“Well, those are just part of being a resident,” he rebuts. “But yes, I want to prove to myself that I deserve to be here.”
“Because your mind is constantly telling you that you’re not?”
He looks at me in a way that tells me no one has ever said that to him before. “Exactly.” He pauses for a moment. “Sometimes my brain gets in a cycle of negativity that I can’t get out of.”
“I get that,” I say with a nod. “It makes sense that since you’ve been under so much pressure to be perfect or to excel your entire life, your mind is kind of stuck in that mode.”
No wonder this guy is anxious. I feel for the child version of Oliver who had this intense pressure from such a young age. I’m so glad I made him eat bugs and come to yoga. It’s good for him. Check one for Project Oliver.
Oliver doesn’t say anything for a moment, and it takes me a minute to notice that he’s twirling the ends of my hair between his fingers.
My hair is so long I couldn’t feel it, and I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, because when I look at his hand, he seems surprised and drops it like he’s been burned.
“Were you under pressure too, growing up? Is that why you got into yoga and stuff?” he asks hurriedly.
It seems like an odd question for him to ask, but apart from clearly trying to cover up his embarrassment, I think he’s trying to match my own questions. It feels even more weird that I answer him naturally, without overthinking what I should say.
“Not pressure exactly,” I say, fidgeting with the bottom of my shirt. “Just a lot of responsibility. A lot of sweeping my own problems under the rug. I don’t know if that’s why I like yoga. Maybe.” I force a smile.
I feel a sense of contentment when I realize that Oliver asked me that question because he knows little things about me—about my brother and my passion for yoga.
He put the two together and found things inside of me that I didn’t know were connected.
It’s weird, having someone… understand me.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt that before.
Usually, when I find myself in a predicament, my head is saying one thing and my heart is saying another. But in this instance, they’re both in agreement. My mind and body are equally confused with what to do with Oliver Cole.