Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Toxic Fumes
I have trouble falling asleep tonight. I keep thinking about the conversation I had with Oliver about getting Ryan and Tina to propose to each other at the same time.
The idea that we could even pull off such a thing is absurd.
I should have just brushed it off as a joke, yet here I am, my mind working in overdrive building a plan that will never happen.
I think about all of Tina’s ideas for her proposal.
Ryan’s idea of proposing on the jumbotron was great, but it’s not quite on the same level as the flash mob, horse carriage, and fireworks that Tina has planned.
Ryan would need to step up his game and get on Tina’s level if a dual proposal would ever work.
I roll over, forcing my eyes closed, but it does nothing to shut off my brain.
I can see Oliver’s eyes at the stadium, green flecks on milk chocolate, the fine lines that form around his eyes when he smiles, and the dimples in his cheeks.
I roll the other way, trying to get away from these thoughts.
I make myself think about the way his shoulder pushed against mine when we were trying to cancel Ryan’s message and we went through the office door at the same time.
Or the way he grabbed my arm and stopped me from walking with Tina when we got to the stadium.
The memory irritates me all over again. I want to throttle him.
This is better. I can deal with these thoughts.
I hear my phone buzz across the room. I open one eye to see the glow from my screen.
I close my eye again, telling myself to sleep, but now all I can think about is my phone and who the hell is texting me this late at night—as if my thoughts about Tina’s proposal and Oliver’s eyes aren’t enough.
I’m never going to be able to fall asleep if I keep wondering.
I throw the blanket off myself and pad across the room to my phone. I’m surprised when I see the message on my phone and who it’s from.
Oliver
Ryan is coming over tomorrow to drop off the ring.
I unplug my phone from the charger and carry it over to my bed.
I climb under the covers and hold my phone over my face, staring at the message.
It’s a very simple and straightforward message, yet here I am trying to find a bigger meaning, like why is he sending me this at such a late hour?
I wonder if he just talked to Ryan and his first instinct was to tell me, not considering how late it is.
Or maybe he talked to Ryan hours ago, and he’s been lying awake like I am.
But that would mean that I’m on his mind and he made the conscious choice to send me that text, fully aware of what time it is.
I type out a reply.
Priscilla
See if you can get him to wait until the fair.
I wait, biting my lip. Three little dots pop up, indicating that he’s typing.
I fully expect him to laugh at me and say he was kidding about what we talked about earlier.
Then I’ll feel stupid for allowing these thoughts to keep me up tonight when I should have known it was never a viable plan to begin with.
Oliver
You’re up late.
Priscilla
You woke me up.
Oliver
And you texted me nicely instead of cussing me out? You must like me or something.
I stare at his message, annoyed at the idea that he might still think I like him. I guess I haven’t been clear enough. Before I can cuss him out like he suggests, another message pops up.
Oliver
I’ll try to talk Ryan into doing it at the fair. I’m guessing that’s what Tina’s plan is?
I frown. Even though we came up with this idea together, I’m surprised that he’s actually going along with it.
Priscilla
You realize that if this is going to work, Ryan is going to need to seriously step his game up, right?
Oliver
What are we talking? Tuxedo?
Priscilla
Way more than just that…
Oliver
Let’s talk about it tomorrow. My place?
Priscilla
Sure.
Oliver
Go to bed (:
I frown, staring at the smiley face in his message.
With a huff, I put my phone away and roll over, closing my eyes.
The bright side about not working for someone else is that I make my own schedule.
I can toss and turn all night and then sleep in late tomorrow morning.
With that thought in mind, I finally drift off to sleep.
* * *
I spend most of the day working on my business plan and brainstorming ideas for my website. I check the ad I put out last week for dancers for the flash mob, but so far there aren’t any responses.
I look at my phone. I’ve checked it more times than I care to admit, waiting for Oliver to tell me that he’s home from work and I can come over. At half past six, I get tired of waiting, so I pick up my phone and text him.
Priscilla
Still want to talk about the proposal, or did you come to your senses and realize how ridiculous this plan is?
I reread the message, reconsidering what I’ve sent. I sigh, then toss my phone down to stop myself from sending another text. As soon as it hits the couch, it buzzes with a new message.
Oliver
At band practice. Won’t be home until late.
I roll my eyes. I don’t know why he invited me over if he knew he was going to be gone all day.
I’m more annoyed with myself for waiting around all day to hear from him.
He was probably half asleep when he texted me last night and doesn’t even remember inviting me.
Now I feel stupid for thinking it was a real plan.
Also, what kind of grown adult has band practice?
Aside from actual band members, of course.
I picture him rocking out in a garage with a bunch of nineteen-year-old stoners.
My phone buzzes again.
Oliver
Come over at 8?
It’s later than I expect, but it’s not like I have anywhere else to be. Plus, I want to make fun of him for being in a band and not telling me sooner.
I brainstorm some more business ideas while I eat dinner, and then I get dressed and head over to Oliver’s. I make it there with great timing because he’s just getting out of his car when I pull up.
He stops on his porch and waits for me to catch up.
“What instrument do you play?” I ask when I reach him. “Triangle?”
He smirks. “Seriously?”
“No? Drums, then?”
He unlocks his front door and gestures for me to go in ahead of him.
“Do I look like a percussionist to you?” he asks.
I snort. “Percussionist? Okay, you nerd. You’re obviously not a drummer if that’s what you call it.”
He closes the front door behind us but doesn’t move away from it. I walk into his living room, then turn around to face him. He watches me, his mouth curved up. “You don’t know what I do, do you?”
“Well, don’t keep me guessing. What do you play?” I strum a fake guitar. “Bassist? Or are you more of an acoustic band?”
He laughs. “If you must know, I played the saxophone in high school.”
Now I’m even more confused than I was when he told me he had band practice. “What does that have to do with now?”
He shakes his head, still laughing.
I pick up a pillow from his couch and throw it at him. “Stop laughing at me! What am I missing?”
He catches the pillow and throws it back at me.
“Wait,” I say, ducking out of the way. “Don’t tell me you’re actually in a famous band and I didn’t know I was hanging out with a celebrity all this time.”
“I’m a band teacher, you dork,” he says. When I frown, he feels compelled to continue: “As in high school varsity band. You know, like a marching band?”
“Oh. Wait, really?”
He nods.
“I had no idea you were a teacher.”
“That I am.” He finally steps away from the front door and joins me by the couch.
“So you, like, go to school every day?”
“That’s generally what a teacher does,” he says.
“And you hang out with teenagers… willingly?” I drop myself onto his couch, which is surprisingly comfortable. I pull my feet up so that I’m curled up against the arm rest.
He steps over and sits down in the middle, only inches from my feet. I turn my body to face him.
“Hang out with them? No,” he says. “Although band students are surprisingly more tolerable than most other high school students.”
“I thought you were a techie like Ryan,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “I was for a while, but I always wanted to teach, so I switched gears. And I love music.”
I look down at his leg. It’s so close that he’s almost touching me.
I can’t handle being this close to him. I push my hair out of my face, and then I stand up and wander his living room.
I examine his choice of artwork on the walls and the books on his shelves.
There’s a photo of him with three men who look like clones of him at different stages of his future.
Dad, grandpa, and great-grandpa, I’m guessing.
Next to the photo is a painting of a giraffe taking a dump.
If this were my painting, I would probably hang it in the bathroom instead.
I look over my shoulder at him. He’s still sitting in the middle of the couch. “So, you decided to quit a job that probably made you at least six figures a year and instead picked one of the most notoriously low-paid professions in the US?”
“I still dabble in tech on the side,” he says. “I’ve helped Ryan with a few projects.”
“Is that how you can afford to live here all by yourself?” I haven’t seen any sign that someone else lives here.
He looks around the room. “Yeah. It’s a bit much for only one person,” he says with a shrug.
I wonder if that means he used to live here with someone else.
Maybe a girlfriend. Then again, he only moved here a year ago, and he hasn’t been with anyone for long since I’ve known him.
I continue around the room until I reach his couch again.
It occurs to me how weird it is that I’m standing in Oliver’s living room right now.
I was just here yesterday, but for some reason it feels different now.
It’s late and I’m not picking him up to take him to Tina’s.
I also don’t have an ulterior motive this time.