Chapter 12 #2
It won’t feature in any highlight reels for amazing speeches, but at least I didn’t mess it up. I’m not sure it says great things when you’re pleasantly surprised by your own mediocrity.
I stumble off the stage, my legs weak with relief. Luckily my table is at the front of the room, so I don’t have to stumble too far.
I’m sitting at a table with a host of interesting people, but as fascinating as I find the conversation swirling around me, it seems my eyes have a will of their own. And there seems to be one destination they continually want to return to.
Oliver.
Oliver, with his chin resting on his hand as he listens attentively to the other speakers. Oliver, his forehead slightly scrunched as he talks to the guy next to him. Oliver, glancing up to catch me staring at him.
Yeah, that happens a few times because I’m not naturally gifted in subterfuge. The first time his eyebrows shoot up. The second time, he offers me a quick smile before his neighbor demands his attention.
But the third time, we catch each other’s eyes across the room, and our gazes intertwine like they are tied together by some hypnotic force.
A small line develops on Oliver’s forehead as if he’s confused that neither of us appears capable of ripping our eyes away from the other.
Maybe it’s because Oliver and I are usually deep into our message chat by this time of night, so our brains are now instinctively drawn to each other.
I’m not sure if sharing this theory with Oliver would be a good thing though. I still don’t know if Oliver messages me out of pity and what he believes is his duty to the crown.
When dinner ends, I have an urge to talk to Oliver. Will it be too obvious if I head straight over to him?
It turns out I can’t anyway because I’m beset by people wanting to speak to me.
It’s not until later in the evening, when I see him slip off onto the balcony, that I can’t help following him.
It’s cold out here, a bitter wind whipping off the Thames, which I’m guessing is why the balcony is as desolate as a ghost town.
Oliver turns when he hears the door open, his expression polite. When he sees me, his face softens and he smiles, one of his lips springing up so his smile becomes lopsided. My heart goes off like a jackhammer on double pay.
“Hey,” is my original opening line, really showcasing the height of my linguistic prowess. I stop next to him on the balcony.
“I enjoyed your speech. Well done,” he says.
His praise makes me flush.
“Thanks. So how do you know Nastia?” I ask the question I’ve wanted to ask since I saw them interacting. “It seems like you know each other quite well.”
Oliver stares out over the water, his expression solemn. “I come to all the Emphysema Foundation events. My grandad was on a portable ventilator for the last ten years of his life, so I guess you can say it’s personal to me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Oliver.” Without thinking, I reach out to touch him, putting my hand on his arm. The fabric of his tux is soft and warm under my palm.
Oliver stares at my hand, an odd expression overtaking his face.
Right.
I know we Americans are generally more touchy-feely than the British. Maybe the British are on to something. From the way my heart is pounding, it doesn’t feel very beneficial to my health to continue touching Oliver. And that’s without his bodyguard breaking my fingers.
I withdraw my hand slowly.
Oliver’s throat works for a few moments before he speaks. “My grandad is the reason I got into politics. He was a coal miner, and he never had proper protection for his lungs. And the mining company refused compensation when he became sick.”
“That’s horrific.”
His eyes swivel back to me, his gaze intense. “It’s just a demonstration of why good government is so important. We need laws in place to protect every member of society.”
I stare at him, transfixed by the passion on his face, before I snap back to the issue we’re discussing.
“I think you’re doing a better job here with not having your democracy hijacked than what’s going on in America.
You’ve got much stricter rules around political donations, which stops the soft money spent by PACs and super PACs.
The First Amendment makes it harder for us to restrict political donations. ”
Oliver just stands there, blinking at me.
“I wasn’t aware that intercountry comparisons of political regulations were in your wheelhouse,” he says finally.
My face attempts to blush again. “I was a politics major for a few months in college, and I found it interesting to look at how different countries run their political systems,” I mutter.
“Is there any topic you’re not interested in?” Oliver’s tone doesn’t contain any mockery. He seems genuinely interested in my answer.
I shrug. “I haven’t found one yet. Although I have to admit, The Cultural Significance of Paint Drying has yet to pique my interest.”
His lips twist into a smile. It’s his slightly crooked one again, his right lip quirking up more than his left.
I have no idea why I find Oliver’s asymmetrical smile fascinating, but it appears I want to study it more than anything I’ve studied in my life.
Perhaps I should enroll for a Ph.D. in Oliver Hartwell’s Lopsided Grins.
“I’m really interested to hear your opinion about the systems of different countries,” Oliver says.