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“Lilly?” Oliver’s voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned to see him looking at me with an expression I could not decipher. As he looked at me, he swallowed hard and asked in a hoarse voice, “Do you guys need a ride home?”
“Ollie, we have an Uber waiting outside. You stay and have fun,” Amy answered for both of us, grabbing my coat and shoving me out the door.
And that was that. The night we almost kissed. We have never spoken of it since, never even hinted at it. The next morning, I woke up alternating between slight cringing and full-scale mortification. Every time I recalled kissing Oliver on the neck, I shrank into my body a bit and my skin crawled with embarrassment. In the weeks that followed the incident, I avoided the Harlow household, only seeing Amy out or at my place, and after about three weeks, Oliver started dating Emma, and they have been together ever since, close to ten months now. From this, I concluded that Oliver either did not remember or did not care too much about the incident and that in his mind, it was a mistake, one best never mentioned, or better still, best forgotten.
And now I groan as I force myself out of bed, needing to get on with my day. I have to do my laundry, clean my bathroom, and pay some bills. All the things adults do. And all tasks that seem dull, so I decide to whip up a batch of blueberry mini muffins instead while at the same time researching pop-up cafés. As I am scrolling through my favourite Pinterest pages, a text comes through from Oliver.
Oliver: Lilly?
Lilly: New phone, who dis?
Oliver: Oh sorry, I thought this was Lilly’s phone number?
Gosh, he behaves like an old man sometimes!
Lilly: Yes, grandpa. It’s me.
Oliver: Can’t even text like a normal person, hey?
I smile.
Lilly: Hello, Oliver. What can I do for you today?
Oliver: Smart arse.
Oliver: I have an idea for your business, your café/bakery idea.
Oh? I glance down to see if I am presentable, shrugging, thinking of how I presented myself to Oliver yesterday, and then press the video call function and get the pleasure of seeing Oliver’s face fill my mobile phone screen. Why don’t I do this more often?
“Hi, Lil, how’s your chest?” he asks straightaway.
“All reviews on the matter are pretty positive. I’ve had no complaints,” I say in jest, watching him blush.
He clears his throat. “I mean your bruise. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” I insist. “Now tell me about this idea you have.”
“Have you heard about the Market Place, down at Federation Square?” he asks. “They have a market there every Sunday.” When I shake my head, he goes on to describe the market where local small business owners can run stalls, showcasing samples of their products to test the quality of them and the public’s interest in them while making some money along the way.
“I think it would be the perfect opportunity to get you out there, see what it’s like to run a stall before committing to something more,” he concludes.
“Oh my gosh!” I exclaim. “That sounds perfect!”
“Great, because I called them this morning and reserved a booth for you for next Sunday.”
“Next Sunday?” I cry. “That soon?” I don’t work on the weekend, so that isn’t a factor. It’s just that shouldn’t I need more than a week to get something of this magnitude together?
“You will be fine, Lil. Just put together a few of your favourite recipes and see how they are received. Amy and I can help you on the day.”
“Really? That would be amazing. Thank you, Oliver.”
“You are welcome.” He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling in their adorable way. “I’ll email you the details later so you can get started planning.” He hesitates. “Do you need help with your plan?”
Boy, he must think I am incompetent. I will show him, I think with a surge of confidence.
“No, Oliver. I can handle a few ideas on a piece of paper,” I reply, my voice as dry as sandpaper, but then, unable to stop myself, I smile back at him. “I am so excited!”
“Great, well, I am going to go now. I’ve got some work to do.”
