He’d stood there in the doorway of the bathroom, rubbing the towel across his head, and wanted to know what I thought about the chicken names he’d come up with during his shower. He hadn’t tried to cover himself. He hadn’t looked embarrassed. And although I’d kept my eyes very firmly on his—trying not to get distracted by the movements of his fingers or the slide of muscle along his ribs—I hadn’t wanted to. I’d wanted to look. I’d wanted him to lose the towel. I’d wanted to beckon him closer and press my nose to his belly, inhale the fresh, clean scent of my soap on his skin. I’d wanted him.
It had clicked into place—the link between desiring his company and desiring him. Sitting there on my bed, Oliver slipping back into the bathroom steam and reaching for the clothes I left him, I’d looked away. When he next approached, I’d lifted my eyes and learned that covering up the lace with my clothes wasn’t going to be helpful in trying not to want him. Had the sheen of liquor not been present in his eyes, I might have tried. Oliver has always been able to get me to do things I usually wouldn’t. Not through bribery or any sort of trick, but because of the way he fills spaces with songs and smiles, the way he knows something will be hard and tries anyway.
“We’d better check on the chickens again,” he’d told me. I’d nodded and gestured for him to go, not wanting to stand with him watching me and draw attention to how visibly I wanted him. A night of firsts, last night. Followed by a morning of more of the same.
I can feel his eyes on my back as I give the pan a long scrub it doesn’t need, cleaning off char that isn’t there. I want to askhim for more specifics about his family—things I’ve always wondered and now have a little bit of background to go on. I want to ask him about his dating history and all these people who apparently had some firm opinions on things that they shouldn’t get to have opinion on. I’d like to tell him that “pretty” was one of many flattering thoughts I had about what he was—is, I remind myself, as he only has the clothes he came in—wearing last night. Mostly, I’d like to reiterate that I like him, and I’m not sure why that would be affected by any changes he made to his appearance.
Pan clean, I drain the sink and grab a towel to dry it. When I glance back at him, Oliver smiles. Slightly cautious, but also hopeful, like he’s no longer curling away from a fist he thought was coming his way. Knowing exactly how that feels, I smile back, making sure to put as much warmth in it as I can. Ridicule will never be something he gets from me. He shouldn’t be getting it from anyone, and the fact that he was just proves how little I understand people. Yet another reason to be a recluse.
He hasn’t started talking, which is a bit unfortunate. I don’t know what else I can say beyondhey, I’ve never dated before because talking scares me, and the way I do it makes people uncomfortable, and honestly, what is there to like about me anyway?If I tried to say all that, we’d be here for fifteen minutes. But Oliver is a good listener, despite how often his own tongue is wagging, and this is the moment he’s chosen to sit quietly and wait for me to continue. Sighing, I press both hands down onto the marble counter, feeling the cold against my palms, and try to breathe through the floaty discomfort of stress in my chest.
“Nev-v-v-er dated be-be-before,” I repeat, spreading my fingers wide and leaning into my hands a bit. Oliver’s eyes look more green than blue today—a pretty byproduct of the forest-green hoodie I loaned him. “But I’d date you-you-you-you-you-you.”
Oliver’s lips press together, and he rolls them inward, smiling just a bit. It’s the same slightly devious expression I’ve seen on my niece’s face when she thinks she’ll be able to con me into giving her the cookies her mother already said no to. Oliver—very much a treat himself—doesn’t ask for cookies. Instead, he holds his hand out to me across the island, palm facing upward. I grasp it.
“I think this is going to work out great, you and I.”
The difference between dating and friendship is apparently texting. Nothing changes between Oliver and me in the weeks following our shared confession over scrambled eggs. I still go over and help him with his house, and he still jabbers excitedly while he makes dinner. He asks about the chickens, and I invite him over to see the chicks again, the same way I would have done if we weren’t dating. The only thing that’s changed, as far as I can tell, is the amount we talk when we’re not together.
Oliver has taken to greeting me every day with a cheeryGood morning!text, usually with an emoji or two peppered in. Strange as it is, I love starting the day with those messages. Even on mornings when we’re both awake because we’re both getting ready for a job we do together, he sends them. I’m not sure whathis intention behind the gesture is, but it feels almost like a tiny virtual hug. A simple acknowledgment that he’s thinking about me. If this is dating, no wonder people enjoy it so much.
Other than the texting, which we do at all hours of the day, there doesn’t seem to be any changes. I haven’t seen any more of Oliver’s underwear collection—which I assume, and hope, exists—and neither of us has touched the other differently than we usually do. So far, this has all been a lot easier than I suspected it would be. When Shiloh was dating Dryden, it seemed like he was constantly in a state of growing pains. Not to mention his abject misery after Ewan left town, obvious enough that even someone as clueless as me could pick up on the signals. And the signals I’d been picking up were—you’re not missing out by not dating, nothing is worth this level of stress.
But standing at my front door and watching Oliver’s SUV drive up my lane, I think I can see the appeal, if only obliquely. It’s the security of knowing I’m the person he’s here to see and the comfort of not having to be alone. Independence hadn’t ever felt like a burden until I met Oliver.
“Hey!” he shouts the moment he parks and has the door of his car open. I lift a hand and walk toward him, already knowing he’s got something in the trunk that needs carrying inside. “How are you? Chickens all right? I brought groceries to make dinner.”
He grins, nudging me with his elbow when I raise an eyebrow. I’ve got groceries inside.
“I know you already have stuff, but this way, I can contribute since I’m using your gas and electricity.” I roll my eyes at this.He snorts, lifting up the rear door and reaching in for the bags. “I’m in the mood for spaetzle, and I thought maybeyoumight be in the mood as well.”
I nod, having no idea what spaetzle is but willing to be in the mood for anything. I’m certainly in the mood for Oliver, if the way my stomach is flopping around is any indication. When we walk inside, our arms bump against one another, and my heart skitters like we’re not both wearing layers and I could feel his skin against mine.
“How’s little Zeke?” Oliver asks, gently placing his bags on the island and unzipping his coat. I watch as the navy long-sleeved shirt comes into view, framing the shape of his torso and teasing the hollow of his throat. He smells like a spring day—flowers and rain and hope.
“Growing,” I answer, which makes him beam. He’s become quite attached to the three little chicks. I really hope none of them are killed once I introduce them to my flock.
“Excellent. How do you feel about mac and cheese?” He meets my eye, and I shrug. I have no strong opinions about mac and cheese. The strongest opinion I have right now is being very much in favor of whatever brand of shirt he’s wearing and how it hugs his muscles like a second skin. “Okay, well, good, because spaetzle is pretty much a better version of macaroni and cheese. I had it in Germany when I went there over spring break one year. Perfect comfort food. Also, perfect for dreary days like today.”
I nod in agreement, glancing out the window at the gray sky. It’s been a rough winter by anyone’s standards and doesn’tseem to be letting up anytime soon. I don’t mind it myself—and certainly not when it seems to push Oliver further into my orbit—but it’s hard on my parents. Mom’s arthritis, bad on any day of the week, is almost unbearable during harsh winters like this. As I always do, I wish there were an easy way for them to live in a more temperate climate. But Dad’s business is here, not to mention my sister and I. Jasmine is here. No amount of arthritis or pain will ever be enough to convince them to leave their granddaughter.
“Plus,” Oliver continues, “you can heat it up for leftovers. Sometimes I eat the leftovers cold, honestly.”
“That’s perfect,” I compliment, a ray of sun shining directly on my face when he smiles. Putting a hand on his shoulder, I lean in and press my lips to the soft hair on his temple.
It’s a quick, barely there sort of kiss, but enough of one that I hear Oliver’s breath catch. He sways toward me slightly, cheeks pink. I wait, pinching my lips together when the silence starts becoming loud. It would appear Oliver has a reset button.
“Spae-spae-spae-spaetzle?” I prompt, struggling with the new and slightly foreign word. He clears his throat.
“Oh, yes, right. That. Let me get that started, and then I can help you with evening chores. And we can give Zeke a cuddle.”
Leaning a hip against the counter, I think maybe the chicks don’t need a cuddle, but Oliver does. I watch for a moment, listening to him hum and trying to guess the song. He moves easily around the space, like this is his kitchen and he’s cooked here a hundred times, not a handful. After a minute or two, I leave him to it and go to light a fire in the grate. A cold winterday, spaetzle, and Oliver’s singing to provide warmth where the fire doesn’t reach. Perfect.
Feeling a bit ridiculous, but mostly thinking about the look on Oliver’s face when I kissed his temple, I light a pair of candles my sister bought me that I’ve never used. They smell fine—almost like the fire itself, smoky and woodsy and warm. Mostly, I’m thinking about how the low, flickering firelight brushes its fingers across Oliver’s face and makes him glow. Candles can only help.
My stomach begins grumbling when the smell from the kitchen begins outweighing the smell of the candles. I hadn’t rejoined him just yet, instead fixing a few things in the living room and tidying up a bit. Instead of leaving him behind to check on the chickens, I once more take my place in the doorway of the kitchen and admire that blue shirt. I could probably wear it, given that he and I are almost exactly the same size, but I doubt it would look half so good on me. He peeks over one shoulder, grinning, and pats the stove.
“Just put it in. Did you start a fire? Something smells good.”
