“Shh, don’t be sorry,” Oliver insists, handing me a glass of water. “Once you’re feeling better, we’re leaving.”
I gratefully take a sip. “What am I going to say?”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Oliver responds. “If they have questions, I’ll handle them.”
I groan.
“Here, eat this,” Oliver says, handing me a buttered roll. Reluctantly, I take it and nibble at it.
“Why didn’t you eat anything earlier?” he asks after a moment.
I shrug. “I wasn’t hungry.”
Oliver shakes his head. “Because of the anxiety?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Oliver sighs. “I’m so sorry. I should have paid closer attention.”
“It’s not your fault?—”
“I know,” he reassures me, then glances toward the door. “It’s theirs.”
I slowly finish my dinner roll, and we stay in the guest room until I feel well enough to stand. We slip out the front door without speaking to anyone, and my anxiety spikes again as I wonder what my parents might be thinking. Are they going to confront me about this later? Do they think this is Oliver’s fault? Will the family decide to forbid me from interacting with the kids after this?“Clearly, Auntie DEADNAME is crazy. Don’t let her around the kids.”
As we approach Ripley, I pull the keys out of my pocket and open the driver’s side door.
“Whoa, hey,” Oliver says, stepping forward and holding out a hand. “How about you let me drive, okay?”
I take a shuddering breath, then frown at him. “Canyou drive?”
Oliver chuckles weakly. “Yeah, I can. I just don’t do it often, so I might be a little rusty. But I’ll drive nice and slow.”
I hesitate, but only for a moment, then hand over the keys and climb into the passenger seat.
As soon as Oliver settles into the driver's seat, he growls and urgently yanks off his orange sweater. He’s about to toss it in the back, but I hold out my hand, silently asking for it. He hands it over, then turns to his phone. “Where should we go?” he asks.
“Anywhere but here,” I mumble, wrapping myself in Oliver’s sweater and pressing it to my face. It smells like him—comfort, safety, and warmth.
Before we hit the road, Oliver starts playing The Beatles, and the music slowly calms my nerves. I don’t pay attention to the GPS—only the music.
At some point during the drive, Oliver reaches across the center console to rub my leg. I take his hand in mine, interlace our fingers, and try my best to relax.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
“Not yet.”
Oliver’s thumb caresses mine. “Take your time.”
I close my eyes, grateful.
By the time I realize where we are, I chuckle. “Back to school?”
“Is that okay?” Oliver asks nervously. “I figured this is the closest thing we have to a shared home.”
My throat grows thick with emotion. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Oliver parks in my usual spot, and we sit quietly for several moments. “Yours or mine?” he asks.
