Page 65 of Mr. Match

Shit. We are getting dangerously close to the reason I’m back in town.

“You could’ve just… called me up, you know? Like on the phone. Or came over to the office and said, ‘Hey, I’m back in town. How about a fuck?’”

“You and your fucks.” I laugh. But I don’t want to talk about this right now. It only leads to the bad stuff.

“I’m serious.”

“I just didn’t know how you’d feel about me. It’s been four years. More than four years.”

“I thought about you almost every day of those four years. I’m not just saying that either.”

I know he’s not.

“I pictured you at school.”

Fuck.

“Your life there. What you were doing. Who your new friends were.”

“I dropped out,” I say quickly, before he can say anything else. “I went, but…” Shit. “It wasn’t for me.”

“Hey, you know what?” Oliver’s finger lifts my chin up so I have to look at him. “I totally skipped college too.”

We laugh for a few moments.

“I mean, yeah, I’d have probably finished if I wasn’t, you know, accused of rape freshman year. But whatever. I kind think it would’ve been a waste of time. Plus, I probably would’ve never come home. Would’ve never have met you. Hook Me Up was just a stupid college gig. I had no plans of being Mr. Match for real. It was always Ariel’s project.”

This interests me. Not the part about us meeting. That was a little bit more than just fate. But the part about what he had planned for himself before that shit went down with the rape accusation. “What was your thing?” I turn and prop my head up on the hand that rests on his chest.

He shrugs, his eyes less thunderstorm and more light showers. “Bikes, maybe. Tattoos? Art? Probably art. You know what’s funny?”

“What?” I say, enjoying this morning talk.

“Nolan Delaney.” He laughs. “I kinda hate that dick. But he and I are a lot alike.”

I scrunch up my nose. “I don’t see it.”

“No, most people wouldn’t. But he’s an artist. And I’m an artist. Maybe not as talented as him. Or twisted.” Oliver winks at me. “But he puts his fucking soul into his work. I’m just a dabbler.”

I throw the covers off us and bare my body to him. “This is not dabbling. And I do want pictures. Do you have time to take them?”

“I would make time, even if I didn’t,” he says. “But back to you. Your days. Your life. What was it like? I only ask because I’ve been stuck here in my home town for a…”

He suddenly stops talking.

“Oliver?”

He just stares at the ceiling.

“Oli?”

“Sorry,” he says, distracted. “But you know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“It’s been eleven years.”

“What?”