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Plus, it kinda freaked me out how Oliver told me he loved me after a couple of weeks. He called me a goddess, an angel, the only real person on earth.
It was weird, because I’m no angel.
He said we were soulmates, but to me he was just another guy—sometimes fun, sometimes good in bed, but barely a boyfriend let alone a best friend or soulmate.
I felt like Oliver didn’t really know me at all. Like he just loved some exaggerated version of me in his mind.
I tried to break up with him a few times, but he’d follow me around, finding me at every party, begging me to take him back. Once he even flew all the way to Malta to surprise me on a trip. He could be persuasive. He’s handsome, considerate, a decent lover. When I was going through a dry spell, he made it so easy to fall back into his arms.
But I knew I had to break it off for good. Because if he really did love me, I couldn’t drag it out—not without feeling the same way in return.
So I finally dumped him, as brutally and finally as I could. Trying to make him get the message at last.
Then after that, I pretty much had to turn myself into a hermit for a few months. No parties or dinners or dancing or even fucking bowling, because I knew Oliver would be watching, trying to find a way to “bump into me” again.
I had to block him everywhere, change my number. And finally, finally after months of messages, flowers, missed calls, and even fucking letters, Oliver stopped. He stopped for almost two whole months. So it was pretty jarring seeing him again at the engagement party. And then again at the fundraiser.
This is the most uncomfortable meeting of all. Because how, exactly, did Oliver even know I was here? Does he have my class schedule?
“Oliver,” I interrupt him, “cut the shit. You need to quit stalking me.”
He makes that wounded face. Like he’s a giant puppy and I keep kicking him.
“I’m not stalking you, Aida. I’m visiting Marcus’s little sister. I promised to take her out for lunch on her birthday.”
Hm. Possible. The attempt to make me jealous is misguided, however.
“Okay, I believe you, but you still better quit trying to make conversation everywhere I go. My husband is kinda the jealous type, if you didn’t notice.”
“I know exactly what Callum Griffin is like,” Oliver says through gritted teeth. “That stuck-up, arrogant, dirty-money piece of shit. No offense,” he adds, remembering that my money is just as “dirty” as Callum’s. And also that I’m married to the guy.
“I can’t believe he puts his cold, dead hands on you every night,” Oliver says, his eyes feverishly bright. “How in the fuck did this happen, Aida? How did he make you fall in love with him when I couldn’t?”
That actually makes me feel bad, at least a little bit. I didn’t fall in love with Callum. It’s cruel to let Oliver think that I did.
“It wasn’t . . . it’s not . . .” I lick my lips. “It’s not about love, exactly.”
“I knew it,” Oliver breathes. “I knew it as soon as I realized what his family is. They’re fucking mafia, just like yours.”
I wince. I never spilled any secrets to Oliver. But it’s not exactly classified information that the Gallos have been Chicago gangsters for the last six generations.
“Our families have a . . . relationship. I think you’ll agree that Callum and I are a better match, culturally, than you and I would have been. So there’s no point—”
“That’s bullshit,” Oliver interrupts, his voice low and urgent. He’s trying to take my hands, and I’m pulling them away like we’re playing Red Hands. “I know they forced you to do this. I know you would have come back to me, Aida—”
“No,” I say sharply. “We weren’t getting back together, Oliver. We’re never going to. With or without Callum in the picture.”
“We’ll see,” Oliver says, looking at me intently.
I’m about to stand up. I’m definitely late—Nessa will have been waiting at least ten minutes. But Oliver grabs my wrist, pulling me back down on the bench. He holds me tight, looking into my eyes.
“I know how you feel about me, Aida,” he says. “Whether you can admit it, or not.”
He looks down at my chest, where my nipples are poking through my t-shirt.
“That’s not—it’s just fucking cold on this bench!” I start to shout.
Oliver silences me with his mouth, kissing me hard and wet.
