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I click my seatbelt into place, gnawing the inside of my cheek.
Earlier, I wished Oliver would act exactly how he is right now—distant and cold.
He was too charming at dinner, patiently answering my mom’s questions. Too daring at croquet, making me enjoy it more than if I’d won. And then his phone had to keep ringing on the drive to Canyon, reminding me that he’s busy and important and had plans for this weekend that didn’t involve entertaining my family.
But now that he’s staring out the window like he’d love to be anywhere else, I’m hit with the persistent ache of regret.
I clear my throat. “My family liked you.”
“Sorry.” His voice is dry, no trace of apology.
I exhale. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“For what?”
“Earlier. I shouldn’t have brought up…that.”
“If exhibitionism is your thing—”
An unexpected laugh spills out. “It’s not.”
“If it is, though…” There’s a teasing note to his tone, and the rush of relief is dizzying. I didn’t realize how worried I was the harm I did was irreparable until there’s a sign it wasn’t.
I bite my bottom lip to hold in another laugh. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. You can trust me. And that probably means nothing to you, after what I said earlier. But you can.”
When I glance over, any amusement in Oliver’s expression is gone. He’s back to looking stoic.
Once he realizes my eyes are on him, he nods. “Okay.”
I swallow, nod back, and then tighten my hands around the steering wheel. It’s not the icy chill from the start of the trip, but it’s not warmth either.
“I applied to architecture school the night we met.”
My eyes are back on the road, but I catch the motion out of the corner of them as he looks my way.
“That’s why I went down to the bar, instead of ordering room service. A mini celebration, since I didn’t tell anyone I was applying.”
“Including me.”
“I just told you.”
“I mean that night,” he replies.
“I didn’t know you. You just wanted me to blurt that out, first thing? I had a hard enough time getting your attention.”
Oliver says nothing, for long enough I think he won’t. And when he does speak, it rendersmespeechless. “You’ve always had my attention, Hannah.”
I’d think it was a line, a sweet sentiment that means nothing. Except there’s a sincerity to the words that’s almost angry. Like the admission is being dragged from him. Or that it’s something he’d love to change but can’t. Rather than being romantic, the words sound painfully honest.
Since I’m not sure what to say in response, I say nothing.
The silence is a charged one. Not uncomfortable, but noticeable. It feels like those six words—You’ve always had my attention, Hannah—are lingering and growing between us with each mile we drive.
The same pulsing awareness that keeps resulting in stupid decisions—like marrying or insulting him—appears, making me restless and uncomfortable.
It’s been too long for me to respond to his last comment, and not long enough to broach a different topic.
Finally, I pull into the driveway.
