He shakes his head and takes hold of my hand. “Believe me when I say it’s not you, it’s me.”
“In that case,” I say lightly, “I think I’m supposed to say that I think you’re a bit of a tease.”
He laughs out loud and then exhales roughly. “I’m just a little confused is all. You’ve got me rattled. This was hard enough without you.”
This?
“Should I apologize?” I ask. “Or be flattered?”
“Flattered.” He lifts my hand to his lips, kissing it softly. “Forgive me?”
I have no idea what I’m forgiving him for or what he has to be confused about. I want to know, but whatever it is will complicate things—that much I’m sure of. So I let it alone.
“Chinese food?” he asks suddenly and pulls me away from the door and into the living room.
“Sure,” I say.
He points to the couch and rushes from the room. I stand in the middle of the living room at a loss. I blow a slow, hard breath through my lips, causing my cheeks to bulge out in confusion of my own.
He returns quickly with two white boxes of leftover Chinese food. Again, feeding me instead.
“I’m sorry,” he says as he sits on the arm of the couch. “This is all I have to offer right now.”
I sit on the couch beside him, unsure of why what didn’t just happen didn’t happen. Unsure, but oddly relieved. There is still a band around my finger and a man I once loved who is still sort of in my life and a daughter caught somewhere in the middle. Oliver’s uncertainty may be saving me from a huge mistake.
“I’m starving,” I say and take a box. “It’s perfect.”
He slides down the arm of the couch and wiggles in beside me.
We eat, sharing his Kung Pao chicken and my beef and broccoli. He moves in to kiss me and I pull away.
“I have Kung Pao broccoli breath,” I say and cover my mouth.
He laughs out loud. Being with him is easy. Confusing, but easy.
“So do I,” he says and kisses me anyway.
I see the lines he’s drawn—or perhaps the ones he doesn’t want to cross. Kissing—yes. More—no. For now at least.
He steals away to the kitchen and comes back with two glasses of lemonade.
“I can’t stop drinking it now,” he says. “I promise it’s not spiked.”
We sit on the couch for a long time and I tell him about Ray and Lola—the easy parts at least. I tell him about work and Mom. Cassie. More details about the lemonade book.
“I won’t touch your lemons from now on,” he says and laughs. “I promise.”
“I might be a lemon. You sure you want this?”
“Are you?” Oliver asks, taking my hand. “If you think there’s a chance this”—he twists my wedding ring between his fingers—“could work out, if you want it to work out, I mean, I won’t get in the way.”
“What about you?” I ask Oliver, deflecting as usual. “What am I up against? Some pretty young thing from work, no doubt. You seem torn, to put it mildly. Who’s my competition?”
He snorts out a little smile, then shakes his head and looks down. He closes his eyes so it looks like he’s praying or something equally strange in this moment. Then he gently shakes it off, whatever it is, opens his eyes, and looks at me.
“No pretty young thing from work,” he says. “Do you have to get home soon? Cassie?”
“She’s at her dad’s actually. I’m sort of dreading going home to the empty condo, to be honest.”
“Then don’t. Stay here and take more pictures of lemons. I’ll run over to the market and pick some up. I make a mean breakfast. Send you off to work with a smile.”
Normally, that implies sex. In this case, I really think he means eggs and bacon.
“You have coffee?”
“Plenty,” he says.
◆ ◆ ◆
I stay. Morning sunlight settles in through the window across the room, licking at the foot of the bed like tickling toes. I roll over expecting Oliver but he isn’t there. We stayed up late into the night talking. I remember that sweet, sleepy feeling settling over me—eyelids growing heavier and heavier, body sinking deeper and deeper into the couch. The next thing I knew, it was morning. I sit up in Oliver’s bed and wonder what in the world I’m doing.
“You’re still here,” Oliver says, peeking into the room.
“As requested,” I say.
He’s wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt and his hair is mussed. He sits on the bed and kisses my forehead. I’m grateful for his passing over my lips and morning breath. He holds up one finger, asking me to wait, and jumps up from the bed. He doesn’t return in the amount of time that would seem normal to use the bathroom or brush his teeth or whatever else it may be that he left to do.
“Oliver?” I call out after a while.
“Just a second,” he answers from the front of the house.
I hear coffee being ground and made. I slide out of bed and slip down the hall to the bathroom. I take a minute to refresh myself as best I can with no help from products and props.
I remember the toothbrush I keep in my purse for work and am thankful. I use Oliver’s comb and my fingers to do the best I can on my hair. Yesterday’s work clothes seem a bit too tidy for Saturday morning breakfast, so I return to Oliver’s room and rifle around until I find a shirt and pair of sweatpants. I walk through the house, peeking into the living room where I see a pillow and a blanket on the couch.
“I couldn’t wait any longer,” I say, joining him in the kitchen. I gesture at myself apologetically. “I took some of your clothes.”
“They’re a bit big, but you look great.” He points at the small kitchen table. “I had to make it worth your staying.”
The table is set with coffee and juice and blueberry crepes. There’s a
