“So,” I begin. “Are you going to tell me what you do when you’re not traveling the world, or do I have to guess?”
Oliver pauses in midtug and his onyx eyes land on mine. “I’m a writer.”
“Oh.” That fits him. This in-person Oliver and the man I feel like I know. When he doesn’t elaborate, I prod. “Advertising? Playwright? Poet?”
“Ghost.” He grunts and the roots of a plant come flying free, spraying dirt in an arc.
“Stories?” I ask. It earns me another half grin.
“No. It means I collaborate with other people—celebrity types that want to tell their life story but don’t actually have the time or skill or whatever. Essentially, I write it for them.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Maybe—you know Carson Flanagan?”
“That Food Network chef?” I ask excitedly. “Who doesn’t know him? Who else?”
“Right now, I’m working with Penn Carro.”
I scrunch my nose, vaguely remembering seeing some TED Talk that went viral where a guy was jumping around onstage like a jackrabbit on steroids, yelling at the crowd like some WWF wrestler. “Is that the guy with the ponytail and huge biceps that tells people how to get rich?”
“The one and only.”
“God, is he as obnoxious as he seems in person?” I catch myself. “Sorry.”
But he grins, a full-on wide smile, causing his lips to disappear and his face to completely open. “In person, he’s worse.”
I smile back and he holds my gaze for a beat before dropping his eyes.
“What about you?” he asks, attacking another plant. “What do you do?”
“Painter.”
“House?” He cocks an eyebrow, teasing.
“No, but I may have to consider that soon to actually make money. The art galleries in Hope Springs haven’t been receptive of my work so far. Although, to be honest, the ones in Philly weren’t, either.”
His head snaps up. “You lived in Philly?”
“Yeah.” I try to understand his reaction.
“What part?”
“University. Cedar Park. Why?”
“I’m in Center City.”
I freeze. “I thought you lived here.”
“No,” he says. “Just helping out Caroline, after her surgery and all. And then the pregnancy—she was shocked, to say the least, so I stuck around for a little bit.”
I stare at him, wondering if maybe this is the puzzle piece I’ve been waiting for. University and Center City are so close—maybe we’ve passed each other on the street. In a restaurant? A coffee shop? A tingle travels up my spine at the possibility. But then reality sets in—it’s a feeble explanation, at best. You see people all the time, but you don’t dream about them. Over and over. Not to mention, when I first dreamt about him, I was in high school. In Silver Spring, Maryland.
“You miss it?” he asks.
I blink, coming out of my thoughts. “I do,” I say, and I don’t even realize how much until he’s asked me. “I love the city—the energy, the people. It’s so alive. Or maybe I just felt so alive when I lived there. Hope Springs is so . . .”
“Not that?” he offers.
“Exactly. Anyway, I miss all the restaurants. Indian food. Thai. Delivery,” I say, digging at the roots of the plant in front of me. “And the museums. The Rodin especially. God, I spent, like, half my life in that museum, it feels like.”
“The Rodin? I don’t think I’ve ever been to that one.”
“What?” My voice rings loud and clear in the summer air.
“I know, right?” he says, not missing a beat. “I also strangle bunnies to death in their sleep.”
“Sorry,” I say, chagrined. “I thought everyone in Philly had been there at least once. It’s like—cheering for the Eagles or getting cheesesteaks at Max’s.”
“Well, I do all those things. Can I have my Philly card back now?” He eyes me. I smile. “Honestly, I don’t know all that much about art. I only have, like, one piece hanging in my apartment.”
“Oh my god, let me guess. A rendering of the Eiffel Tower from IKEA.”
“No.”
“A canvas of horses running from IKEA.”
“Nope.”
“A black-and-white photograph of a bridge from IKEA.”
“You’re terrible at guessing,” he says. “It is a photograph, but it’s not a bridge and it’s not mass-produced, thank you very much. It’s an original.”
“Hm,” I say, but I’m laughing. And it strikes me that I can’t remember the last time I did.
We continue working, the conversation flowing more freely now. And as I learn more about him, I squirrel the facts away like I’m keeping a dossier:
He worked at a record store called Play It Again in his twenties.
He attended Fordham Community College but never graduated.
He has an energetic dog named Willy and takes him for runs often. His favorite route is along the Schuylkill River.
And though none of these facts explain why I may have dreamt about him, I realize that I’m thinking less about that, and more about the Oliver that’s here and now. He’s funny and—now that he’s opened up a bit—easy to be around and I’m enjoying getting to know him. Or maybe I’m enjoying the respite from the reality of my life—the fruitless job hunt, the endless miscarriages, the way Harrison looks at me like I’m a glass that could shatter into a thousand pieces at any time. How I feel like I’m a glass that could shatter into a thousand pieces at any time.
Just when I’m starting to relax into the afternoon, I steal a glance at him. And something about the tilt of his head or the way he’s clenching his jaw, struggling with a stubborn root, flattens me. I’m overcome with a feeling I can’t name. Maybe it’s only another flash of the déjà vu I’ve experienced on and off since seeing him.
Regardless, it triggers images of Oliver—recent dreams—to flood my mind. In some, we’re standing, shoulder to shoulder, or across a room, a magnetic pull drawing me nearer. In others, he gives me things, weird things—an old rusted horseshoe; a file folder stuffed with diagrams of various animals; a brown paper bag that I thought was going to be a sandwich but instead contained teeth, hundreds of teeth, more than could fit in a paper bag. Even though the dreams are nonsensical, they still wake me up in heart-racing panics. Cold sweats.