“It was KC and the Sunshine Band,” he said, half-wounded. “‘Get Down Tonight.’”
The fact that it sounded nothing like that only made me laugh harder.
“Meh. I used to,” Oliver says now, countering Caroline. “I haven’t played in a while.”
The conversation continues over another bottle of wine—four people getting to know each other during dinner. And I’m really surprised to find that I’m enjoying myself. I mean, one would think it would be eternally awkward to sit at a dinner table with your husband and the man you’ve been having less-than-platonic dreams about. And it was, at first. But the thing is—Oliver is so normal. I mean yes, he’s dead sexy in his urban hipster way. Objectively speaking, of course. But he’s also affable and self-deprecating and funny. Actually, weirdly, in that way, he reminds me a lot of Harrison. I steal a glance at my husband, feeling warm as he spins one of his tales from the ER. It’s a classic—one I’ve heard him share a few times—from his first week on rotation as a surgical resident at Thomas Jefferson about three buddies who went out drinking together.
“Let’s call them Moe, Curly and Larry,” he’s saying. “They get drunk as skunks. Larry decides he’s going to drive home. Moe, realizing that’s not safe, tries to stop him. Won’t let him in his car. Larry, pissed, pulls out his gun—naturally—and shoots Moe.”
“Oh no!” Caroline squeals.
“So Moe pulls out his gun and shoots back. Then—then!—wait for it. Curly, he’s packing, too. Of course! So he pulls out his gun and shoots Larry, wanting to defend his buddy. Multiple gunshot wounds all show up at the ER at once.” Harrison laughs, shakes his head. “Fortunately, liquored up as they were, not one of them could hit the broad side of a barn, only sustained flesh wounds, and they all pulled through.”
Relaxed, I reach for a piece of bread out of the basket in front of me. A comfortable silence falls over the table, as everyone pushes back from their plates, the only sound the heavy panting from Willy lying in the corner, eyeing the floor for a crumb to drop. I rip off a hunk of sourdough and chew.
“Oh my god,” Caroline announces, slapping her palms on the table. “I just had the weirdest sense of déjà vu. Like we’ve all been here before.”
“Really?” My head whips toward her.
“Yes. Oh, never mind, it’s gone.”
“That’s odd,” Harrison says, slowly. Thoughtfully. “Mia got that, too. When we ran into you at Dr. Okafor’s.” I swivel toward him, and that’s when I see it. His face is relaxed, open, and I know he’s had one glass of wine too many. Oh God. No. Nononononononononononono. This is not happening. I glare at him wildly, trying to catch his attention. He doesn’t look at me. I clutch my fork, ready to—what?—launch it at him? Stab myself directly in the heart?
“Tell them, honey,” he urges.
“No,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s funny,” Harrison says, and I realize he thinks it really is. There’s no malice in his voice. “She thought she knew Oliver.” I stare at him with wide, desperate eyes and he looks at me. Really sees me. And then he shrugs. “Probably from the Giant or wherever you guys ran into each other.”
Oh, thank God. I slump back in my chair.
“Or from her dreams.”
“Harrison!” And suddenly I’m stone-cold sober, staring at my husband in disbelief.
“What?” Caroline says. “You had a dream about Ollie?”
“No,” I say. I feel Oliver’s eyes on me and I immediately start laughing to cover my embarrassment. “It was probably just someone that looked like him. Dreams are so weird, aren’t they?”
“Oh my god, they are,” Caroline says. “I have that one where I’m back in high school, but I’ve forgotten the combination to my locker, or where my classes are, or I’ve missed, like, forty-five days of school and they’re not going to let me graduate. Do you have those?”
“I don’t know.” Harrison’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t think I really dream.”
“Everyone dreams,” Caroline says, as if she’s the foremost expert on the subject. “Some are just better at remembering them than others.” It’s something I’ve told Harrison before and normally I would jump in, agreeing with her, but I’m currently too busy trying to decide if it’s better to slink under the table and lie there until it’s time to leave or fake a sudden illness and rush to the car.
Caroline stands up, clutching her stomach. “Ugh. Pregnancy indigestion is no joke. Anyway, I hope you all aren’t too full. I made bread pudding for dessert.”
“Oh, I’m stuffed,” I say, a little too enthusiastically.
Harrison stands up, and I’m relieved he got the hint—since he so clearly missed all the others I’d been lobbing in his direction. I ball my napkin on the table and scoot my chair back, ready to thank Oliver and Caroline for the delicious meal and make our exit. Harrison stretches his arms overhead and then pats his taut belly. “Sounds great. I love bread pudding,” he says. “Point me toward the bathroom?”
And then they’re both gone, and I’m alone. With Oliver. I fiddle with the napkin on the side of my plate and try to pretend that everything is completely normal. In my peripheral, I see him lean forward, his eyes nearly boring a hole in the side of my face. I glance up and offer what I hope is a small, normal smile. He doesn’t return it.
“Is that true?”
“What?”
“You’ve dreamt about me?”
“Oh.” I attempt a coquettish giggle, one meant to convey: Yes. So silly how the mind works, right? But it comes out sounding maniacal instead. More like: I’m going to slit your throat tonight while you sleep.
He tilts his head, his expression serious. “Was it before we met?”
My heart slams into my chest. My mouth turns to cotton. What? I try to say the word out loud, but it doesn’t come. I swallow, my throat like sandpaper.
“How did you . . . ? Why would you . . . ?”
Something clatters in the kitchen. A crash, more like, but neither of us moves. “Because,” he says, his black marble eyes penetrating mine, “I dream about you, too.”
My mouth remains open; a breath comes out, and sounds a little like Oh. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I don’t breathe at all. Maybe the earth collapses on itself. A meteor strikes. My body floats up into the sky as weightless as a balloon filled with helium. Anything is possible.
“Well!” Caroline breezes back into the room. “Thanks to your gentle giant”—she tosses a glinty glare in Oliver’s direction—“the bread pudding is now all over the kitchen floor. Which is fine, because I don’t think it was my best, anyway. But the good news is, I found push-pops in the freezer.” She holds up a cardboard box and then darts her eyes suspiciously between us, either feeling the thick tension in the air or just noticing the way Oliver and I are looking at everything but each other.