It would be rude to admit the truth. “I am not particularly hungry.”
She narrows her eyes. “You eat like a horse.”
“I am also not a horse.”
“You are a very large man who lifts weights every morning. You eat like your body has a high caloric intake requirement.”
I cannot argue with those data-driven facts, so I say nothing.
Liv’s eyes narrow further. She turns her gaze to the table, studying our dinners like they will give her answers. Her shoulders slump, and she leans back in her chair. “It’s the Brussels sprouts. You hate Brussels sprouts because of the strong scent.” She sighs. “Oh, Oliver. Why didn’t you remind me?”
“You wanted them. You like them. I want to make you happy.” Nothing rude about those true statements.
She glances back and forth between our meals. “Well, then why did you put them on your plate?”
“You ordered a shareable side dish. I would be a bad date if I did not put some on my plate.”
She makes an odd noise that sounds like a cross between a gurgle and a scoff then throws her napkin on her plate even though she has not consumed the usual amount of food that she eats. “How many dates have you been on that you left hungry?”
Since this is not a question about the women, I answer, “Nine-hundred and sixty-two out of one thousand, two hundred and twenty-four.”
Her eyes widen. She chokes then finally gulps her water. “You’ve been on a lot of dates.”
“You have been on four hundred and thirty-nine. That is not a small number.” Those are only the ones I know about.
Her eyes flit back and forth though she is not really looking at anything. “Has it really been that many? Oh, we’re counting multiple dates with the same person, aren’t we? And defining a date as any time we’re with the person outside of our homes. I suppose that’s accurate then.”
“I am certain your total number is much higher because we lived on different campuses for four years during undergrad, and I was not around you for much of that time.”
She nods, confident in my assessment of the situation. Olivia is always much more confident in me than I feel about myself. She is a very good best friend. She reaches out to wrap her hand around mine. “Ollie, you don’t have to entertain me with conversation that bores you. I really do not want you to ever be hungry again for the sake of maintaining social norms. Thank you for picking a restaurant you know I love, but you have to get something out of it, too.”
“I am getting something out of it. I want to make you happy.” That is all I have to go on. None of my old script applies to Olivia, apparently.
She squeezes my hand that she is still holding. “I already told you exactly what will make me happy.”
“We cannot both be happy at the same time,” I argue.
She blinks at me. “Why not?”
So many reasons. Best to use a tangible, easy example. I gesture to the table. “You like Brussels sprouts. I do not. You enjoy fine dining. I prefer a quieter atmosphere without the scent of seafood fouling the air. You want me to do what makes me happy, but I have learned not to be selfish. If I give you want you want, then I will be acting like a bad person. Like last night.”
Like the last fourteen years.
She makes a groaning noise that does not sound at all pleasurable and throws her head back so that it is lolling behind her chair.
A few of the other patrons glance at her with frowns.
“Olivia,” I whisper. “You are not being socially appropriate. Please sit up.”
She straightens immediately, wearing a frown of her own. “What if we compromise?”
I am eighty-two point three percent certain she is not suggesting we take turns being happy. I have already pointed out how that plan will not work. In hindsight, I might have been too hasty. It would defeat the purpose of doing whatever I must to make her fall in love with me if we both cannot be happy at the same time. If I achieve my goal, then we will both be happy at the same time. If I do not achieve my goal, we will at least share a child together, so we will still be best friends until death do us part.
“Oliver.” Olivia taps my thigh where our joined hands are resting. The waiter has already cleared our plates. “I’d like to stay for dessert. It’s the whole reason I love this restaurant so much, and I want to share it with you.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. This situation I am very familiar with. Women often want dessert, but they do not want to appear gluttonous, so they insist on sharing. I choke down a few bites to maintain appearances, but they usually enjoy the rest.
“Of course, Liv. Whatever you want.” I mean this genuinely.
Her eyes sparkle with happiness, so I am happy again, too.
She places her order for a disgusting concoction called an angel food grilled cheese sandwich.
I am a fan of grilled cheese sandwiches. Just not for dessert.
I remain silent and keep my questions to myself because it is my own fault that I am ignorant. I did not even glance at the dessert section of the menu.
Olivia does not try to fill the silence between us with small talk. She stares out the windows again. But when the waiter places the admittedly beautiful appearing plate in front of her, I can see her muscles tremble with visible excitement.
It is a smorgasbord of various colors and textures. Berries, ice cream, slivered almonds. Lo and behold, it does resemble a sandwich with two slightly browned slices of angel food cake surrounding what appears to be a cream filling.
Olivia scrapes away the almonds and berries and slices into a pristine white piece of the confection. She holds the loaded fork up, dangerously close to my mouth.
I am in unfamiliar, dark waters again. No woman has ever tried to feed me, and I am grateful. My tastes favor blander food, and certain textures have the unfortunate power of making me gag.
“You’ll love this, Ollie,” she whispers. “I promise.”
“Feeding each other is inappropriate behavior,” I whisper in response.
“It’s not,” she assures me. “It would make me very happy if you’d at least try a bite. If you don’t like it, you can spit it into your napkin discreetly. I won’t be offended, and I don’t want you to lie about it.”
Liv has never lied to me, so I owe her the courtesy of the same. With much trepidation, I open my mouth then close it around the offered morsel.
The typically gag-inducing cream is offset by the slightly crunchy cake. It has a delicate flavor—not too sweet and not overpowering in the slightest. It is…
“This is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth,” I mumble like a buffoon while still chewing.
Liv laughs, an unmistakably delighted sound that I absolutely want to share. “Right?”
I pick up my own fork then hesitate. Liv and I have never shared food before. I have definitely never wanted to eat half of the dessert offered to me by other women. “Can I really have some?”
“Yes,” she mumbles, motioning for me to dig in with enough enthusiasm for me to believe her.
I am barely able to stop her from licking the plate clean.
“We will have another,” I announce when the server returns to our table with the bill.
“Oh, Ollie, no. That’s not necessary,” Olivia whispers.