I turn to her with what I hope is a very direct gaze. “Do you still want me to be happy?”
“Yes,” she says.
“This would make me very happy.”
She grins.
We finish off another dessert grilled cheese sandwich.
9
Olivia
Oliver unlocks the door and ushers me inside. He hasn’t tried to continue with mindless small talk that bores him, but he hasn’t been exactly quiet either. He can’t stop smiling. A part of his body is always in motion, no matter how small. Tapping his finger against the steering wheel. Bouncing his leg at a stoplight. He’s usually very focused on whatever task he’s doing, and driving is no exception. On our ride home, he glanced over at me more than I can ever remember during a car ride with him.
“Ollie, is everything all right?” I flip on the lights in the living room. “I can make you something else to eat if you’re still hungry.”
“Everything is wonderful,” he says as he closes and locks the door behind us. “I am not hungry. Thank you for an enjoyable first date. I am very happy, so you should be happy, too. We are being happy together, just as you requested.”
He strides into the kitchen, a smile still etched into his face. I watch as he takes his evening vitamins and supplements, tidies the kitchen, starts the dishwasher, then goes all around the first floor, making sure each window and door is locked.
I have never wanted to pry into Oliver’s love life. Mostly for my own protection. I’ve already found out way more than is good for my mental health in the past few years that we’ve shared a bedroom wall. After the revelations of tonight, however, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to hold my tongue. The burning urge to interrogate him about every facet of every date he’s ever been on almost overwhelms me.
I’m not surprised to learn how much he’s given up for those women. Oliver is as selfless as they come—a fact he made crystal clear from the very first day of our friendship. I’m horrified to learn that he hasn’t necessarily enjoyed the full ride of dating. Other than the women who likely rode him to everyone’s satisfaction.
I always hated them. Always knew they were unappreciative users. Always, always, always thought Oliver could do so much better.
He’s so brilliant, yet he consistently chose women who were vapid shells. Very beautiful, very voluptuous shells, but shells nonetheless. They looked like models, smiled at everything, and could not carry on a meaningful conversation to save their lives. They worshipped his good looks and his bank account, gladly accepted his extravagant gifts, then clocked out around the one-month mark.
It never occurred to me why he chose women like that. It should have, but my stubborn need to not think too much about it blinded me to the obvious.
He was using them as much as they were using him.
He needed them to be unobservant. He required them to be attracted to his looks and his above-average joy stick instead of desiring to dig into the innermost recesses of his unaverage brain. Fancy dinner dates filled with mindless small talk were easier and safer than hours-long library dates discussing the neurochemical transmitters responsible for the monogamous coupling found in very few mammalian species.
He’s been protecting himself all along, too.
He stands in front of me, his hands on his hips, a frown replacing the smile that’s been on his face for the past two hours. “You seem displeased. We are not happy together anymore. What is wrong? I have already explained to you that living with me will boost our chances of conception because of the—”
I throw my arms around his waist and bury my face against his hard chest then squeeze him tight in the way I know he likes to be hugged. “I know. I know. You want me to be surrounded by your sexually suggestive pheromones to prime my body for receiving your super sperm.”
He strokes my hair softly then does that sensual thing where he rolls a strand between his fingers. His other arm wraps around my back. “I do not know if I possess super sperm. I have admitted that I have never been tested for fertility issues. There was never a need. If you would like me to, I can set up an appointment. I would very much hate to put you through the rigorous mating techniques I have in mind for no reason.”
I pull away to stare at his mouth with a raised eyebrow that he’ll recognize as confusion. “Why would you hate to have sex with me?”
If I needed any more proof of just how much Oliver loves sex—what he’s willing to suffer to attain that goal—he’s given it to me with his inadvertent admissions tonight.
He frowns. “As you already know, a woman only has four to five days during each menstrual cycle when conception is possible though the actual number is closer to two. The five-day lifespan of sperm allows for a bit of a buffer. You will have two ovulation periods before Thanksgiving. In order to maximize that window of possibility, we will need to engage in coitus often. You will be very sore.”
“You’re going to make me sore?” I try to remember if I’ve ever seen a woman waddling away from his condo the morning after, but there are no memories to recall. I always made sure not to be home after the nights his thumping headboard kept me awake. Which usually meant I was chugging coffee at the nearest Starbucks while catching up on reading for work.
“That is correct,” he murmurs as he stares at my hair still slipping between his fingers like it’s the most mesmerizing sight in the world.
“How many times a day are you planning to have sex with me during my fertile windows?” Even one round with the kind of heat he’s packing would likely leave me tender for a day or two.
“Ideally, three to five times per day for five days. It remains to be determined how much either of us can withstand.”
I cough through my shock.
He pats my back. “Perhaps I should have my sperm examined first. I truly do not wish to cause you any pain, but we are working against a ticking clock. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Ollie,” I sputter. “We can’t take a week off from work twice in the next two months to stay in bed all day while you pound me into human hamburger!”
His expression curdles. “I do not like that analogy.” His eyes flit back and forth as he runs through his calculations. “We will not require time off from work. Testosterone levels are generally highest in the morning, so one session when we wake up, perhaps a second if we have time before work, then another every hour after we return home until bedtime will suffice.”
“You’re almost thirty, not sixteen!” My first boyfriend was ravenous in the back seat of his car, but even he didn’t have that short of a refractory period. The length of time between rounds has gotten longer with age, not shorter.
Ollie frowns. “This is why I insist we practice before our efforts truly matter. Adjustments will inevitably need to be made depending on a great number of variables for a wide range of potential issues in order to ensure a positive outcome when the time is right.”
It pains me to hear Oliver speaking so clinically about being with me since I’ve spent many nights imagining him making love to me. I’m also dying of curiosity to find out what he’s turned up. One of the best parts of his personality is his willingness to admit when he doesn’t know something. Of course, being the genius he is, he’s better at researching an unfamiliar topic to come up with solid answers than anyone I know. He’s thorough and precise. He leaves no stone unturned long after most people are satisfied with a single source.