"I guess not." I stab a green bean. "But it's not the same."
"It's not."
"I know it's nothing. Compared to your parents."
He shakes his head. "You thought they were happy." His voice softens. "They were happy. I saw them. They were in love. My parents… I vaguely remember Dad playing Every Little Thing She Does is Magic. Telling me the song perfectly defined love. Then playing it for Mom." He motions to the living room. "Taking her arm. Dancing the whole time."
"The Police, huh?" I bite my green bean in half. "I see that."
He motions they're okay. "I kind of remember weekends at the beach. Mom sitting on a blanket with a book. Dad gushing over her swimsuit. I didn't get it then. But the way he looked at her… it was love. I knew it. I didn't know what it meant, I still thought girls were icky, but I knew it."
"I know that look."
"They had it."
"Until recently." I try to remember the last time either of my parents looked at the other with love. Everything blurs together. A dinner alone. A quiet night. A smile as they wished me goodbye. Was that it? When they dropped me off at the airport? They had a look, but was it love? Or did they already know it was the end?
"It sucks. And…"
"It's going to keep sucking?"
He nods. "Until everything is final. And after that…" He looks into my eyes. Looks for something. "It takes a long time to feel normal. After shit changes."
"Yeah."
"Maybe… if you want to talk, I can listen. Or… if you'd rather not think about it, I can find you a distraction."
"You can?"
"Yeah. I know just the thing too."
"You do?"
He nods hell yeah. "The perfect way to keep your mind occupied."
Okay, I'll bite. "What is it?"
Chapter Eighteen
Luna
Without a word, Oliver sets his fork on the table, stands, motions to the stairs.
Uh. Okay.
There's no way he's about to take my hand, lead me to his room, throw me on his bed.
That's totally ridiculous.
So what if we almost kissed at Ikea?
Maybe I imagined that. Maybe he tries to make all his friends' exes jealous. Maybe he teases everyone about the color of their lipstick.
I should ask. To make sure.
To keep myself from crossing the line.
But I don't.
I follow him across the room, up the stairs, down the hallway.
He turns the knob, presses his door open, motions after you.
Really. This is a good place to ask.
To stop.
To say something that convinces him I don't want him to throw me on his bed.
I mean, I do want him to throw me on his bed.
And he wants to throw me on his bed.
Is it really so bad?
Will it really ruin everything?
He's so tall and broad and handsome. All shirtless and tan and tattooed.
"Let me find it." He motions one minute. Turns to his desk. Scans the neat array of art books, pens, paperbacks.
Sketchpads.
Something in the drawer.
"Here." He grabs a sketchbook. It's bright yellow with a tiny date penciled in the corner. "This is it."
"This is it?"
"Yeah." He flips through the pages. Smiles as he stops. "Fuck, I should make you work more for this."
How are you going to do that? Do you need me at your service, sir?
"You were so fucking annoying, begging me. Nonstop."
I suck a breath through my nose. Attempt to push my dirty thoughts out with my exhale.
It's no good. As soon as he shakes his head you're so difficult, my head fills with ideas. Ridiculously complete fantasies where I'm the bad girl who needs to earn his favor on my back.
Or my knees.
Fuck, I don't even like that.
Or I thought I didn't.
Maybe I do. Maybe it was just Sean. Maybe there's something about Oliver.
"You ready?" he asks.
I nod.
"You sure?"
Yes, take off your pants. I want to feel you.
"Close your eyes first."
Jesus Christ.
He raises a brow. "Close them or you don't see."
Okay. I close my eyes. Attempt to inhale calm and exhale dirty thoughts. Or maybe I should keep the dirty thoughts. I've already forgotten why Ollie is trying to distract me.
"Open on three." His footsteps move closer. "One, two, three."
My eyes blink open. Go straight to the sketch in front of me. The lyrics I fell in love with the day I heard them.
I used to beg Oliver for this. Or threaten to ask Holden instead.
God, it's even better than I imagined.
A row of trees, consumed by fire, with the lyrics from my favorite song.
The Lorde song about being too much.
The perfect claiming of an insult.
I am a wildfire. I am a force of nature. You will dance in my storm and you'll like it.
It's beautiful. Sharp and bold and perfect.
My fingers move of their own accord. They reach out. Brush the paper. Trace the lines.
He looks down at me, his expression a mixture of pride and apprehension. "You like it?"
I nod. "I love it."
His smile widens. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I trace the lines again. "Can we do it now? Today? Please?"
"Right now?"
"Why not?"
He chuckles you're ridiculous. "'Cause you just saw it."
"I wanted it then. I want it now."
"Daisy will kill me."
"Is that your excuse for everything?"
He nods yeah.
"Can we do it tomorrow?"
His laugh gets louder. "You're like a kid."
"You're showing me this perfect, beautiful thing, this thing I've always wanted and telling me I can't have it."
"You think it's perfect?"
"It is." The thin lines, the deep colors, the vibrant orange. "Ollie, please."
"It's too soon."
"Don't make me beg."
"Don't beg. I can't handle it." He turns the sketchpad around. Studies the design carefully. "All right—"
"Yes."
"If—"
"Don't ruin it," I say.
He ignores my protests. "We'll do a trial run." He motions to the drawing. "Print a temp at the shop. Apply it today. If you still want it in two weeks, I'll do it."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
I throw my arms around him.
He takes a half-step backward. Then he settles. Wraps his arms around me. Pulls me closer.
"Thank you." I rest my head on his chest. My hands on his waist.
That's his bare skin against my palm. His body against mine.
It's not the first time we've touched, hugged, embraced.
But it's the first time I've needed to inhale every inch of his skin.
He holds me close for a moment, then he releases me. "I should finish your furniture."
I shake my head.