Frantically, he tried to reject the call, but his thumb slipped and picked it up instead. Oliver stared in horror as the counter started to tick away the seconds.
“Hello?” The voice was faint and tinny as Oliver held the phone away from himself like a bomb. “Hello?”
He lifted the handset to his ear, while his vision blurred and his stomach twisted.
“Ollie?”
The voice. Fuck, the voice. The name. His name on Cooper’s tongue.
“I’m so sorry, Ollie.”
He could do this.
“Ollie, are you there?”
“Hey, babe. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Ollie?”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” God, had anyone said that in the last twenty years?Smooth, Ollie. Very smooth.
“I didn’t think you’d take my call.”
“Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises.” He thrust his hands up like a cheerleader, and the phone slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the pavement. He swore, bending, nearly falling, to pick it up. He wobbled on the street corner and laughed.
“Ollie? What are you doing?”
“I’m talking to you. What areyoudoing?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Might be, a little.” He squinted his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger together, then laughed again. “Sorry, you can’t see that, can you? One second, let me put the call on video.” Let Cooper see what a good time he was missing.
“Maybe I should—” Cooper started to say, but whatever he should maybe do was lost as Oliver fumbled with the phone. Trying to bring up the video so he could see Cooper’s lying face for the first time in months, he managed to disconnect the call instead.
He stared down at the screen for a long time, expecting a return call.
It didn’t come.
The world spun in a haze of vodka.
Finally, he turned to his texts. A text would be better. It would last longer. He scrolled past his text to Seb, past Nick’s weird excuse for not coming over. He scrolled and scrolled until he realized that Cooper wasn’t there. It had been too many months since Cooper had been a part of his life. He had no reason to butt in now. They were over.
Oliver went back to the answered call and flipped through the screens until the number connected to a new text. With shaking fingers, he typed.
Don’t ever call me again, you bastard.
* * *
The hangover the next morning almost negated the value of Oliver’s sibling drunkfest the night before. Almost. His stomach was rancid, and his skull felt two sizes too small for his brain.
He tried to make a home hangover remedy—cucumber, celery, watercress, ginger, fennel—but the sound of the juicer was like a chainsaw through his head, and then something jammed in the blades, making it shriek and emit a burning smell. Oliver’s stomach twisted hard. He left the thing half-finished on the counter, settling for a mass-produced sports drink from a convenience store instead.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, he’d sent a bunch of sloppy texts to Nick. He’d asked, practically begged, him to come over. To call. The messages got increasingly incoherent. Oliver could barely look at them in the light of day. He sent a pointed text to Seb about being a bad influence so his messages to Nick wouldn’t be at the top of the list.
He could practically smell the vodka in his pores as he set up his stall. Since he’d had to get a cab back to his SUV, then drive over to the shop to pick up his supplies, it’d already been a long morning. Of course he’d been out of ice at the shop, so he detoured to buy some at the nearest gas station. He nearly asked the sleepy-looking guy behind the counter if the ice had been made from locally sourced water, because heaven forbid he get docked for not supporting Seacroft’s ice-making industry too, but his stomach cramped as he was about to unleash his snark, so he threw down a few dollar bills and left.
As Oliver loaded the tubs and juice onto the table, he really wondered if this was all worth it. The market should have helped increase visibility and make Pulpability feel accessible. But with all these hoops to jump through, did the perks outweigh the hassle? Maybe having the store open on Saturdays and drawing weekend shoppers there would be better.
