“Weren’t you his age when …?” Oliver didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to.
I felt his eyes on me still, so I looked up. “Exactly.”
“What happened to the boys’ dad?” he asked, gravel in his voice.
“Jamie is one of those men who think they know everything, lectured me about everything, though he doesn’t know much about a lot. And he had a drinking problem that got worse.Andhe didn’t love me. Which was okay, because I didn’t love him, either. And I kinda knew it when I found out I was pregnant.” I huffed a little chuckle as I sometimes did when I was nervous. “I guess I have a case of ‘good instincts, bad judgment.’”
That was the closest I could get to admitting out loud to Oliver that I had lived up to my high school reputation—I had become a single mom at an early age, had a shitty ex who was a shitty father to my kids, no degree, and a low-paying job. If you asked some of the kids at our old school, they would have predicted that for me. I hated that I had given those imaginary critics the satisfaction of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Oliver continued to pierce me with his aurora borealis eyes. In a way, this man, who had almost nothing in common with me, was more like me than the man I’d had kids with. Jamie, who talked to his children on their birthday and holidays, would invite them to visit him once in a blue moon and never had enough money to support them financially. In fact, he had hinted a few times that he’d be glad if I could help him with money.
Oliver broke the silence that lingered between us. “You were always a careful judge of character.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.
I swallowed. It was not easy to stand so close to this man, inhaling the warm whiskey his skin radiated and wanting my hands on it. I lowered my gaze and caught the tattoo that encircled his right calf. I couldn’t see it all, but it was the moon in seven phases—from waxing to a full moon to a waning crescent.
Luna.
His mother’s name.
He had mentioned her to me only once, when we were six.
When I raised my eyes again, we were looking at each other.
My heart went out to the boy he had been, the ninth grader, the wounded eighteen-year-old, the man I had to reject at twenty-two.
I read somewhere that the closeness between Earth and its moon was rare. Oliver and I, like those objects, were orbiting and gravitating toward each other, ebbing and flowing all our lives. I read that the moon was a piece that had been torn off Earth. For centuries, people admired and yearned for it from afar without knowing they were missing a piece of themselves.
At that moment, I felt that this was us, too.
My heart went out to the man he was now, at thirty-eight. And my body … my body was spinning out of control.
I had to get away.
“I have a phone call to make,” Oliver suddenly said, taking a step sideways, as if he sensed or shared my turmoil. “And you’re probably tired.”
“Yeah. I reek. I need a shower.” He, on the other hand, smelled like a fresh shower. I wanted to lick his skin.
He rubbed the back of his neck then began to walk away.
I watched him for a second longer then called after him, “I need your phone number in case I need to get in touch about the house. You’re unlisted.” I had looked for his cell phone number at work.
“My number is on the counter,” he replied without stopping.
“Thanks for Pretty,” I called after him.
He stopped and half-pivoted toward me. He was already out of the kitchen. “Pretty?”
“My car.” I felt stupid. “I call her Pretty to boost her confidence, because … she’s not,” I mumbled.
Was he stifling a smile?
Oliver nodded once, his brows rising in what I imagined meant,Makes sense.
I shrugged, and he continued on his way.
A Post-It note in his handwriting was indeed on the counter.
I punched the numbers into my phone, then sent him a text message so he’d have my number if he hadn’t gotten it yet.
