“He’s a good guy. Works too hard, though.”
“Do all the Americans form an alliance at these things?”
Oliver laughs into his glass as it balances on his bottom lip. “Yes, and if it gets too British, we naturally have to throw you all in the river. Where in the UK are you from?”
“London. Well, born and raised just outside of London, but it’s a place nobody’s ever heard of.”
“Try me,” he dares.
“Welwyn Garden?”
“Never heard of it.” He smiles, leaning back against the wooden back of his chair, his elbow resting against it. “Sounds nice, though. Maybe I’ll go when I get back.”
The bitter liquid catches like a hook in my throat. “You live in London?”
He laughs. “Yeah, couldn’t you tell? My accent is fucked now. I say ‘quite’ and ‘a bit’ more than any American ever has; my siblings take the mick all the time.” He goes to sip but stops. “There’s another one.”
“How do you like living in London?” I ask, feeling moresheepish now for some reason. Like the conversational stakes have risen knowing we share smog.
“It’s great. I love the walkability, the restaurant culture, and it’s nice to experience the seasons. But it drives me crazy whenever all you Brits have a single pint and say my name.Olly Olly Olly, Oi Oi Oi!”
I snort a laugh. “Oh, I’m about to break out into song any second now.”
He holds in a smile. “I knew there was a reason I threw coffee on you.”
I take a long breath before bringing the subject back to him. “So what else does your job in London entail, besides coffee orders?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, licks his lips, and says, “I don’t want to be rude, but as interesting as filing, printing, and Microsoft Excelling is, I’d love to not talk about work right now. It’s been a long day of talking to so many assholes.” He emphasizes the last three words.
“Assholes are chatty?” I furrow my brow.
“Believe it or not, even more than mouths. But please, I’m even happy to sit here in silence”—Oliver hangs his head dramatically—“justanythingbut work.”
I purse my lips, my shoulders sagging with relief that I don’t have to lie. I drag my straw around the edges of the glass in silence for a few seconds. Finally, I ask, “What’s your stance on Aperol Spritz during the winter months?”
He considers, his thick brows furrowing. “Far right.” He twists his chair toward mine. “What do you do for fun, Violet?”
I consider, staring at the bottom of my glass. “I think... nothing?”
“You don’t doanythingfor fun?” His hazel eyes pick up flickers of the candlelight.
I jut my chin out towards the beer pong table. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while. I think I only do things for money or glory,” I half joke.
He tilts his head in question, eyes glittering. “Want to carry on the fun?”
I scrunch my eyebrows, scanning him up and down.
“Not in a creepy way—there’s, like, twenty of us sneaking into the executive hotel pool when they throw us out of here.”
I pause, swishing the final lick of liquid in the glass before knocking it back.
My finger taps against the glass. “Buy me one more drink, and I’ll consider it.”
Forty-five minutes later, the alcohol blanket keeps me warm as we walk back to the hotel. Oliver and I hang back from the gang of Americans, British, Italians, and three Dutch people we’ve collected along the way as they sing down the road.
“Olly Olly Olly!” one of the British guys shouts over his shoulder as he approaches the automatic doors at the front of the hotel.
“Oi oi oi!” I shout in unison with the rest of the group.
