I wouldn’t call them thirst traps, considering he’s still wearing his oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants every time he goes out. Still, he’s absolutely adorable, his face giving away every ounce of emotion he feels. Without checking the data, I can tell whether or not he had a good run.
I even caved and sent him one after my sixteen-mile-long run this past weekend, something I’ve never done before.
“Sounds like fun. Is that with Matthias?” Barrett officially knows way too much about my life.
“No, a new friend.”
“Oooo…” I swear, he sounds more like a fifteen-year-old girl than a thirty-year-old professional at the moment.
“It’s not like that.” This is not a conversation I want to have with anyone, let alone a colleague. Oliver is a friend. I remind myself of that before I go over every week. A friend I’m helping get into shape, and who’s helping me make an afghan—one that’s a bit wonky but coming along nicely.
“But it could be?”
“Don’t you have work to do? Isn’t there an issue with one of the departure boards?”
Barrett puts his hand up, as though he’s surrendering. “Noted. Afriend.” I don’t like the emphasis he puts on the wordfriend, but it’s not worth arguing with him. Besides, if I push back, it’ll just make him more interested.
I spendthe rest of the day pissed off for no good reason. My friendship with Oliver has been my dirty little secret for almost two months. What I’ve said to Barrett is what everyone knows. Not telling my best friends more about him physically hurts me. I’m not even sure why I’m holding back at this point. They obviously know we’ve been talking. I might not have said the words out loud, but inviting him to the Farmer’s Market and then to Matthias’s house sends a clear signal.
There’s nothing to hide. We text daily, but most of those are either about running or crocheting. I see him weekly for our usual night, though the day changes. So what am I worried about? It’s not like I have to tell them that we had sex. That was a one-time thing in the past.
I’ve almost convinced myself of that when I get to his apartment building. He opens his front door wearing a pair of running shorts—which I finally convinced him to buy—and a single sock. Nothing else. I do my best not to stare at his hairy chest, which is on full display. I haven’t forgotten how it felt to lay my head against his chest and snuggle him close.
“Um… hi. I need like two minutes.” Oliver looks down at his feet, then back at me. “Make that five.”
I wave him off. There’s no real hurry to get out. I’m more interested in whatever happened to him that led him to end up late this week. Usually, he’s dressed and ready when I arrive. It’s often me who needs a second to change, depending on how much time I have between finishing work and meeting him. “Everything okay.”
“No. I mean, yes, it’s fine. Just…” He waves his hand around in the air as though that explains everything.
Maybe it does. His place is a disaster zone. Since the first time I came over, Oliver’s place has been considerably tidier. I haven’t ventured beyond the living room and bathroom, so it’s possible he shoves everything in the bedroom until I leave. It’s enough that I’d started to think maybe that first night was a fluke.
Right now, I’m tempted to double-check the weather to make sure a tornado didn’t blow through the living room at some point today. Clothes and papers are mixed, strewn around the room as someone threw them in the air to see where they would land. That’s combined with the thirteen cups I can see without turning my head.
Oliver’s gone for more than five minutes, loud crashes and the occasional curse coming from the bedroom.
Do I check on him?
“Fuck, sorry.” He reappears, wearing a second sock and a shirt. I’m calling that progress. “It’s been a day.”
Judging by the state of things, it looks like it’s been a week. Oliver mentioned that things have been rough over the last few days. I’d thought it was a usual amount of stuff with work, but apparently, I greatly underestimated things. “Is there anything I can help you with?” Something tells me that an offer to clean up his space wouldnotbe welcome.
“No. I just…” He trails off as he looks around the room, his face falling as he examines the space. “I’m sorry. It’s a disaster in here. Fuck.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Yes, it’s a complete disaster. I’m not disagreeing with him on that one, but it’s also not an issue. Yes, my place is usually clean, but that’s partly because I don’t have anything to clutter it up. “You’ll feel better after a run.”
A month ago, he would’ve argued with me, told me that after a run, he’d only feel worse. Exhausted, nauseous, and anything other than good. Today, he looks me in the eye and says, “Okay.” If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is. The rest of it—pace, distance, races—don’t matter. Not really. Yes, it’s nice to be fast and run far, but if that’s all I got out of it, I would’ve quit years ago. It’s the ability to get out of my head and do something productive. Sometimes, twenty minutes or two hours later, the world is a little bit less chaotic.
“Come on,” I pull him in for a quick hug. At least, that’s what I intend for it to be. But when Oliver puts his head on my shoulder and lets out a broken sigh, I can’t help but pull him extra close and hold on for a little bit longer. I half expect him to start crying, but he takes a few deep breaths.
Then Oliver pulls away.
I’ve hugged him every time I’ve seen him. Often twice—once when I arrive and once when I leave. I’m always the one to pull away first, ensuring things stay strictly in the bro-hug category and don’t venture over into anything that could be misinterpreted as anything other than friendship.
“Let’s go,” he says, reaching down to pull on his running shoes.
OLIVER
“I’m sorry, our connection must be bad. I thought you said you were out for a run.”
