“No,” I say, but it’s an automatic response. The truth is I’m all mixed-up. I think of all the days and nights I’ve spent without him. All that wasted time.
“Well, lucky for you, we aren’t going back to the boat just yet.”
“Then where are you cooking all that?” I ask, nodding to the bags on his arms.
Ollie raises his eyebrows at me. “Patience, love. You’ll see.”
***
“What is this place?” I ask after our car drops us off at the back door of a building on the French side of the island.
Ollie punches a code into a panel on the door. There’s a small flash of green light, a whirring sound, and then Ollie opens it and ushers me into an industrial-looking kitchen.
“Welcome to Dreamland,” Ollie says. “My buddy Barnabé owns this place.”
“Barnabé...” I say. The name sounds familiar. “Barnabé from culinary school? Your old roommate? That Barnabé?”
“The very same,” Ollie says. “This place isn’t open on Mondays, so he said I could have free rein of it to woo my woman. It’s nice, isn’t it?” Ollie’s eyes roam the kitchen. “Really made something of himself.”
“Dreamland,” I say. “Why’d he name it that?”
“Dunno,” he says. “We were always talking about shite like thatback then, what it would be like to have our own place. What we’d name it. Then this bastard actually goes and does it.”
“What about yours?” I say.
“My what?”
“Your restaurant. What would you name it?”
“Dunno,” Ollie says. He crosses the kitchen and drops our bags onto a counter. “I never took it seriously like Barnabé did. I’d just say the first thing I saw.” He sweeps his gaze around the kitchen, and his eyes land on me. “Smartass,” he says with a grin. “That’s what I’d name it.”
I know he’s joking, but as I stare around at the kitchen, I wonder if Ollie regrets the way his life has turned out, and if so, what role I’ve played in that.
“Don’t you want your own place?”
Ollie shrugs. “Never thought about it, really.”
“Why not?”
“Dunno.”
He leaves the kitchen, returning moments later with a rolling office chair he gestures to as if it’s my personal throne. I take a seat, watching as he sets to work. He grabs an apron hanging nearby and loops it over his head before tying it around the back, then darts to the sink to wash his hands. When he returns to the counter with our groceries, he pulls out each of the items we bought and lines them up. The groove between his brows deepens as he scans the ingredients. Anyone else might think he’s angry, but he’s just in another world, the place his mind goes to turn over every possible way he can use each ingredient.
The cartwheels start up in my chest again as I take in this version of Ollie. I wheel myself over and lean my head against his side. When he looks at me, his eyes come back into focus.
“Forgotten about me already?” I say.
“Nah.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. We’ve had so many moments just like this one. Quiet moments in the galley, in my apartment, in his, where something delicate blossoms between us, a small break in the push and pull of our bickering. It feels like when a wave reaches the apex of its run up the sand. There’s always a pause, a moment of weightlessness right before the water gets sucked back out to sea. Maybe being with Ollie for real would be like that, just one weightless moment after another.
“If you’re drooling now, just wait until dinner is done,” he says.
I roll my eyes and push myself away on the rolling chair, nearly bumping into a tall metal shelf.
“Easy there, killer.”
“Killer is right,” I say, giving the air an uppercut before parking myself at a nearby counter to watch him work. Nothing about tonight or this season feels easy. I’ve always hated those movies where the couple can’t be together because of a simple miscommunication. But, of course, real life is fueled by people not listening or understanding each other.
I know better than anyone that simply communicating doesn’t do a damn thing. Ollie and I know almost everything about each other. We have beenalmostcompletely transparent about where we stand. Ollie loves me. I love him too. He knows that, even if I haven’t said it. Miscommunication isn’t the problem here. When I look at Ollie, I feel just as much fear as I do longing. Sometimes the possibility of having something is more terrifying than the thought of never having it at all. I’ve told myself for years that what we have is good enough for me, even though it’s not what I really want.
