I shrug in an attempt to brush off the gravity of our conversation. “Let’s just say I’m glad I’m not there anymore.”
“Same. For you,” he adds quickly, and there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes me feel seen.
He looks like he wants me to continue, but something holds me back. This isn’t the right place to have this conversation, not here, not now. I want to get to know him, yes, but not lay down all my problems on him—although, looking into his eyes, it feels like I could.
A stretch of silence falls between us, filled only by the quiet clinks of our coffee cups and the distant hum of the cafeteria. Finally, Oliver breaks the silence, leaning forward as if deciding on his words carefully. “I was the good kid, and it got me nothing,” he admits, his gaze fixed on his hands wrapped around the coffee mug. “I guess you had too high of expectations on you. I never had any. Because my mother never cared. She was too caught up in her self-loathing. Morgan’s dad died soon after her birth, and a few years later, Mom met my dad, who was the love of her life, as she always told us. But he left us when I was four. We weren’t worth staying for him.” His voice falters, and the pain behind his words is palpable. “And my mom, she just fell apart and into a deep, dark hole of depression. Most days, she didn’t even leave her bed, and Morgan and I had to fend for ourselves. Morgan was so good at keeping the house together, telling people lies, explaining her absence away, and making her go to the important stuff so she wouldn’t lose custody of us.”
He pauses, his eyes distant. “I guess it would have been better if she hadn’t done that. It stole her childhood, and maybewe would have been better off in a new family. But back then, it felt like the right thing to do.”
I can practically see the small boy in him, hiding behind his glasses, his big green eyes only asking for someone to care. “Is your mom better now?” I ask gently.
He smiles sadly. “I like to believe so. She took her own life on my twentieth birthday.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Oliver,” I whisper, wanting nothing more than to stand up and pull him into a hug, but it sounds like he has more to share, so I stay where I am.
“It’s fine,” he continues, his voice steady but hollow. “She tried a couple of times after I left for college when I was sixteen, and every time I flew back, I visited her in the hospital. She never noticed me being there. It just proved that she really didn’t care about me. And I didn’t care much either. What I did care about was that Morgan stayed home with her, kept her alive basically, and ruined her own life for her.”
I need to know when that happened so I can comfort him on the day he should celebrate, but he probably doesn’t anymore. “What day is your birthday?”
He huffs a sad laugh. “February twenty-ninth. At least I only have to be reminded by the date on my calendar every four years.”
“We should choose a new birthday for you.”
He smiles genuinely this time. “That’s what Misha does. He comes up with a random birthday for me every year. Last year, it was Halloween.”
“I love that,” I exclaim, and I really do. Especially the fact he has such amazing friends in his life. He really deserves them. “When are their birthdays?”
“Misha’s is May twenty-first, and Grey’s is November twenty-second. When is yours?”
I bite my lip, sheepishly looking up at him, ready for him to question why I hadn’t mentioned it sooner. “September sixth.”
“Seems like I owe you a birthday present,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a heart-stopping grin.
He’s so good-looking.
I glance at the watch on my wrist, a small jolt of reality snapping me back. “Fuck,” I murmur. “We should probably get back to work.”
Oliver checks his own watch, his expression mirroring my disappointment. “Probably,” he agrees, but his tone is laden with reluctance.
As we make our way back to my office, each step is slow and hesitant like neither of us is ready for this to end. When we reach my office door, there’s a pause, a moment suspended in the space between wanting to stay and needing to leave. Oliver takes a step closer. He seems to hesitate, his eyes searching mine for a moment, and I can almost see the hope flickering there. It’s a sweet, vulnerable hope that makes my heart clench.
He leans in, and for a wild heartbeat, I wonder if he’ll kiss me. But instead, he presses a gentle kiss to my cheek, his lips warm against my skin. “I really enjoyed having coffee with you,” he whispers.
“Me, too,” I reply, my words barely audible. My skin tingles where his lips touched, a sweet echo that lingers pleasantly.
He steps back, his smile shy but with a hint of satisfaction, and then turns toward the elevator. I touch my cheek, the warmth of his kiss still imprinted there, and grin to myself as I turn to enter my office.
Hendricks is gone, and I’m alone in here, so I allow myself to sink into my chair, leaning back as a sigh escapes at the memory of Oliver’s gaze and the warmth of his kiss on my cheek. I’ve got this ridiculous crush on them—Oliver, Misha, Grey.
It’s absurd, really, how my heart manages to beat faster for all of them, and it should probably worry me more.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, I revel in its foolishness, in the secret thrill it brings to my former lonely and boring life.
It’s just a one-sided crush.
Nothing will come from it anyway. But then, there was the way Oliver looked at me. A small voice in my head whispers that I might be wrong about the one-sidedness of these feelings. And I don’t know if that possibility makes me happy or terrifies me.
