The two of them stare at each other, some silent communication passing between them that I’m not entirely privy to. Then Jackson’s serious expression cracks, and his usual grin spreads across his face like the sun breaking through the clouds.
“Good talk.” He claps his hands together, the sound making me jump. “Now get out of my room. You two have a fancy date to get to.” He herds us toward the door, his large hands making shooing motions that are frankly undignified. “Make good choices!” he calls as he practically shoves us into the hallway. “Use protection! Remember that consent is sexy!”
“Jackson—” I start.
“Oh, and I’ll be staying at Drew’s tonight.” His grin turns absolutely wicked. “You know, in case you two want to come back here afterward for a little hanky-panky. I changed the sheets and everything.”
I make a sound that can only be described as a squawk—high-pitched, mortified, and completely involuntary. Beside me, Oliver makes a choking noise that suggests his tongue has attempted to retreat down his throat.
“Have fun, lovebirds!” The door slams in our faces.
I stand in the hallway, face burning hot enough to power a small city, staring at the closed door like it personally betrayed me. It kind of did, by existing between me and the ability to strangle my best friend.
“Did he just—” Oliver’s voice is strangled.
“He did.”
“And he said?—”
“He did.”
We stare at each other. Oliver’s face is flushed, his composure cracked in a way I’ve rarely seen. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then Oliver starts laughing. I try to maintain my dignity, try to hold on to my mortification, but his laughter is contagious, and within seconds, I’m laughing too.
“Hanky-panky,” Oliver wheezes. “He actually said hanky-panky. Who even says that?”
“Jackson Monroe, apparently.” I wipe my eyes. “I’m going to kill him.”
“After dinner.” Oliver straightens, still grinning, and offers me his arm like a gentleman from a different century. “First, I’m taking my boyfriend somewhere special.”
I take his arm, letting him lead me down the hallway toward the stairs. The tux feels different now—less likearmor against grief and more like something that’s mine and Oliver’s, not mine and the past’s.
“So,” I say as we descend the stairs, “where exactly are we going?”
Oliver’s smile turns mysterious. “You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.” He holds the door open for me as we exit the building, and the evening air hits my face. It’s warm and soft, carrying the scent of summer flowers. “Trust me?”
I glance up at the boy who’s been my friend since childhood, who kissed me under the stars, who just promised Jackson he’d never hurt me. The boy who’s wearing a tuxedo and taking me out to dinner.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I trust you.”
Oliver’s answering smile could light up the whole planet.
His Jeep is parked at the curb, freshly washed and gleaming in the evening light. He opens the passenger door for me with exaggerated chivalry, and I slide in, arranging my tux carefully to avoid wrinkles.
“You really do look incredible,” Oliver says as he climbs into the driver’s seat. His eyes trace over me in a way that causes heat to pool low in my stomach. “That tux is…yeah. Wow.”
“You mentioned.” I’m smiling. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“Don’t I?” He grins, starting the engine. “I spent forty-five minutes on my hair. Drew threatened to shave my head if I didn’t stop hogging the bathroom mirror.”
“It shows. The effort, I mean. Not the threat.”
Oliver laughs and pulls away from the curb. The radio is already tuned to the oldies station—mystation—and Frank Sinatra croons softly about the way someone looks tonight. The coincidence is almost too perfect.
“You planned this,” I accuse.
