“You delight in my embarrassment,” he said, voice muffled.
Fearne grinned, instantly sidetracked. “Don’t worry, Oliver, one bouncy blonde does not a fan club make.”
“It’s a good thing!” Charlie said, giggling as she extricated herself and returned to her seat. “It means your profile is rising.”
“I don’t want my profile to rise,” Oliver said, hands still linkedwith hers. He twisted several of her rings between his fingers, sobering a little. “I just want to ride bikes. Really fast. And win races.”
“What for?” Charlie asked.
Fearne and Oliver seemed surprised by the question. She gave a small shrug. She’d always assumed Oliver’s competitiveness was at least in part a desire for fame and glory—why else did winning matter?
“Because it’sfun,” Fearne said, just as Oliver said, “Because it makes me feel alive.”
There was another silence. Charlie could have guessed Fearne’s response to her question—Fearne’s brain was an easy read for Charlie, like curling up with a comfort book. Oliver’s was a surprise, though. He clocked their expressions and gave a rueful laugh.
“Sorry,” he said. “Was that melodramatic?”
“Abit,” said Fearne.
“Were you waiting for ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’ to kick in?” he said, returning to his usual poker face.
“Kind of,” Charlie said, relaxing slightly as they settled back into their normal rhythm. “If you’re going to say things like ‘It makes me feel alive,’ then you need to work on your delivery.”
“Yeah, it was nowhere near grand enough—‘alive’ needed caps lock, a distant stare, some gesticulating at the veryleast,” Fearne said, twisting in her seat. “Did we not order cakes?”
“You didn’t say you wanted cake,” Charlie pointed out, already knowing this was not going to matter.
“Millionaire shortbread!” Fearne yelled as she headed to the till.
Oliver and Charlie watched her go.
“She’s going to come back with something else,” Charlie said.
“Oh, I know.” Oliver gave Charlie a little secret smile. “Hi,” he said. “Thanks for coming today.”
“Of course!”
They kept smiling at each other for a while, Charlie’s wide and goofy, Oliver’s small and smoldering. He really was gorgeous. Andhers.
“You look cute in the mornings,” Oliver said.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “I look headachy and cross. It’s not my fault, it’s just how my face wakes up. I’ve tried a silk pillow, but there’s nothing doing.”
“Muffins!” Fearne said, plopping back into her chair and plonking a large tray of baked goods in the middle of the table. “I got every kind. Even the oaty one. Though I don’t want that one. Looks bird foody. Oh my God, Oliver, what’s that you’re wearing?”
Oliver blinked at her with the patience of a man who had been friends with Fearne long enough to expect this sort of treatment.
“Oh, it’s an air of celebrity!” Fearne said, with a cackle.
Charlie grinned into her coffee cup, good mood blooming. Screw three a.m. Charlie—these two glorious humans were surely all she would ever need. Who was she to long for more?
—
The next weekend, Charlie was hauling spare bike wheels into the boot of her car and examining her face idly in the window of her downstairs neighbor’s flat. Mornings definitely didn’t suit her.
“Best girlfriend ever,” Oliver said, kissing her on the cheek as he passed her his bag. “First prize. Every time.”
Charlie glowed. Oliver had never learned to drive, and since they’d gotten together, she had taken charge of ferrying him to competitions across the country. Oliver competed at a higher level than Fearne—he had a sponsorship deal now with an energy drink company, and talked about giving up temping in pubs and going full-time—so there were quite a few of these races, but Charlie didn’t mind. She tended to stay in the car, watching the setup throughthe window. She would bring a thermos of her special coffee from home and a library book, with its fingerprinted, laminated cover, the serrated edges digging into her palms.
