Sharp, to the point, and no need for clarification. I need to have control ofsomethingin my life. And if it can’t be my health, why not this?
"A backstory?" he repeats, looking over his shoulder to check it’s clear for him to change lanes.
"We can’t just make it up as we go. I mean, I can if you like, but I don’t think you’d like where my mind goes when I need to create a story at the last minute." I flip down the sun visor to check and make sure my lipstick isn’t smudged or on my teeth. I’m thankfully in the clear.
The person staring back at me is somebody I barely recognize. A face full of makeup, not a freckle in sight. I don’t like it, but I know it’s practically mandatory for a night like this.
"And what would your ideal scenario be, Songbird?" He glances at me quickly, flashing me his straight, white teeth and delectable smile that makes him look downright delicious. "In your mind, how did we meet?"
Songbird. I don’t know if I prefer that orOlivia.
That’s a solid question, I’ll give him that. And by the way the traffic is moving, I would say we have about twenty minutes to think of something.
But instead of procrastinating, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
"The snow. Everyone loves the snow." I wince, unsure of how my body would react to the extreme change in weather considering the heat is what set me off originally, and every time since, but I force myself to remain confident nonetheless.
It is my burden to carry.
"Fun fact about me: I hate the snow." His voice is almost entirely monotone as he turns right down a busy street I don’t recognize. He doesn’t even glance at the signs—just drives like he’s lived here forever.
"That doesn’t sound fun at all. Youlivein New York City. You literally cannot escape it in winter." I watch him closely, but his face remains stoic.
"It’s nice to look at, but I would rather not freeze my ass off the minute I step outside. I prefer to watch it fall from my apartment windows in front of my fireplace."
Alright, Mr. Boring.
"Okay. Let’s start smaller. What’s your favorite color?"
He groans like I’ve just asked him the most basic question, because I have. But we need to start somewhere, and he’s giving me about as much as I give everybody else.
"Fine. Favorite country you’ve traveled to?"
"That one is easy—Portugal. The custard tarts are the best thing I’ve ever eaten." He groans again, but this time it’s different. There’s a softness to his tone, a lightness about him, and it sets fire to something inside of me that I do my best to shove down.
"Well, there you go. Fun fact about me: my mom claims to be Portuguese."
"How can someone claim to be anything?" he questions, taking another turn, and now it feels like we’re driving around in circles. I’m not at all used to this. Back home, we have one set of traffic lights that barely ever turn red, but here? It feels like there's one on every corner.
"My Grandpa was born in Portugal. We don’t refer to my Aunts or Uncles as Tia or Tio, and she doesn’t really know how to cook the food. She always promised to take us there on a family holiday, but I’ve never left the country. Therefore, she claims to be, but not a very good one. Her maiden name, though, is Oliveira." Which is how I got my name.
My mom didn’t want it because she isn’t all that close with her family, but my dad managed to convince her that it was a beautiful name.
When she found out she was pregnant with twin girls, they decided they would each pick a name.
Elizabeth for my mom, and Olive for my dad.
I stare out the window, watching the hustle and bustle of a thousand strangers as they rush by us, every single one in a hurry, while our car is at a complete standstill. All I can do is focus on home and wonder what everybody is up to, but before I allow myself to think about it to the point of sadness, I change the subject.
"Can I pick the music?" I ask, collecting his phone from the center console without permission, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He shakes his head at my assertiveness but doesn’t comment on it.
"Oliveira. I take it that’s where you get your name, then?"
"Oh, so you know my name is actually Olive and not Olivia?" I arch a brow, trying to find his Spotify app.
"If I called you by your actual name, I would have nothing left that would annoy you."
I whip my head up—and sure enough, there’s a smile fighting like hell to break free. He bites the inside of his cheek, doing his best to smother it.
