Oliver shuffles in his seat, his hand coming to rest in my hair. He fiddles with the strands and I close my eyes, melting into the ease of being with him.
My favourite parts of the last few days are the ones I’ve spent with Oliver, and I want more. More time. More laughter. More of everything.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say when he doesn’t reply to my question. Sitting up, I twist so that I’m facing him, my hand on his leg. “But just know that I’m here if you want to talk. I’ll always listen, Ollie. I promise.”
When he speaks, his voice is distant, like he’s some place else.
“Have you ever been really afraid of doing something? So you tell yourself, it’s okay not to do it, but then you have this feeling, this deep ache in your chest that says if you don’t do it, that you’ll wake up ten years from now and regret it?”
I nod and he continues.
“And the problem with not doing it is that you can’t go back, because you can never go back. You lost your chance.” Oliver’s heart beats a little faster. “So that’s why I’m going. To my dad’s funeral.” His voice is thick and I look up into eyes glistening with tears. He’s hurting and I hate it.
“I never wanted to go back there, back to the place that was once my home. But I’m so scared of waking up a year from now and regretting that decision. Regretting not being there to say goodbye.” He rubs furiously at his eyes. “I want to close my eyes and have it all go away. But I’ve done that, and you know what? It never fucking goes away. No matter how tightly you hold them shut, the shit in your life is right there when you open them again.”
Sliding my hand into his, I lace our fingers together.
“And even though I’ll be alone in a place where no one understands me, or sees me, where people think I’m the one who broke up our family, I can’t have regret be another bruise on my soul. I can’t wake up and wish I’d gone to his bloody funeral. I loved him, D. I really fucking did. So much that everything hurts.”
My throat burns and there’s a sheen in my vision as I lean over and kiss his cheek, the taste of his tears salty on my lips.
“You won’t be alone. I’ll go with you.”
His mouth drops open and I wonder if I’ve overstepped, ready to take it back, when he pulls me towards him and wraps me in the biggest bear hug.
“I went to Caiden’s that day because I needed someone. I never imagined I’d find you, but I’m so glad I did.”
Melting into his embrace, I lay my head on his shoulder, thankful that while I opened the door to him that night, he’s the one that let me in.
It’s been a little over a week since I told Oliver I would go with him to his father’s funeral, and we’ve spent every evening together except Friday, when I went up to Birmingham for my usual family dinner.
Our time together has been filled with moments of casual affection that have come to be my favourite parts of the day. Shy smiles, kisses on my forehead, a hand on my lower back. Soft, sweet moments from a man who can also be rather prickly.
I’ve loved getting to know Oliver and learning all the little things that make him uniquely him. Like the way he speeds through a crossword, while I’m still trying to work out the first three clues. Or how he fiddles with his hair when he’s deep in thought. He’s really smart. Clued up on the world and enthusiastic about so much when he gets talking.
It hasn’t all been sunshine though.
There were a few days this week he’s arrived at mine, expression stormy, deep brown eyes flickering with a mix of sadness and anxiety, and a posture begging for distance. On those nights we’ve sat in silence, eyes focused on the television, pinky fingers touching.
There’s something else that I’ve noticed this week, and it causes worry to form like a ball of iron in my chest.
Oliver rarely eats.
When he does, it’s tiny nibbles. One slice of pizza. Half a bowl of pasta. Always telling me he ate a big meal at lunchtime or that he snacked on the train on his way over.
I don’t believe him, but I’m not sure how to raise my worry without him shutting down or pushing me away. Maybe it isn’tmy place, and I have been accused of butting into people’s business in the past, but I care about Oliver, deeply.
Putting my concerns aside for now to focus on getting through the next few days, I ring the buzzer for Oliver’s flat. The place is an old converted house that once would have been one dwelling but has been divided into five smaller flats, if the numbers on the panel are correct. The door unlocks with a click and I follow the narrow staircase up to his floor. He’s waiting at his open door when I reach the top.
The sight of him makes me smile, warmth blooming like daisies in my chest.
“Hey pup,” I say in greeting.
“Hi.” Oliver steps to the side and I pause halfway through the door. He smells woodsy with a hint of sweat and I take a deep breath, holding the scent of him in my lungs as I press a kiss to his cheek.
“Come in. I’m not quite ready.” He gestures me inside. His space is small and bright, a large sash window letting in a stream of sunlight. There’s clothing strewn over a sofa that appears to be sitting at an angle and next to it on the bare hardwood flooring are two piles – one of magazines and another of folded newspapers. There’s a selection of pens laying like a game of pickup sticks on the coffee table.
“Sorry about the state of the place. It’s been a long week and I haven’t had a chance to clean.” Oliver rounds up items, stuffing them into a black duffle bag. “I’m sorry you had to pick me up. I was happy to meet at yours. But I got caught up at work, and then my train got delayed and –” I still his now frantic movements, resting a hand on his forearm.
