I want to tell him that I think we are already well on our way there, and baked goods have very little to do with it. Instead, I just relax into the sound of his voice. Now that I’ve got him on the line, it seems silly to have been anxious. It’s Oliver, my songbird.
“Anyway. How’s the flock doing on this bright and sunny winter morning? Working on their tans?”
“Yes,” I agree, leaning back and angling my head so I can see out the window. They’re still scooting around the yard, pecking at the grass. Taking a breath, I ask, “Are you free tonight?”
“Yeah! Yes. Sure am,” he replies quickly. “No plans.”
“Would you like to come over for dinner?” Closing my eyes, I relax further into my lean against the counter. Would Oliver have cared if the request had been stuttered? No. But it feels good regardless, in a way that talking so rarely does for me.
“I’d love to! Should I bring anything?”
“Muffins,” I joke, and Oliver laughs like it was hilarious.
“Deal. Anything else?”
“Just you,” I request, and he makes a small noise that somehow manages to give the impression of both pleasure and shyness.
He agrees to be here at six o’clock, and I get off the phone feeling lighter, somehow. Oliver comes over quite a bit, and me to his place, but I want this to be different. I don’t want him to cook an elaborate meal or feel like he has to go home at a certain time. I want to keep the ease we’ve come to enjoy here, whilealso making sure it feels like a date, something a touch more special than our usual evenings spent sitting together on the couch, eating a dinner Oliver prepared.
Deciding that maybe the best way to romance him is to recreate the moment I started to realize my feelings for him wereromantic, I leave the house and tug my boots on once more. Gathering up some logs from my wood pile, I replenish the stack next to the fireplace inside. I could, I know, go the more traditional route and take him someplace. And perhaps that would be the better option. We spend a lot of time here, a lot of time alone. It’s possible I should bring him out and show him off a little bit—give him a chance to dress up and eat at a fancy restaurant, instead of cooking like one at home.
But my Oliver enjoys slipping on a sweatshirt from my closet when he walks in the door. He enjoys checking on the chickens and announcing, “Keep up the good work, ladies,” to the coop. He likes sitting close on the couch and discussing paint samples with the solemnity of someone making an important life decision, not one that could easily be changed. And, I know, kneeling down to prep the fireplace for later, he likes sitting together in front of the fire, lights off, shoulder tucked underneath my arm and head resting on my bicep.
Perhaps a night out together is something for the future. Something to work up to for me, as restaurant eating will never be a thing I am comfortable with. Or ordering, rather, since it’s not the eating part I struggle with, but being asked questions in a busy room and being expected to answer them in a timely manner. For now, we can have this—a safe, private, cozy bubble.I’m not ready to share Oliver yet, anyway.
Since cooking is something I’m capable of but not skilled at, I take the altogether safer route and order out. Takeout options being what they are in Siren’s Point—pizza and pub food—I drive into the city. By the time I’m back in the Point and passing Oliver’s house, it’s only a little over an hour before we’d agreed he’d come over. Less if I factor in how chronically early he is. It’s possible he’ll be knocking on the door in thirty minutes.
And indeed, I’ve barely got the food warming in the oven, the finishing touches on the living room setup complete, and taken a shower when I hear him at the door. Smiling, I finish tying my hair back and leave the bathroom. I hope he has something pretty on underneath his clothes.
“Hello,” Oliver says when I open the door, leaning forward to kiss me. I inhale the scent of flowers as I return it, putting a hand on his cheek and feeling the damp strands of his hair tickle my fingers. He smiles at me and steals the words right from my head when he says, “You smell nice.”
Stepping back to let him inside, I reach for the container of what I assume are blueberry muffins. Oliver, distracted by the living room he walked into—dark but for candles and the fireplace—doesn’t fight me as I pull it away from him. Hand on his lower back, I nudge him further into the room.
“What’s going on?” he asks. Balancing the muffins on the back of the couch for a moment, I reach for his jacket. He lets me slip it off his shoulders and smiles again when I kiss his cheek.
“Dinner,” I remind him. “A date.”
This time, the smile brings the dimples along with it. Looking down at his cream-colored fisherman sweater and faded blue denim jeans, he jokes, “Well, it’s a good thing I dressed up, then.”
“Good thing,” I agree. We are, funnily enough, wearing almost the exact same thing, just in different colors. He brushes a hand down my front and tugs on the hem of my sweater. Because I’m happy I know him, and even happier that he’s here, I kiss him again, lingering this time around, enjoying the smell of flowers and the taste of blueberry. Oliver’s been eating his baking, it would seem.
Trying to get Oliver to stay in the living room and not help me in the kitchen is about as hard as I imagine pulling teeth would be. I’d told him I ordered food, so all that needed to be done was serving, which I could handle myself. I’d also told him that the point of this evening was for him to relax and enjoy himself, to which he’d replied, “Exactly, so I’ll come help you!”
“My date,” I remind him. “So I do everything for you.”
He’d blushed a little bit at that, cheeks depressing into dimples as his lips curved into a pleased, closed-mouth smile. He’d also stayed put, seated on the cushions I’d moved to the floor and situated around the coffee table in front of the fire.
Now, making my second trip from the kitchen to the living room, I’m proud of that decision. I’ve been questioning all afternoon the plan to sit on the floor, thinking maybe it wouldn’t be romantic at all, but strange. It was the right call,though. Eating at the dining room table would have felt strange and formal. Too much of a deviation from what we usually do. But like this, he can relax. And, I realize, give me something more tantalizing than the food to enjoy.
Oliver has one leg curled in and the other stretched out, socked foot bouncing slightly as I bring in the appetizers. Leaned back on his hands, his shoulders stretch the fabric of his sweater taut, outlining the strong curves of muscle. He’s got the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and I find it hard to look away from his forearms, dusted gold and freckled from the sun.
“This smells amazing,” he tells me, groaning. “I haven’t eaten anything today but muffin batter.” Settling across from him, I stretch my own leg out, pressing against Oliver’s. I raise an eyebrow, making him laugh. “Okay, not just the batter. I also ate four of the muffins. I had to taste test, though! You can’t just bake things and not eat them, that’s madness. What if I hadn’t tested them and then brought them over and they were too salty or something?”
Snorting, I adjust the taper candles sitting in the center of the table. They’re blocking too much of his face.
“You’ve never,” I tell him, unable to picture a world where Oliver would botch a recipe. Even if he did, I doubt anyone would notice but him. He smiles cheekily, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Does, probably, since I’m always struck by the way Oliver seems to read my mind so easily.
He talks, foot pressed warm against the inside of my leg, as he eats. He tells me about what he did today and the idea he came up with for the mudroom at his house. He providesa charmingly in-depth history of mozzarella cheese, fork held aloft with a ball of it on the end for visual representation. He asks me questions, and I answer them easily, more comfortable with Oliver than I can ever remember feeling in my life.
