She forgot she sent it. Two days ago, to let him know what train she would arrive on. Before she found Anna. Before the world stopped.
Beatrix sits up to look at him. “I’m sorry, I should have sent word—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Oliver says.
“You missed your adventure.”
Oliver shrugs. “It wouldn’t have been any fun without you anyway.”
“You wasted your time,” Beatrix protests. “Iwasted your time.”
Oliver tips her chin until she is looking into his eyes. Blue-gray and as hard as steel. Her breath catches. “You are never a waste of time.”
“How long do you have left?” she whispers.
Oliver hesitates, as if he is afraid his answer will prove her point. His hand falls away. “About two months.”
Whatever comfort Beatrix took from remembering Anna melts away, replaced by a cold twisting pit in her stomach. She should have seen it sooner. The angles of him are sharper, and there are shadows beneath his eyes that weren’t there last time. “Is that all?”
Oliver twines his fingers through hers. “Forget it. I have the rest of the night with you. That’s all I care about right now.” Because now is all they have, all that is ever promised to anyone.
Everyone, except for her.
She leans forward and kisses him. Tonight—now—she can pretend he will stay, pretend he will live. She kisses him harder and heat blooms through her, warms her for the first time in days. She presses her body into his, aches to lose herself in him, to forget it all.
Oliver pulls back. “We shouldn’t do this, Bea,” he says gently. “Not when you’re hurting.”
Which is precisely why she wants to do this. “It’s fine. I want to.”
He shifts away. “I don’t.”
Beatrix retreats to the other end of the sofa. Her face might feel cooler if it was on fire.
He grimaces. “That’s not what I meant. I want to, I do. But not tonight.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I—it’s just—I’ve never had—”
Beatrix’s eyes widen. “Oliver, are you—”
He flushes scarlet. “No!” He groans and slumps into the corner of the sofa. “I’ve made this the most awkward conversation in the history of talking, haven’t I?”
“You’re at least in the running,” Beatrix agrees.
“I’ve never had it mean anything. That’s what I was going to say.” He catches her eye. “But I’d like it to.”
Beatrix looks to her hands, twists her ring around her finger. “All right.” She can’t look at him. She’s made a complete fool of herself.
“Should I go?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “I want you to stay.”
His smile is easy. Relieved.
She smirks at him. “Shall we do something we’ve never done before?”
“Like?” he asks.
She stands and pulls him from the sofa. “How do you feel about peeling potatoes?”
“Is that some weird English euphemism?” Oliver asks. “Or do you actually want my opinion on peeling potatoes?”
