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Genny

Oliver is keeping secrets. He has been keeping this particular secret for at least a week. And he is terrible at it because I keep catching him on hushed phone calls and in whispered planning sessions with Joe and when I ask him what’s going on he just smiles and changes the subject with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Three evenings this week he disappeared into Joe’s apartment and stayed for hours. Which is fine. Normal even. But here’s the thing. I wasn’t invited. I’m always invited, ever since Oliver and I got back together. Joe and I will play cards while Oliver cooks. But on Wednesday, Oliver told me he and Joe were having a guys night and when I knocked on Joe’s door on Thursday, he opened the door approximately four inches, looked at me over his reading glasses, and said, “not tonight. I’m teaching the kid something every man who loves a woman should know.” And then he shut the door in my face. From the inside of the apartment, I swear I could hear Oliver laugh.

So they’re planning something. Or Joe’s teaching Oliver something he feels every man who loves a woman should know. Whatever the hell that is. I’ve made my peace with not knowing. Mostly. I’ve been telling myself all week that I don’t need to know everything, that patience is a virtue I could stand to develop.

I’ve mostly convinced myself.

But my annoyance at the moment has nothing to do with whatever secrets Oliver is keeping and everything to do with the scene that greets me in the lobby of our apartment building.

Oliver is standing by the mailboxes with two grocery bags hanging from one hand. And standing entirely too close to him, is a pretty brunette that I recognize from the last time Mrs. Bowman cornered us in the lobby and introduced her to us. Aimee. The granddaughter. The one Mrs. Bowman was sure would make Oliver forget any other woman.

She’s laughing at something Oliver said and she’s looking up at him through her lashes with an expression I recognize because I have personally deployed it.

Let’s make one thing clear here. I am not horribly annoyed. I am a secure, confident woman in a loving relationship, and I trust Oliver completely and the annoyance that I’m feeling is mild. At best. Extremely mild. Barely detectable.

I cross the lobby anyway. At speed.

“ — and now that my classes are done for the year, I’ll be visiting grandma more often —” Aimee is saying as I arrive. “She’s always telling me how much she loves it when I—”

I slide into place at Oliver’s side and give Aimee a smile that I hope conveys casual confidence rather than territorial menace.

Oliver’s face lights up and he shifts both grocery bags to one hand, wraps his free arm around my shoulders, and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

“Hey, you,” he says into my hair. “Long day?”

“The longest,” I reply, and I lean into him, possibly a half inch more than strictly necessary.

Aimee’s eyes travel from Oliver’s arm to my face and back. “Hey,” she says. “I remember now, you’re—”

“Genny,” I finish for her. “Ex-wife. Current Girlfriend.”

“Right. Grandma mentioned.” She adjusts her purse strap and glances toward the stairs. “Well. I should get up there. She’s expecting me. It was nice talking to you, Oliver.”

“You too,” Oliver says pleasantly. “Tell Mrs. Bowman I said hello.”

Aimee clicks off across the lobby, and I watch her go, and when I turn back to Oliver, he is looking down at me with such an amused expression that I am once again thoroughly irritated.

“What,” I say.

“Nothing.” The corner of his mouth is twitching.

“Oliver.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to. Your face said it for you.”

“My face is innocent of all charges,” he protests, steering us towards the stairs, grocery bags rustling.

“Your face is the least innocent face I’ve ever seen and you know it.” I inform him. He laughs and I feel a smile of my own tug at my mouth despite my best efforts. This is the problem with being in love with someone. Your completely justified irritation has a shelf life of about ninety seconds.

We reach his apartment and I kick the door shut behind us, drop my work bag to the ground and collapse face first onto his couch with a groan that comes from the deepest part of me. I kick my shoes off one at a time and let my whole body relax.

“Comfortable?” Oliver asks from the kitchen.

“Extremely,” I tell the couch cushion. “I’m becoming one with the couch. It’s my home now. Tell my family I loved them.”