The Bones of You

by Laura Stone

  “Mm hmm. Flattery is the act of the desperate, honey.”

  Oliver smiled to himself; he could hear the pleasure behind the snark in Seth’s voice. “All I’m saying is that I want you to be a part of my life. I know it’s a lot to ask, given our past. I want you be a part of decisions I make for my future, or at the very least to know what’s happening.”

  “Okay,” Seth said, pausing for a moment before quietly saying in an uncertain tone, “I just don’t know how to make you a part of my life yet.”

  Oliver wondered briefly if it was possible to have one’s heart broken multiple times during one conversation. “I… Seth. I meant it, what I said to you before anything happened that night. About us being friends? If… if that’s all you can offer me—” Oliver closed his eyes and forced himself to exhale slowly. “If that’s all you’re able to offer me, I’d happily be your friend. I just miss you, Seth. You. Your humor and how it feels to have someone who understands what it was like to grow up where we did, someone who talks straight to me and gets me… I miss all of that. And most importantly,” he affected an airy tone, hoping to prove to Seth that he could do this; he could be just a friend. “I don’t have anyone in England who will play ‘porn star or newscaster’ with me.”

  Seth laughed, sounding shocked into it. “Well, I am the reigning champion, it’s true.”

  Oliver smiled. He felt a little less hopeless, hearing Seth’s genial laughter. “You always were able to figure out who was who because of—”

  “Fabrics,” they both said in unison, and chuckled.

  “It’s so obvious, though,” Seth said, sounding far lighter and more relaxed than he had when they first began talking. “Newscasters always have someone else dressing them, so they avoid the rayon blends. Puckered plastic stitching should be considered a crime against humanity,” he huffed.

  “I see two sets of false eyelashes and I automatically assume porn star,” Oliver responded.

  “It is pretty trashy, but that’s Fox News for you. That and the baby blue eyeshadow,” Seth snickered.

  Even though it seemed as if something inside of him was slowly dying at the thought that maybe Seth couldn’t love him in return, Oliver was still grateful that Seth would offer him this, that he could still laugh with and tease Oliver. He would give anything to have more, but it wasn’t up to him. He would simply have to put aside his own feelings about Seth and take what was given.

  They talked about nothing, really, but Oliver didn’t want the conversation to end. Eventually, Seth had to get into costume for the night’s performance, and Oliver needed to lay on the floor of his old room and stare morosely at the ceiling. Not that Seth needed to know that.

  “So, will I talk with you soon?” Oliver asked.

  “I… yes. I’ll call you in a few days. To chat.” Seth sighed on the other end of the line. “That’s what friends do after all, right?” He sounded hopeful, as if he wasn’t sure if Oliver had really meant it when he said that he could accept only friendship.

  “Absolutely.” Oliver held onto the note of promise in Seth’s voice as they said goodbye, even though he felt a pang at the emphasis on the word “friend.” He wanted more, believed he needed more than just Seth’s friendship; but he’d made a huge mistake all those years ago, and it wasn’t up to him this time.

  As he sat in the quiet of the house, he stared at the pattern of brick over the fireplace and wondered if he would ever come to the end of paying for that one mistake.

  Dec 14, 10:24 PM GMT

  From: Moira Byrne

  To: Oliver Andrews

  Subject: yer fookin killin me lad

  Your font-based screaming doesn’t scare me, so you know. It might work on others, but I’m made of sterner stuff, aye?

  It’s been an entire two weeks since you left to regain your heart and not a word. Not a single bloody word for me? Ah, what’s the point of being Irish if the world—you’re the world in this scenario, boyo—doesn’t break your heart?

  I’m fair sick with worry about you, ‘struth. Drop us a line, there’s a good lad.

  Moira

  P.S. I owe you the chance to tell me “I told you so.” Janos: such a looker. And thick as manure but only half as useful. Don’t get me started on stamina. You’d think being a strapping athlete like he is, he would have it for days. You’d be wrong to think it. Lately the cat purrs to please itself. And I’m left pleasing me own puss. Don’t pretend you don’t miss me and all my feminine charms.

  Dec. 14, 4:49 PM CST

  From: Oliver Andrews

  To: Moira Byrne

  Subject: how are you actually typing in your accent?

  It’s like you’re right here with me. Wait, that can’t be, I’m not drunk. It’s almost happy hour, though. And let’s save stories about your sexual conquests with my roommate until I’m blitzed, if you don’t mind. I need to be able to look him in the eye in a few weeks, if only to collect rent.

  Seth. Well, it’s complicated. It’s just been a mess and… fine, here it is. Short story: I saw him. He’s wonderful. We spent some time together. That was wonderful. He doesn’t want a long-distance thing with me. Far less wonderful.

  Eh, it’s a few minutes early, but it’s happy hour somewhere right? I’m toasting you with a bottled Guinness, wishing you were close enough for a hug.

  ~Oliver

  P.S. Oh God, is it going to be awkward when I get back? I’m too much of a gentleman to say I told you so. But if I weren’t, I would.

  Dec. 14, 11:13 PM GMT

  From: Moira Byrne

  To: Oliver Andrews

  Subject: re: how are you actually typing in your accent?

  Christ, and I wish I were there to soothe you, too. It’s probably my one chance, eh? ;) Sorry, can’t help myself.

  Don’t ever fancy yourself a storyteller, for you aren’t. Give us the details! I’ve been stuck listening to the family insult the English—they say I’ve got meself an accent, ye ken that gobshite?—for days now. Not to mention they’re shoving every Connor, Jack and Sean in the village at me, and they’re all a pack of mouth-breathers living for nights at the pub. No thanks. And I’m desperate for news of you and your man, if only to avoid the likes of them.

  But also because I care about you, ye stupid git.

  And I bet I’ll find the holes in your logic, just like at the lab. ;)

  Moira

  P.S. Truly, I worry about you. Don’t leave us hanging.

  Dec. 14, 6:29 PM CST

  From: Oliver Andrews

  To: Moira Byrne

  Subject: don’t worry about replying tonight; you should get some sleep

  We went on a few dates. That’s what I’m calling them, even if they were just as friends. And for me, it was like nothing had changed. How I feel, that is. (I still love him.) And yes, he’s different, but not in a shocking way. Like he’s magnified, if that makes sense? He’s fantastic. And we had one pretty amazing night; that’s all I’ll say.

  I think he’s worried about being hurt again. I can understand that. I told him that if we could only ever just be friends, I’d take it. He’s so fun to be with; we laughed so much I think I hurt myself at one point. And he gets me. I haven’t had a friend like him since (no offense, you know I secretly adore you), and I just miss him. I miss feeling the way I do when I’m with him.

  So if all he can give me is friendship, I won’t say no. It’s something, at least.

  Of course I want more. I want everything: him, the future we’d planned, all of it. But I’m in England, he’s here and he just won’t do that again.

  Basically, it sucks.

  Dec. 15, 12:37 AM GMT

  To: Oliver Andrews

  From: Moira Byrne

  Subject: Me get rest? Pah! I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

  Oh, my heart is aching for you, Ollie. I can just see you sitting with poor posture, your chin propped on your hand and a look on your gob that would make a puppy cry. Nailed it in one, didn’t I?

&
nbsp; Do you want to know what I’m reading between the lines? We ladies are good for analyzing things that don’t get said, didn’t you know?

  I bet you’re way off on him not being interested at all, especially if you had as much fun as I’m thinking. Laughter? The surest way to get my knickers off. File that away, just in case. ;)

  You talked about what you wanted from him, eh? Hmm. And he had an actual conversation with you about the future and what he wanted?

  And sure, he’s protecting his heart, who wouldn’t? Especially when they’d had the likes of you once and then lost you. He’s bound to throw every barrier up that he can think of. I’d have a moat and dragons protecting mine if I’d lost you, and that’s the God’s honest truth.

  Most people don’t talk about their future wants and wishes with one-night stands even if it’s someone they used to love. Don’t think I didn’t catch what you meant about one amazing night, you filthy bastard. I’m so pleased you got a leg over! But then, you always knew I was a helpless romantic. That’s what you talk about with someone where there are still feelings, no matter how deeply they’re buried.

  And sure you’re in England. For now. What about when you go back to the States? Did you talk about that?

  For crying out loud. Are you doing the bloody PhD at Cambridge, too? Because if you are, then it’s no wonder he’s turning you away. Me darlin’, I’m not even doing the PhD there. I’ve had my fill of the English turning their noses up at me for me accent—and if I hear one more person mispronounce the name of my village, I’ll start screeching like a banshee–why do the English hate their language so much they don’t properly teach it to their children? I want to work on more than just our project, I have to confess, and plan on doing a legger.

  Did you know that Dr. Lan is possibly going on sabbatical? If he’s doing a legger, then what the bloody fook am I doing hanging about?

  Tell me you’re not staying. Don’t you want to work on something new? Be with new researchers, at least? Stop letting yourself get stuck in places because you don’t know what to do with yourself. Just thinking of you bellyaching over the lack of your weird, icy cold prune fizzy drink for the next six years is enough to put me off my feed. ;)

  Do you need me to have a word with this Seth? Because I can be verra persuasive, especially if he canna understand most of what I’m saying. It’s my charisma—gets you blokes every time.

  Moira

  Dec. 14, 7:22 PM CST

  To: Moira Byrne

  From: Oliver Andrews

  Subject: …charisma? That’s what you’re calling it?

  Please don’t track down my ex.

  I had considered staying, but—Dr. Lan might not? Really? When did you hear that news about a sabbatical?—I wasn’t sold on it, and I had a few schools back here in the States in mind, but still.

  Do you know where he’s going? Is it here? To the US, I mean. No one comes to Kansas unless forced to by their well-meaning family members.

  I’ve been focused on this project of ours for so long that I haven’t let myself think of what’s best for me at the next stage.

  Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that I did mention offhand to Seth that I might stay in England for my doctorate. That would have been before we’d spent time together and when I was incredibly nervous and trying not to sound like a moron to my ex-boyfriend who is the current toast of the theater world.

  (Oh, Moira, he was so good. I’m not just saying that. He really was.)

  Might. I might stay. If I did, it would be to continue to work on our project. I feel like we’re finally getting somewhere great with it, and… I don’t know, I can’t think past it just now. I’m also still a little shocked that Dr. Lan isn’t going to be there—he’s the reason I came to Cambridge in the first place. He’s an institution, you know? The whole department is amazing, but still. It’s something to consider when I’m able to think clearly.

  I did mention to Seth that it’s just a few months before graduation, as long as that continues on schedule. Have you heard from Barbara? Because knowing that we’ll graduate in June will be a huge help. I feel like I’ll be able to start planning what’s next.

  I don’t know. I just want to curl up and listen to sad songs and be pathetic for a bit. I’ll snap out of it soon, I promise.

  ~O.A.

  Dec. 15, 1:13 AM GMT

  To: Oliver Andrews

  From: Moira Byrne

  Subject: swear to Christ they’re about to start singing Danny Boy. I hate when stereotypes come true.

  I want you to know that no matter how much of a sad sack you are right now, I still love you, ya cuss.

  Even though I think you’re an idjit for not knowing what your plans are and for mouthing off to him that you don’t know yet.

  Let me sleep on things, and we’ll find a way to get you sorted out and find a way to make this boy of yours see that he can’t do without you. I’ll email my DoS and see what he thinks about our schedule for grads. Och, I’m already grieving the loss of you come summer, laddie! Do send us pictures on occasion. Preferably the kind that will get you in trouble, but I’ll take what I can get.

  First, though, I have to chase the neighbours away as they’re still hanging about looking for a drink and a story, and I’m beginning to feel a half bubble off true.

  Don’t despair, love, we’ll figure this out together, aye?

  Moira

  For the love of Mike, they’re actually singing it out in the lounge. Kill me.

  * * *

  “Oliver. You’re moping, aren’t you?”

  “Hello, Gus,” Oliver said into his phone with exaggerated politeness. “So good to hear from you, too! Yes, the past week has been hectic. And how are you?”

  Gus sniffed with derision. “I knew it. I’ll be there in a half-hour; grab your clubs.”

  Oliver sat up and blinked as he looked around his dark bedroom. It was the afternoon, but he’d kept the shades drawn and hadn’t felt like getting out of bed just yet. “What on earth are you talking about? My clubs? It’s twenty-four degrees outside, one, and two, there’s a good three feet of snow on the ground.”

  “It’s indoor golf, dummy. And my swing has suffered this last semester. I should have gone to medical school—you can take golfing lessons for credit, I hear.”

  Oliver laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I do know that you look better in a suit and tie than you would in scrubs.”

  “I do know how to wear a suit,” Gus said proudly. “Come on, I need to work on my chipping, and they have a sand trap simulator at the place. And then you can finally tell me why you didn’t say one word about Seth during the entire drive back to Kansas. Poor form, Oliver, poor form.”

  Oliver groaned. “I can’t say no, can I?”

  “Nope!” Gus answered cheerily. “Oh, and my mother complained that we’ve not seen you at all this week, which means you’re staying for dinner. I think she misses her favorite adopted son.”

  Mrs. Schreiber was the ultimate hostess—she remembered every catered dish Oliver had loved and always had them on hand when he visited. Thinking of the amazing curried chicken on endive she’d served the last time he visited, he said quickly, “I don’t need a full set, do I?” He got to his feet and rummaged in his dresser for clothes.

  Gus laughed. “Chip, wedge, driver, putter. See you in twenty; I’m already in the car.”

  * * *

  “Put your weight on your left leg for the follow-through, Gus.”

  Gus tapped his foot, leaning his weight on the handle of his driver as he controlled his breathing. “I’m about to put weight on your left leg if you don’t stop.”

  Oliver laughed. He lined up his five iron with the course ball and got his feet into position. This had been a great idea; he just couldn’t spend any more time with nothing to do but run endlessly on the treadmill in the family weight room. All of the holiday shopping and decorating was done. The only thing left to fill his time during the day was stare at
nothing and overthink things. That and spend hours googling reviews of Seth’s performance versus David Falchurch’s and smugly mutter, “Ha!” every time Seth was praised more than his predecessor.

  Gus never pushed. He wasn’t the kind of guy to force a topic when Oliver wasn’t ready to fully articulate his thoughts. So they’d spent the past hour just teeing off in the enclosed driving range. Oliver enjoyed the feeling of swinging and twisting into the follow-through, of having something to focus on and knowing how to fix it.

  He could change his grip, he could put more weight on the balls of his feet, his posture could be adjusted, he could keep his elbows straight in follow-through—that was easy. It was satisfying to have a problem that could be solved quickly.

  He let his body relax into the physical acts of line-up, backswing and follow-through, checking the screen over their dugout for the electronic stats on his yardage and whether or not he was still hooking the ball. No, that last grip change was what he’d needed—sometimes he didn’t think the process through, just moved on instinct, and as a result held on too tightly. He needed to remember to think things through and let… go.

  Well, fuck.

  He stood up straight, rubbing the back of his wrist against his hairline to keep the kid leather of his glove from getting damp.

  “What is it?” Gus asked, bouncing the sole of his club on the AstroTurf in a light, methodical manner.

  “Oh, just realized that I’m a walking cliché, that’s all.”

  Gus swung back and through, hitting the ball with a solid “thwack.” His arms twisted up to the left as he watched his ball fly straight down the center.

  “I could have told you that,” Gus said, turning and flashing Oliver a quick grin. “But how do you mean?”

  “Hey, you got three hundred yards on that drive thanks to me,” Oliver huffed.

  “Yeah, yeah, weight on follow-through. You’re the Golf Whisperer. Are you going to answer my question?”