Oliver: Lawyers are generally known for giving great hostess gifts. We’re often praised as a collective group for our excellence in that area.
As I drink my coffee and reread the thread, a pang pulls on my heart.
This should be a good thing—that we can return so seamlessly to the way we’ve always been. We are a rubber band, snapping back into friendship shape.
But in a way, it feels off, like this isn’t who we are anymore.
Or maybe it’s not who we could be.
I had a taste of that last night, and I want another drink.
But I sigh and close the app.
30
Oliver
In the grand scheme of things, I have nothing against pink. I mean, it’s not my color. I don’t wear it. I don’t decorate with it. Not that I decorate anything, for that matter.
Point being, pink is fine, except when it’s not fine. Except when I’m surrounded by it.
“I feel like I’m swimming in a Pepto Bismol bottle,” I whisper to Summer as the pink-haired instructor with the world’s cheeriest smile hands us aprons at the Cookie Academy.
“It does have a rather strong Candy Land-slash-My Little Pony vibe,” Summer whispers, tying an apron around her neck.
I fasten mine at the waist, then gesture to myself, reaching for humor and normalcy. “Domestic god is a good look on me, right?” I lift a brow and give her my best smolder. “You’ve always wanted to see me in an apron—admit it.”
Wait—
I frown, second-guessing myself.
Was that flirty?
Yeah, that was flirty.
I shouldn’t be flirty with Summer if we’re going back to the friend zone. And we are, since we’ve agreed that last night was not the norm.
But this is a cookie-making class. Cookie dough won’t be tempting. It’s not like we’re making sensual massage oil. Now that would be a class I could get behind.
“You look absolutely dashing.” Summer pats me on the shoulder as we set out ingredients on the pink counter. If she’s feeling awkward after this morning’s let’s-never-go-there-again decision, it’s not showing.
At the front of the kitchen classroom, the instructor cups her mouth to make a megaphone. “Who’s ready to make the best cookie batter ever?”
“We are,” shouts the couple behind us.
“Woot, woot,” shouts another.
I groan inside. Classes should not include a cheering section.
The instructor sings out her instructions, and we set to work mixing and measuring, Summer taking pics as we go.
“I think The Dating Pool included this date idea on its short list because it’s highly Instagrammable.” She snaps a shot of me measuring sugar.
“Isn’t that the main criterion for a date these days? Because who will believe you had a date if you don’t post pics on social media?”
When Summer laughs, I take it as a sign that this is where we’re supposed to be. No, not this pic-friendly, cotton-candy-pink cookie school. I mean the friendship we’ve managed to pull out of the sex nosedive. We’re flying at cruising altitude into the friend zone so damn easily it’s like we live there.
This proves last night was a blip. Just a bump of turbulence.
“We’re adorbs,” she says. Now she’s snapping a shot of us working our KitchenAid blender—pink, of course. Then she pauses. “Wait. How about a kiss? What’s a photo op without a kiss?”
“Things I ask myself every day.” I drop a chaste one on her cheek.
This is our frequency, this saccharine cute and absolutely fucking awful class where we stir up a concoction we could make at home. But in this day and age, we need a course in everything so it can be chronicled for social media, thus proving we’re having the best time ever.
All I want to do is rip off this apron, bring her close, and kiss her senseless.
Toss her over my shoulder.
Carry her out of here.
I want to strip her, touch her, have her.
Tell her how I feel all night long, and then in the morning tell her that I want to do it again and again.
Instead, I’m shaking rainbow sprinkles into cookie dough batter while pretending I don’t want to do any of that with the woman next to me.
I sneak a glance at her—the girl next door who’s become the woman I want.
Become so much more than a friend.
The strawberry shortcake instructor swings by, checking out our mix and clapping approvingly.
“I’ll take a picture of you guys, since you’re so cute,” she chirps.
We pose, flashing toothy, too-big smiles, cheerily stirring our batter, peppering each other’s cheeks with kisses.
My life has become a series of social media moments, chronicled for The Dating Pool piece, one fake moment after another with my fake fiancée.
* * *
When we leave to make our way to Geneva’s dinner party, Summer’s brow is furrowed, and she seems lost in thought. I look at her hand by her side, wanting to take it, knowing I shouldn’t.
Why did I think it would be a good idea to sleep with her to prove a point?
That was a stupid idea.
“You okay, Summer?” I ask as we walk along Perry Street, wanting to keep things light between us. “Are you thinking deep, cookie-inspired thoughts about the state of the world?”
She shoots me a dubious sideways look. “Did cookies make you think deep thoughts about the state of the world?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Do tell,” she prompts.
I choose the safest of my insights. “When did everything turn into a class? There are pickle-making classes, yarn-twining classes, how-to-tie-your-shoelace-into-an-origami-frog classes. Everything is a class.”
“I wouldn’t mind learning how to tie my shoelaces into a frog,” she counters, but her tone is more curious than challenging. “Why do you dislike all these trendy classes so much?”
“They’re pointless. People take them, but they never actually go home and make pickles, or candles, or piña coladas. They take them knowing they’ll never make pickles or piña coladas.”
She shrugs and smiles. “Who cares, as long as the class itself is fun.”
“You liked that?” I hook my thumb back toward the Cookie Academy.
“Yes. I had a good time.”
“But you could do that at home,” I argue as we reach the next block, heading toward my client’s West Village home.
“True, but I don’t very often, and sometimes it’s fun just to get out of the house. To do something other than dinner and a movie, or dinner and drinks. You wouldn’t want to do that if we were dating?”
That stops me in my tracks—the if. The question of dating her. The possibility I haven’t let myself ponder.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“What would you want to do, then?”
I answer easily. “I would probably take you to, say, a hockey game. Or maybe to your favorite diner. I would take you to Central Park, since I know you love it. We’d wander through it and try to find a corner of the park you haven’t explored. But if we couldn’t, we’d just go to all your favorite places because they’re mine too.”
The scenarios roll off my tongue. I know them well. I know her well. “I would go for a run with you, something else we both enjoy. I would ask you what new music is on your current playlist, and you’d tell me you just downloaded the playlist from Sex Education, and I’d say, ‘That’s a brilliant show,’ and you’d say, ‘I know, I love it, it’s amazing.’ And then we’d debate which one’s better, Sex Education or Schitt’s Creek, but we’d literally never decide.”
I stop for a breath, trying to read her brown eyes. But they’re not flashing kiss me now at me in neon. Instead, they’re gentler, and that softness in them, a vulnerability, even, hooks into my heart and tugs.
I don’t know what to do with that look or these feelings except to stand on this corner with her. Talk to her. Be with her. Go int
o that party tonight as if it’s a real date, not a date for show.
Mostly, I just want to know where she’s at.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“Those things all sound like great dates too,” she says slowly, absorbing what I’ve just said, and almost as slowly, she lets a grin spread across her pretty face. “But I also had a great time with you just now at the cookie class. I pretty much always have a great time with you, Oliver.”
I fight the impulse to draw her near, to bring her into my arms. “Yeah, same here. I hate stupid classes, but I always have fun with you. I guess part of me is just tired of the charade,” I say, but the desire to touch her is stronger than the will to stop, and I finally yank her in close for a hug. She snuggles against me, her face in the crook of my neck.
And that feels too good.
Too right.
And a little too tempting. As a couple walks past us, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of her hair, sweet vanilla reminding me of last night, taunting me with a tonight that won’t happen.
I breathe her in on the streets of New York, doing my damnedest to stay very still. To not cross a line again. To make sure we’re on the level.
Even though it’s hard.
Maybe too hard to keep to myself.
“You smell really, really good,” I whisper, and a bit of weight shifts off of me.
“So do you,” she says softly into my neck. “Maybe beautiful guys just smell better.”
I laugh. “Yes, it’s our secret cologne.”
She takes a beat. “Actually, it’s just you. You just smell really good, Ollie.”
Then she draws a shaky breath and pulls back. “But if we keep doing that, we’ll get all caught up again, and we said we wouldn’t.”
“Right. Right. We did say that.” Part of me loves that she feels the same slippery slope I do.
Another part wants to send us both tumbling down that hill.
We start walking again along the block and spot a couple staring at us. One of the pair, a woman with dark hair and gray eyes, offers me a tentative smile and seems embarrassed. “America’s Best Boyfriend?”
Summer chimes in, “This is him.”
“Can we take a pic?”
“Sure,” she says, snuggling up against me.
The woman snaps a picture, then her eyes drift down to Summer’s left hand. “Gorgeous ring.”
“Thanks so much,” Summer says, and the couple turns to leave, saying they’ll hashtag us.
I look forward to the day I’m not a hashtag.
* * *
A little later, we reach Geneva’s block.
“I feel a little guilty going in there,” Summer says softly.
“Because it’s a charade?”
She smiles softly. “Yes, to be honest.”
“Same here. I guess I’m not as Machiavellian as I thought.”
“Did you think you were?”
“I’m a lawyer. I have to be a little Machiavellian. The ends justify the means and all.” I puff up my chest and put on my best dickhead voice. “I’m an asshole. I can do this.”
She laughs, then her laughter fades. “But in this case, I do think the end justifies the means. Maybe I’m Machiavellian.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because I think it’s stupid that you were judged for what I said. I think it’s stupid, too, that I judged you for being”—she waves her hand at me—“for being pretty.”
I flutter my hand across my chest. “I’ve always wanted to be pretty.”
“You know what I mean. It’s ridiculous. Society judges women based on looks, and, frankly, on a million other things too. And then we turn around and judge other people. The internet judged you. Your client judged you for a letter I wrote about how awesome you are.” She’s winding herself up, building a head of steam. “It’s insane. I mean, so what if you had truly broken my heart. Does that mean you’re a bad lawyer?”
“Probably means I’m a good lawyer.”
“But see, that’s the thing—the letter was supposed to be a thank you,” she says, turning to me, touching my arm. “It was supposed to be between us.”
I take a breath, thinking carefully before I say the next thing. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”
She’s quiet, the cogs in her brain whirring. “Because I don’t think I realized what it was at the time. I wrote it from the heart, and it felt like a secret, something only we would know.”
Her confession feels like the true secret. She’s telling me something private, something meaningful.
I stroke her hair, tucking some strands behind her ear. “Then next time, just tell me.”
She raises her hand to clutch my wrist, but not like she’s stopping me—more like she’s clinging to me. “I’ll do that. I promise. And I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”
I lean in closer, press my forehead to hers. “Do you want me to pretend I am? To fake being mad?”
She laughs. “Don’t fake that. I’m sorry you have to play this game because of me.”
But maybe I don’t mind the game after all. I slide my hand down her hair, savoring the softness, and consider saying fuck the world and kissing her.
Instead, I let go.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m having a blast with you. Let’s go inside and fake it—and give her this infernal cookie-batter hostess gift.”
Once inside, we give Geneva the batter, which delights her.
“I’ve never had someone bring me cookie batter,” she says, her eyes shifting from Summer to me. “I suspect this is your fiancée’s doing.”
“It absolutely is.”
We mingle with her guests, as well as Jane, and I feel nothing but honest as I take Summer’s hand, thread my fingers through hers, and introduce her as my fiancée.
She looks like she belongs to me.
She feels like she belongs to me.
And when I hold her hand during the cocktail hour, I don’t think anyone can tell otherwise.
Geneva introduces me to some of the other partners at her media firm. “This is my attorney, Oliver Harris. He’s tops at contracts and business, and he looks out for me like a tiger,” she says. “And this is his fiancée, Summer.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Summer says to a tall woman with horn-rimmed glasses.
“And you as well,” the woman answers. “How long have you two been engaged?”
“Two weeks.” Summer gives the story that we practiced after the bacon-wine almost-fiasco.
“Congrats. And when is the wedding?” the inquisitor continues.
“In ten months,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We’re getting married in Central Park. We’ve always loved it there.”
“Right.” I pitch to sell our story. “We had our first kiss there.”
“Oh, how romantic,” Geneva puts in. “Where in Central Park?”
Summer meets my gaze, her brown eyes twinkling. “By the carousel.” She touches my arm. “Do you remember what I said in high school about kissing at that spot?”
My mind is a blank—a white slate of nothing. Then, like the sun rising, the memory returns. “Right. On one of our visits there. You said you wanted your first real kiss to be there. And I just laughed.”
“Why did you laugh?” Geneva asks curiously.
I don’t look at Geneva. I look at Summer and speak the truth. “Because I knew then, on some level, I wanted her first kiss to be with me.”
“Ohh! That’s so lovely.” Geneva clasps her hands to her chest. The other woman coos.
And Summer just smiles at me, only me. “I wanted it to be you too.”
I have no choice. I step closer, sweep my lips across hers, and kiss her the way I want to now.
Well, not entirely. I’d like to kiss her with no one else around. But here in the middle of a dinner party, I’ll take this.
Nothing about it feels fake. Not the gust of breath that escapes her lips. Not the slightest murmur she gives. And not how sh
e responds.
But because we’re not alone, I end the kiss after a few seconds, reorienting on the present moment. “And we did kiss there for real, several months ago, when we started dating.” I pick up the thread of our fake story. “Because I realized after all these years that it’d always been her.”
All the hands flutter over all their hearts.
Summer’s eyes widen, shining with what might be the threat of tears, but she, too, gets back to the story. “So, earlier this week, we recreated our kiss for fun. To celebrate, you know?”
“Yes, of course,” Geneva says.
The other woman adds, “And did you know then that you were in love with her?”
“It took me a while to figure it out,” I say, and Summer visibly trembles at the comment. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, the way it moves through her body. The way her breath ghosts across her lips.
“But you figured it out,” Geneva says.
As I meet Summer’s gaze, I speak the full truth when I say, “Yes, I did.”
* * *
We’re quiet later as we leave, heading down the stairs to the street, where Summer waits for her Lyft.
We don’t say a word. It’s strange for us. But she breaks the silence eventually, gesturing to my client’s home. “Are you going to feel as bad as I will when you tell her we broke up?”
“Yes.” But not for the reasons she thinks. Not because I feel guilty. I don’t fucking care about appearances anymore.
I say yes because I feel like it’s already happening—the breaking up—and it does feel bad.
The feeling is magnified when the Honda pulls up to the curb and I open the door and say good night.
She waves faintly from the car, the look in her eyes a little sad.
It probably mirrors mine.
Last night really was just one night.
Once she leaves, I don’t call a cab or a Lyft.
I start down the block, but I’m not alone for long. A familiar voice calls out, “Care to walk a woman home, love?”
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend Page 16