20. Olivier

Elodie's version of "slumming it" is a Michael Kohr's little black dress and Louboutins instead of Manolo's. I make her change before leaving her apartment.

She winds up in skintight leather pants, the same shoes, and a loose, garnet-colored sweater.

It's acceptable. I'm in a black turtleneck, black jeans, and Vans. Instead of one of my usual winter coats, I sent out for a white Northface puffer which I end up liking a lot.

Elodie takes issue with the beanie.

"No," she says, snatching it off my head immediately.

I gasp in outrage. "My hair!"

"Run your fingers through it a few times. This is giving pick-me vibes."

"I don't know what that means," I say, trying to bring my hat-smushed curls back to life and swallowing a huge lump of nerves. I can't show up with my hair a disaster and Vans.

She scoots closer on the backseat to help me. "It means look at me, how hard I'm trying, pick me to be your new best friend."

"Oh."

"I'll give you a pass on the coat, but the hat is a hard no."

I'm gonna be sick.

"Mmm… You smell good." She leans in, dragging the tip of her nose up the side of my throat.

Actual nausea. "Could you not?"

She sighs like a long-suffering wife and continues to rearrange my curls. "Better," she finally says.

"Are you sure?"

"Are you nervous?"

How the fuck did Elodie Lafayette wind up being my best friend? I'd like to file a complaint with my parents. "I've never been to Chelsea before."

"Have you been to Hell's Kitchen?"

I make a face. "Where is that?"

She laughs. "And I thought I was sheltered." Elodie opens a compact and touches up her lip gloss. "I'm excited," she says. "And I'm loving you like this, Ollie. I haven't seen you this nervous since we had sex on Tuesday. It's cute."

I put a hand on my chest and try to breathe through my nose. Of all the memories I didn't need right now.

My anxiety only gets worse the further downtown we go. Elodie continues to talk and laugh at her own jokes. I swallow rising bile and bounce my knee restlessly. The driver is some sort of wizard because there's like—no traffic on his route. I feel like we pull up to the restaurant unreasonably fast. I mean, we're still late because I made Elodie change clothes, but still.

"Look—should I ditch the coat?" I bark at her before she gets out of the car.

She gives me a shrewd once-over. "No. It's fine. Plus, you'll freeze to death."

I spring out of the car without waiting for the driver to open my door, shaking my arms out to let loose some of this nervous energy. The cold air hitting my face helps, and a breeze blows through my hair, which can't hurt the situation up there.

I meet Elodie on the sidewalk, and we do what we always do before walking into a restaurant. Take each other's hands, presenting a perfect united front like the reformed wild children we want our parents—and everyone else who matters—to believe we are.

The restaurant immediately surprises me. I hadn't paid much attention to the outside, but now that we're in the dining room, it's actually classy. Exposed brick walls, white tablecloths, a long bar on the back left side of the room, and waiters in starched shits and black aprons. It smells amazing.

I scan the diners, varying from families with children to elderly couples, to the hottest man in New York, and my stomach drops to my feet.

"Shit." The word slips out in a whisper as I make eye contact with him. He's sitting with a woman who has a bright, white smile and luscious black curls. The host walks us over, sets down our menus, and I pull out the chair across from Drew's gorgeous girlfriend for Elodie.

Drew reaches out a hand to her, "Drew Riley."

Elodie winks at him. "So…not Jack."

He grimaces, and I wonder if he thinks it looks like a smile because it doesn't even come close. "Not Jack."

"I'm Elodie."

"Nice to officially meet you. This is my girlfriend Jericho Colson."

"Oh my God!" Elodie bursts in Jericho's direction. "Do people call you CoCo?"

"Uh—" Jericho's smile stays in place, but her eyes give away her confusion and acknowledgement of Elodie's "extra-ness." "Jeri, sometimes, but Jericho for the most part."

"I'm gonna call you Coco."

"Great!" Jericho says.

"And this is Ollie," Drew says.

He's literally never called me that. I'm not sure I like it. But I go with it because my mouth is nearly all the way dry, and Drew is wearing a blue gingham button-down the exact color of his eyes along with flattering gray pants and a belt I could swear is Prada. Cleaning up nice is putting it mildly.

This is the first time I've gotten a glimpse of Drew's style, and I don't know why I figured it was all work boots and hoodies, but he's been trying to make it in Manhattan as a model for a while. It was stupid to think he'd dress like a construction worker and not someone who knows what fashion is.

"Hi, Ollie. It's so nice to meet a new friend of Drew's."

I nod, smile, and shake Jericho's offered hand. Finally, we all sit. My knee immediately hits Drew's beneath the table, and I jerk it back like Drew's leg is a hot poker. He smirks as he glances down at his menu.

"We ordered a bottle of red and a bottle of white," Jericho says.

"You read our minds," Elodie responds.

I lean toward Elodie and whisper into her ear, "Please don't mention he's my doorman. I'm not sure Jericho knows."

She lifts her napkin to her mouth to cover a laugh and tries to turn it into a cough.

When I pull away, I meet Drew's hard gaze. I give him a look I hope he interprets as "get over yourself."

I attempt to summon some of my legendary charm. "Drew's told me how beautiful you are, Jericho, but he hasn't mentioned what you do for a living."

She turns her blinding smile on me. "I work in acquisitions at Spielman and Row."

Ah, one of the big publishers. So, she's not just some waitress or bartender. Great.

"Are you an editor?" Elodie asks.

Jericho nods. "Nonfiction. Memoirs and biographies mainly."

"She's responsible for Macie Saint's book," Drew says, name-dropping the famous rapper like he's gone to dinner with her. I guess maybe he has.

"Whoa!" Elodie exclaims. "You're like awesome!"

"It's not as glamorous as it sounds, really," Jericho demurs.

I might hate her. I might really, really feel genuine contempt for this woman for being intelligent, successful, beautiful, and perfect for Drew.

Fuck her.

"What do you do?" Jericho asks, politely.

Elodie and I share a glance before she blurts. "I make pottery."

My asshole clenches so hard while I try to keep my face blank.

"Oh! You're an artist."

"I wish." Elodie goes on, weaving an intricate tale of pottery making as a passion while Jericho listens attentively. I keep sneaking glances at Drew, living for the moments when his gaze meets mine.

The wine arrives at the table while Elodie is still talking. By now, I'm convinced she actually does make pottery. Finally, the dreaded question from Jericho comes. "And you, Ollie?"

"Nothing," I say without thinking about it. In response to her fading smile, I double down, my need to self-destruct peaking at the exact wrong time. "I do absolutely nothing. I have rich parents, and I spend their money. That's about it."

"Oh," Jericho says, the smile all the way gone now.

Two lines form between Drew's brows. His elbows are on the table and his chin is perched on his folded hands. He tilts his head. I can't tell whether he's confused or disappointed, or maybe he thought I did have a job. I don't even know.

"How did you two meet again?" Jericho asks Drew specifically, and I shut my mouth.

"He lives in the building where I work," Drew tells her, eyes still on me, and I shrink in my chair.

What? Was I supposed to make up a job? I'm in cashmere for fuck's sake, and I'm not that creative. Elodie pats my cheek. "Ollie's so much fun, though," she says. "Everybody loves him."

Jericho is silently judging me. I can feel it. She's gonna leave here and talk shit about me to Drew, and he'll remember everything about me he hates, and I'll never get to kiss him or fuck him.

Jesus, how am I even thinking about that with his girlfriend right there? "Is there a restroom here?"

"Downstairs," Drew says.

"Cool."

I stand without another word and head for the back of the dining room where a dark stairwell leads to the lower level.

After I take a piss, I'm washing my hands when there's a knock on the door. "I'm in here," I call out.

"Let me in, Peach."

Fuck.

I open the door with wet hands and tell him in no uncertain terms, "I'm not blowing you in a bathroom."

His big, muscular body backs mine up to the counter without even laying a hand on me. "What's your problem?"

He doesn't sound angry. More curious.

"Honestly, I don't know."

"Did you see a stain on the tablecloth or something?"

I huff. "No."

"I can't tell if you're annoyed or…nervous?"

"Both."

"That's funny," he says, tonelessly.

"Then why aren't you laughing?" I ask.

He's staring at my mouth again. Maybe because I was just moving it? "I guess I find this sort of darkly entertaining," he says. "I'm laughing on the inside."

"You look good," I blurt.

"So do you," he says in that sexy low voice.

"My hair got fucked up on the way here."

"How?" There's that possessive edge again.

"I was wearing a hat. Elodie found it unacceptable."

Drew's shoulders drop a few inches, and he gives me a quizzical look. "I can't picture a hat on you. Was it like a disguise?"

"You said to dress like a normal boy. I was making an effort to blend in, okay?"

He laughs. An actual laugh. I see his teeth and everything, and fuck if I'm not totally blinded. His bright blue eyes crinkle in the corners, and I want to grab him by the lapels of his open-necked shirt and force my mouth onto his. But I don't think I'd be able to stop there.

"Come have a drink," he says, putting some space between us. "Relax."

"This is the last time I'm coming out with you and your girlfriend," I tell him, following him out of the bathroom and up the stairs.

"I figured. Glad you came, though."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

I don't press. I'll take whatever affirmation I can get.

Wine helps. My anxiety untwists itself with every hearty sip, and while I was in the bathroom, Elodie and Jericho found more things to talk about. Finally, I start engaging with Drew. "So have you been here before?"

"It's one of my favorite places in the city," he says.

"Is the food good?"

He nods. "I recommend the lasagna."

"So basic," I tease.

"Fine. You do you, Peach. Whatever you get's gonna be amazing."

"I'm a picky eater," I tell him. "The bane of my mother's existence."

He relaxes into the surprisingly easy conversation. "I've always wondered—do you speak French?"

Always, huh?"Oui."

"Say something in French."

"Voulez-vous coucher avec?—"

He waves a hand to shut me up and smiles. "Never mind."

"Maybe later," I tell him.

"Maybe."

The word gives me a thrill. "So, what are you like, Drew?"

"What do I like?"

"No. What are you like?"

"You want me to describe my personality?"

"I could ask her to describe it." I give a light nod toward Jericho who's talking with her hands about lash extensions or something.

Drew humors me with a revealing answer. "I always wanted to be the kind of person who could say what you see is what you get, but really I think I'm a series of carefully concealed landmines. Some of them I don't even know about."

"What a bizarre way to describe yourself."

"Accurately?"

I give him an exasperated look. "You know what I mean."

"I'm depressed, I guess. I mean, I don't guess. I know I am. I get overwhelmed. I shut down. I explode. But other than that? What you see is what you get."

I study him a moment, drawn in by his honesty—that soft core, and then the waiter arrives to take our order.

Jericho orders the ravioli, Drew, the lasagna, and the waiter looks at Elodie. The routine goes like this: She says, "I'm still deciding. Skip me."

I pick up the menu and point at the fettuccine Alfredo. "Does this come with chicken?"

"If you like," the waiter says.

"Could I get it with shrimp?"

"Of course, sir."

"Is the shrimp grilled or boiled?"

The waiter begins to understand what he's dealing with. "Ah…do you have a preference?"

"Grilled."

The waiter checks for understanding. "The fettuccine with grilled shrimp?"

"If you have angel hair pasta, I prefer that."

"Of course, sir."

"And the shrimp—grilled, with butter and lemon?"

The waiter admits defeat. "Angel hair Alfredo with shrimp grilled in butter with lemon."

"Sounds perfect. Thank you."

"Of course. And you, miss?"

Elodie, like always, says, "I'll have the same."

"Perfect."

I glance at Drew. He and Jericho are both staring at me while Elodie refills her and Jericho's white wine.

"I was just explaining to Drew that I'm kind of a picky eater," I say to the perfect girlfriend.

"So you tell the chef how to cook your food?" she asks.

It feels like I'm being scolded, and I bristle. "I'm just one person. It's not like I'm asking them to change the menu."

"You kind of are, though."

"Are you seriously telling me you never ask for a modification? Grilled versus fried, mayo instead mustard?"

"But you created a menu item," she argues.

Drew turns to her, surprised.

I don't back down. "Wanna know something else? I actually had three more questions I decided not to ask because I could tell he was getting irritated."

"Could you, though?"

"I could. Wanna know the three questions?"

She throws up her hands. "Why not?"

I tick them off on my fingers. "Is the Alfredo more butter forward or Parmesan forward; do they make fresh pasta or use dried, and would they mind adding a splash of wine to the lemon and butter for the shrimp?"

"Jesus Christ," she breathes. "Do you even cook?"

"No, but I'm an expert at dining out."

"Jer," Drew says, putting a hand on the back of her neck and giving it a squeeze. "Give him a break. He was born this way."

Not only do I want to kick him underneath the table, but I'm so fucking jealous of Jericho's neck right now, I'm a little surprised I haven't walked out yet.

"I just think it's rude," Jericho says.

"Drew's right," Elodie chirps. "It's just Ollie."

Motherfucking check please.