9. Oliver

9

OLIVER

One year ago

There are things a man just needs to know how to do by the time he goes out on his own.

How to tie a necktie, ideally without looking in the mirror. How to parallel park in one try. How to build a campfire—with and without matches. ( Hint: magnifying glasses. Learn how to use them and you, too, can become Prometheus.)

And how to answer a Mayday call from your female best friend.

As it happened, Jason and I were hanging in his apartment one evening, working our way through the top ten skills any man must know.

I strummed a chord on his acoustic guitar, working my way through “Love Me Do,” the song we’d dubbed easiest to learn to play on a guitar. (On the list of things a modern man should know: how to play at least one song on the guitar.)

“Stop. Stop. It’s like a parrot mating with a trombone,” Jason said, clapping his hands over his ears.

Naturally, I played louder. “You’re just jealous that I’m ahead of you. I’ve tackled six items, and it’s your bloody list.”

An eye roll was his answer. “I would never be envious of someone who is total rubbish at item number four.”

“Building a campfire?” I scoffed. We’d worked on that skill last weekend while camping an hour outside of the city. “Please. I excelled. Yours was more like a bonfire, Smokey Bear. You do know the point isn’t to set the whole forest alight?”

“I made an elegant fire and cooked a burger on it. A burger you enjoyed,” he pointed out as he reached for the composition notebook with his list.

“Fine, I concede. The burger was tasty. But when you do your podcast on the top ten requisite skills, I want credit for excelling in outdoorsmanship, which is all the more impressive given my day job. Not only can I argue a case in court, but I can also survive a bear attack.” I eyed his notebook. “Check out item number seven. It’ll get any bloke past a grizzly or a black bear.”

He smacked the notebook on his thigh, looking skeptical. “I’m not questioning that you can research how to survive a bear attack, since you did it to put the item on here. Frankly, neither one of us ought to be putting that one to the test. Spoiler alert—the bear usually wins. But let’s go back to your other supposed skill.” His eyebrow rose to the ceiling. “‘Argue a case’? You’re a corporate attorney, inking contracts from your swank Park Avenue office. You’re hardly a prosecutor orating in court, Atticus .”

I stopped strumming, shooting him an oh no, you didn’t stare. “First, you enlist me as your comrade in tackling this Be a Man list for your podcast. Then you malign my ability to execute the tasks. Now you question my talent in the courtroom? I’m not sure you understand the meaning of the words help a fella out .”

“Fine, fine. You can fend off the next black bear we run into if-slash-when we answer the call of the wild,” he said, just as my phone bleated.

Jason peered at it on the coffee table, then arched a brow. “Ohhhhh. Summer’s calling. Your totally charming, utterly adorable bestie who you deny having a thing for,” he said in a high-pitched tone, sliding the phone across the coffee table like he’d caught me in the act of—what? Having a friend with breasts? “Go on. Answer it.”

“Men and women can be friends, as you well know.” I clicked answer on the call and said, “Oliver Harris, at your service.”

“Hi,” Summer said, biting out the word. Sensing the rage in that one little syllable, I sat up straighter. Then, like she was breathing fire, she scorched the next word from her mouth. “Drew.”

As she hissed, the light bulb went on in my brain, illuminating an image of someone she used to date. “Ah, Douchey Ex Number Three?”

“Yes. He took my work ideas and claimed they were his.”

“That is grounds for top prize in jackassery.”

“And obviously why I broke up with him, though he never saw it that way. He thought my ideas were just ‘part of the conversational fabric and, therefore, fair game, and why don’t we try to work this out, sweetie-pie lovey-bear?’”

“And the double pet names didn’t win you back? Such a shock.”

“I know, right?”

“Also, who the hell says ‘conversational fabric’ unless it’s an op-ed piece for a snooty newspaper?”

“Drew, that’s who. And guess what he did now?”

“Don’t keep me waiting. I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“He invited me to his wedding,” she said, irritation thick in her voice. Suddenly, I had one goal—erase that irritation as soon as possible.

“Say no,” I said, since that was the easiest method to wipe it away.

“I would, except . . . remember? We work together, and the whole department is going. There’s this office-vibe thing, and I look like the petulant jackass if I don’t attend. Like I’m holding a grudge.”

“‘Conversational fabric’ is reason enough to hold a grudge. It’s in the guidebook.”

“Along with claiming any idea of yours is ‘fair game.’ Also, inviting an ex to your wedding should be in the guidebook.”

“That’s in the How to Be a Total Arse handbook.”

“Ah, but of course. Why did I take a job at this company?”

“You’re a glutton for punishment, clearly.”

“I know, and now I have to go to this wedding, says the rule book for being the bigger person compared to my douchey ex. What am I supposed to do?”

The answer was so simple I barely thought about it. There was one way to survive a black bear attack—make yourself look gigantic. I could help her in that department.

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

“You will?” Her voice lightened immediately. Gone was the anger. In its place was something else . . . amusement perhaps.

“I’ll be your pretend boyfriend,” I offered. It seemed like the ideal solution.

My normally confident, outgoing friend was quiet for a beat. “Like we’ve done before?”

“Exactly. Unless you don’t want me to, in which case I will spend the time showing my hapless cousin how to fix a flat tire, because I’ll wager he can’t do that without my help.” I looked over to tell Jason, “You do know law school teaches students how to fix flat tires?”

“Exactly what law school did you go to?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

Summer laughed—a warm, happy sound that made me certain playing her beau for the night was the right choice. “So it’s between helping me and fixing a flat tire with Jason?”

“Yes, but you’re far more interesting than working on a car, I assure you.” I returned to the music, absently strumming The Beatles again.

“What is that sound? Is there a cockatoo strangling a trumpet near you?” she asked.

My shoulders sagged. “I’m playing the guitar. And I swear, you and my cousin are in cahoots. Did you go to the same school of insult metaphors? Now, would you like me to go with you, and we can show this asshat at the office that, one, it’s rude to invite an ex to a wedding, and, two, if you are such a twit that you do invite an ex, you are going to be shown up by a much sexier, much more handsome new beau?” I paused for dramatic effect. “Me.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a ginormous?—”

“Yes, of course. All the time.”

“ Ego , Oliver. Ego.”

“If you mean ‘ego’ as a euphemism for the crown jewels, then also yes.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, but she was laughing again, happy again. And that was what I wanted from Summer. After all, she’d been one half of the reason I didn’t spiral into depression during high school. She’d done everything she could to keep my spirits up during the darkest days of my life. This was the least I could do for her.

“That’s better than being corrigible, isn’t it? Tell me when to pick you up.”

She gave me the details, and when I hung up, Jason stared at me, lips twitching, eyebrows arching. “So, it’s the old pretend-boyfriend ruse, is it?”

“Why, yes, it is.”

“You know what they say about that.”

I strummed another chord. “No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

But he simply laughed rather than answering, and I didn’t give his comments a second thought.

After all, being Summer’s pretend boyfriend had always been easy.

On a Sunday evening two weeks later, I knocked on the door to Summer’s apartment. As it opened, I said, “All right, sexy fake girlfriend, get on my arm and let’s show you off like the?—”

My jaw dropped.

Possibly literally.

Definitely figuratively.

Because holy fuck .

Summer was a fox.

She wore some kind of dress. Some kind of fabric. Who the hell knew what any of it was except light blue and delectable.

She looked nothing like the girl I’d known most of my life, yet everything like her too.

She was sex appeal and sweetness all wrapped up in one delicious package.

“Like the what?” she asked, curious. “Show me off like the what?”

My throat was dry, but I managed to speak through the desert. “Let’s show you off like you’re the thing he most regrets.”

Because jackass or not, how could Drew not regret his fuckup? Losing this woman had to be cause for going to the hospital to check for alarmingly high levels of relationship remorse.

She smiled, and it did something funny to my chest.

Something funny that I shoved into a dark corner of my mind, determined not to examine.

I hooked her arm through mine, then we left her building and slid into a waiting Uber.

In the car, I reminded myself of our roles, and that quick reset was all I needed to ignore that dark corner of my mind.

At the wedding, it was easy, so damn easy to pretend she was mine, but that wasn’t because she was all dolled up.

It was because we knew each other. We had an ease between us. A rhythm.

During the reception, her ex strode over and introduced himself. “Pleasure to meet you. Drew McAllister the third.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I held out my hand. “Oliver Harris the twelfth,” I said, since two could play that game. “Congrats on the wedding.”

“Yes. I particularly love the favors. I’d been hoping for a pen with your photo on it,” Summer put in.

“Thanks. They’re great for signing things,” Drew said, completely missing the point.

“As pens are,” I added, affixing a most serious look to my face. “Do they also work for taking notes?”

“Yeah,” he said, giving me a confused look. Drew scrubbed a hand over his jaw and glanced from Summer to me and back. “Have you two been together long?”

I looped my arm around her waist. “No, but when something is right, it’s just right, isn’t it?”

And since I had no more interest in him than I did in his bride-and-groom photo pens, I took Summer to the dance floor and twirled her around.

“Did you know you can also use a pen as a whistle?”

“Did you know you can use a pen to poke your brother or your cousin?” she tossed back.

“Some pens double as back scratchers,” I said.

“And don’t forget—nearly all can be used to hit that hard-to-reach reset button on modems.”

I spun her around, and when she made a full circle, I added, “And this concludes our discussion of other uses for pens. By the way, Drew the third, dullest man in existence, is not only a douche but a total douche.”

Her blonde hair spilled behind her, and she smiled. “Was it the third or the personalized pens that sealed the deal?”

I shook my head, tugging her up. “No, it’s that he’s holding a wedding on a Sunday. Who does that?”

“What’s wrong with Sunday? Don’t tell me you hate Sundays.”

“It’s too close to Monday.”

“Aww, poor Oliver hates Monday,” she said, patting my chest as we danced. “Ollie and Garfield.”

“Don’t call me Ollie,” I growled.

“But comparing you to a cartoon cat is okay?”

“It’s better than being called Ollie.”

“You know why I call you Ollie,” she said, a hint of seriousness in her tone.

“I know,” I replied, partially serious too.

“And I think you like it, even though you pretend not to.”

“Try me, woman.”

Her lips curved into a fantastic grin as she taunted, “Ollie, Ollie, Ollie.”

Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t entirely mind it from her. Still , I wasn’t a man for diminutives, so I clasped her tighter.

“Now I must punish you.” I dipped her precariously far. But Summer was the girl who liked to cliff jump into the ocean. She was the daredevil who’d skateboarded down the hilly street we lived on as teens. She had a lion-tamer’s ferocity and a fearless heart.

“That’s your punishment for Ollie ?” she fired back.

“Watch it, or spankings come next.”

“Ooh, is that included on the fake boyfriend menu?”

I brought her back up again, flush against my chest, and for a flash of a moment, I had an image of where dancing might lead.

A dangerous image that would require use of the dark corners of my mind, so I stepped away from talk of spanking.

Lest it lead to something just like that.

Instead, I cleared my throat and answered her earlier question. “Holding a wedding on a Sunday is throwing in the towel. It says you’re going to bed early. It says you’re waking up and heading to the gym the next morning. It says you aren’t committed to lasting all night long.”

“What’s wrong with going to the gym in the morning?”

“Nothing, as long as it’s not the morning after your wedding night.”

“How do you know they aren’t staying up all night long?”

“Because it’s Sunday.”

“So are you telling me that you’ve never stayed up all night long on a Sunday?”

“I have, but I doubt Drew the third has my stamina,” I said, as I made sure our bodies didn’t sway too closely. I didn’t need another brazen image of her lodging itself where it didn’t belong.

“You are so cocky.”

“But it’s not cocky if it’s true.”

She tapped my shoulder. “Just because you and your cousin have this saying doesn’t make it right.”

“But you know what is true and right?” I asked, spinning her and enjoying the way it made her laugh.

“What?”

“Me stepping in as the future Douchey Ex Number Four. Because now you’re not thinking about your Douchey Ex Number Three breaking the rules of common decency by inviting you to his wedding, are you?”

Her smile lit up the entire dance floor. It was all the twinkling lights in the reception hall. It was the stars in the night sky. “Not at all.” She took a beat, as if stripping away the sass and teasing that were the hallmarks of our friendship. “Thank you, Oliver.”

“It was my pleasure, Summer.” And it was. The night had been fantastic. “Just like it was with the guy from the bar. Remember that night at the Lucky Spot?”

“I do. You pulled me onto your lap and played with my hair, really selling it to the jury.”

“It worked. He sulked off,” I said, but I wasn’t thinking of the ex. I was thinking of her hair, grateful she wore it up tonight, so I wouldn’t be tempted.

Summer glanced around, as if surveying the success of the wedding ruse. “And on that note, has anyone told you you’re the best fake boyfriend around?”

“Why, yes. It’s going on my business card.”

“Oh, good. Now I feel special.”

“You should always feel special,” I said, conveying that in my tone. I wanted her to know that. Wanted her to feel it. Because her role in my life and the immeasurable levels of special she brought to it were the reasons I didn’t want to get any closer to her.

“I should?” Her question came out a little tentative, a little surprised.

I met her gaze, making sure she saw that I was being honest. “You are special, Summer.”

She’d been one of my closest friends since I was old enough to need someone to turn to.

She’d been there for me the entire time my sister was sick when I was in high school, and when Phoebe died, she’d been there for me too.

Always.

And I always wanted her in my life, and to be in hers, not on a list of mistakes.

That was why I laughed it off when Jason or Logan hinted about us becoming more than friends.

We were an us because we didn’t ever let us become anything else.