23. Oliver

23

OLIVER

After a post-run shower, I head to Midtown and pace outside the jewelry store, practicing what to say to Summer.

The words roll off my tongue easily.

I’m sorry I was a dick earlier.

I’m sorry I took off like the jackhole the internet sometimes thinks I am.

Boom.

That shouldn’t be too hard.

I can handle all of that, no problem.

Except something nags at me as I wait on the street, while early evening crowds march past, heads bent, checking their phones on the way to their destinations.

Because I can picture myself asking Phoebe what to say to Summer.

And for the first time in a while, I can hear her crisp voice in my head, chiding me. That’s only half an apology, Ollie . Apologize all the way.

An image of my older sister giving me a sharp stare, telling me to apologize properly, takes shape before my eyes.

It’s the strangest thing to see and hear her so clearly, especially when I was listening for her the other night and heard nothing.

My God, how can the sharpness of her voice still be so clear after all this time?

Maybe because she’s right, you daft idiot.

I laugh out loud, because I hear that in her voice, crystal clear. And it makes me happier than I ever thought I would be to still recall her voice in these moments.

“What’s so funny?”

I jerk around. Summer’s here, head tilted, eyes curious, lips so damn pretty.

My heart pounds a little faster.

“I was just thinking of something funny Phoebe would say.” Then I’m smiling because I can share that with Summer. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a woman to whom I could admit how much I long sometimes to hear my sister’s voice.

After thirteen years, I shouldn’t still be so affected by her passing. And yet, every now and then, I am.

I don’t need to explain to Summer why I sometimes drift off, why I obsess over last meals, why I don’t mind one bit if she calls me Ollie.

Why I even like it when she does.

Because it’s a promise we made to Phoebe long ago.

Summer’s smile starts small then spreads as she steps closer. “Tell me what she would say. And then I have something to tell you.”

“Ladies first.”

She stands firm. “No. You.”

“Fine.”

I know what to say. I have to do this the right way. Because this friendship matters too much to give her half an apology.

I draw a fueling breath then begin. “I’m sorry I left so quickly this morning at the diner.” That’s easy to get out—what comes next is harder.

But then maybe not as hard as I anticipated, because the huge knot of anxiety comes undone when I continue with the cold, stark truth. “I left because I didn’t think I could stop kissing you if I stayed, and I care about you too deeply to jeopardize our friendship. Even though kissing you was absolutely fantastic and definitely not at all chaste. So I hope you’ll forgive me for being a dick.”

I try to read her reaction, try to find the secret to Summer in her brown eyes, but all I see is surprise.

Or more like shock.

Because her irises go wider than the moon, and she blinks several times, like she’s trying to make sense of my words.

For a second or two, her lips seem to twitch like she has a secret. But if she does, she’s keeping it in, because she schools her expression before she parts her lips to speak.

A ringing bell from the store interrupts us. A large man with a thick beard and a helpful grin pops out of the shop. “We’re closing in ten minutes. Just wanted to see if you needed something before we shut for the evening.”

“Yes. We do,” I say, and then we head inside, quickly finding a cubic zirconia that looks mostly real, and once we leave, she returns to the conversation.

“There’s nothing to forgive. We’re all good. And I appreciate you saying that. It means a lot to me.”

“It does?”

“It does. I care so much about our friendship too. I truly do. And I don’t want to jeopardize it either.”

I sigh in relief. “Well, that’s good. That’s great. Being on the same page and all.” But I’m still eager to know what was on her mind earlier. “What were you going to tell me before we went in there?”

She smiles as she looks at her fake ring. “Just what I said, for the most part. That I love being friends with you.” She lifts a hand like she’s going to set it on my arm, but she doesn’t. She lowers it and keeps her arms at her sides. “But also that it’s probably for the best if we don’t pretend to kiss again . . . because I liked it too. A lot.”

Oh.

Well.

That’s an interesting twist. “You did?”

She gives me a what can you do shrug. “I did.” She smiles a little impishly then taps my skull. “But don’t let that go to your head too much. I don’t want your ego to grow any larger.”

“No, I wouldn’t want it to outpace other large parts of my body.” Joking is easier than addressing what she’s just told me.

But I stew on it anyway as we walk to Madison Square Garden to catch Fitz’s game. Along the way, I’m extremely grateful for the noise of Manhattan, for the sardine-packed streets stuffed with tourists and locals, and for the smells of garbage, the scent of buses fuming, the din of phone calls, of cabs honking, of cars stopping.

It keeps my focus on the immediate rather than this brand-new information that’s complicating matters even more.

She liked it too.

A lot.

When we go inside the Garden, it feels like I’m entering a safe zone.

There is no way I will be tempted to kiss her here.

Not a chance.

Especially when we grab nachos and beer. The nachos here are covered in jalape?os, and who would want a jalape?o kiss?

Not this guy.

Not at all.

Not even with Summer.

Then I take a bite of the nachos, and they are spicier than I remembered.

Who am I kidding? I bet she’d taste fiery.

That’s the trouble.