Emmy & Oliver (18 page)

“No, it's just, no one's called me Ollie in, like, forever.” He smiled a little.

“I was—I
am
—the only one who was allowed to call you that,” I told him. “I guess it's still habit. Is that okay?”

“No, it's fine, it's fine. Sorry, go on.”

“You don't know, okay? When you disappeared, my parents, they changed. They would've smothered me in Bubble Wrap if they could have.”

“Well, that wouldn't have been very safe.”

“You know what I mean.” I nudged him with my knee.

“But they want you to be happy?”

“Yeah, I guess. But sometimes happiness means different things to different people. And if they found out and said I couldn't do it anymore?” I shivered at the thought, the idea of not cutting through glassy water in the morning, not riding out the wave and having it take me somewhere that I didn't know I could go, that first sweet gulp of air after wiping out and resurfacing. “Maybe when I go to college. Maybe then. I'll be eighteen and I won't be here anymore.”

“You won't?” Oliver asked. Neither of us were looking at each other: he was pulling paint chips off the gazebo's front step and I was plucking grass out of Drew's parents' immaculate lawn, one blade at a time. If the conversation kept going the way it was, we were going to cause some serious damage to the backyard.

“I, um, I actually applied to UC San Diego,” I said. “No one knows that, though. Not even my parents—or Caro and Drew.” Just saying the words out loud made my heart start to race. “They have a surf team. It's like, second-in-the-nation good. And even if I don't make it, I could still surf at Black's Beach. That's a good place to go. If I get in, I mean. I probably won't, but if I do, then yeah.” I hugged my knees to my chest. “Don't tell anyone. Okay?”

Oliver huffed out a little smile. “So I come home and now it's your turn to leave.”

“Oh, please.” I shoved at his arm. “It's not like I'm going anywhere right
now
. We still get to have our do-over. I mean, our start-over.” I sprinkled a handful of grass over his shoes, then shivered again.

“Cold?” Oliver asked.

I wasn't sure what I was. Yes, I was cold, my hair still damp from surfing and the sea air starting to creep over the hills and drift into the suburban yards. But it was his knee pressing against mine, the fact that neither of us moved away or acknowledged it, the warmth of his skin under his jeans and the way it felt so new and so familiar at the same time.

“Yeah,” I said. “Really cold.”

“Here.” He started to slip out of his hoodie.

“Is this new?” I asked him as I tugged it over my head, fixing the sleeves so that they came down past my fingertips.

“Yeah. My mom got it for me.”

She had bought it for him, bought it so he could fit in and look “cool,” bought it so he would talk to her and not hate her for taking ten years to find him.

I thought of Maureen watching Oliver walk up the front steps to school on his first day back, her face so tight and scared that it was hard not to feel the same way when you looked at her, and when I thought of my parents watching me the same way, I suddenly wanted to go back inside and cry on the floor with Caro.

Instead, I grabbed the strings and tightened the hoodie around my face so Oliver couldn't see my eyes. It smelled like the twins' shampoo again, but also like Oliver, soap and salt air and just
him
.

“You're a weirdo,” he laughed, trying to pull the strings out of my hand so he could see my entire face. “You look like a hobbit.”

“It's my disguise,” I told him, blinking fast to keep the tears at bay.

“Well, considering that I just gave it to you, it's a pretty terrible disguise.” Oliver tugged at the strings again and this time I let him unravel them so the hoodie opened back up. The moment had passed and I was okay again.

“Better not go into the FBI,” he said. “You'd suck at that job. No offense.”

“Like that was ever a plan,” I scoffed, then fixed the sleeves again. “Your mom has good taste.”

Oliver gave a half nod, half shrug, then looked back to the party. “So those are your friends,” he said, gesturing back toward the noise and light.

“Some of them. But Caro and Drew more than anyone, though. And, well, you,” I added hastily. “You're my friend, obviously.”

“Yeah?” Oliver turned to look at me and in the faint light from the party, filtered through the gazebo's lattice, his eyes seemed grayer, softer.

“Of course we're friends, Ollie.” My voice was scratchier than I meant it to sound and I coughed a little. “I've had this . . . thing.”

“Thing?” Oliver repeated. “What thing?”

Stop talking, Emmy. Stop. Talking.

“It's this note. I've had it since you . . . since your dad, that day.”

Oliver frowned a little and scooted even closer to me. “What note?”

“Caro gave you a note that day. She passed it to you in class.”

“What did it say?”

I smiled, suddenly embarrassed. Why did I keep it for ten years? We were just dumb little kids, it didn't matter. Why was I even bringing it up?

“It said, ‘Do you like Emmy, Yes No?'” Now I couldn't even bring myself to look at Oliver, I was so mortified. I was never drinking again, not if it made me start blabbering about ten-year-old memories.

Oliver, however, had a curious smile on his face, almost like he was fond of this note he didn't even remember. “Well, what did I say?” he asked.

“You circled yes,” I whispered. “I mean, it's stupid, it's so stupid. We were seven years old, it doesn't—”

“It matters,” Oliver murmured. “You kept it?”

I nodded again.

“I'm glad I circled yes, then,” he said.

I smiled back at him, and I realized that our faces were closer than they had been before, and the party sounded more muted, almost like we were drifting away from it. The stars tilted, the moon spun, and then my mouth was on his and we were kissing.

He tasted like beer, like warm apple cider. I realized that my hand was moving on its own, up to his sleeve and then cupping his shoulder. I hung on to Oliver as we kissed again because this time, he wasn't going anywhere.

“Sorry,” was the first thing he said when we parted. “I'm sorry, Emmy, I didn't—”

“Why the hell are you apologizing?” I whispered. My heart was a pinball trapped in my rib cage, my lungs a broken accordion.

“Because we're friends. I don't know. I don't want to screw this up.” He was leaning in again, though, his pulse strumming like a hummingbird's heart under my fingertips, and I leaned up to kiss him again before he could say anything else.

After a minute, I climbed into his lap. I had kissed a couple of boys before, but those kisses had been perfunctory and self-conscious. A quick peck for Josh back in seventh grade because everyone else was making out during the slow dance and I didn't want us to be left out. A weird, clumsy make-out session on the bus on the way home from a field trip with Brian G. (We had seven Brians in our class that year. It got confusing. Not that I made out with all of them. Whatever, you know what I mean.)

But kissing Oliver? That was different.

Oliver
had always been different.

His hands held my waist like I was going to fall, his arms locked around mine and kept me steady as I cupped his face in my hands. “Still sorry?” I whispered to him, and he laughed against my mouth.

“Not really, no,” he admitted. “This isn't high on my list of regrets.”

“Good,” I said, then kissed the side of his mouth. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did you get jealous about Brandon? Because he's, like, nothing. He's nothing to me. I didn't want you to think that.”

“I wasn't jealous,” Oliver said. “But I didn't like that he was making you feel bad about something you like to do. That's a shitty thing to do to anyone, but I didn't like that he was doing it to you.”

“So you didn't make out with me because of Brandon?”

“Um, no. I kissed you despite the douche canoe.”

I laughed, loud and sharp against the quiet night air. “I thought you were really cute when I saw you on TV, that first night.” The words sounded odd when I said them out loud, like I had a tabloid news fetish. “I mean, I was glad you were home, not that—”

His fingers intertwined at the base of my spine. “I know. I thought you were cute, too. You stuck your tongue out at me.”

I groaned and dropped my head against his shoulder, hiding my face in shame. “I felt like the biggest dork in the world after I did that. Ask Caro. She'll tell you. I was in agony.”

“I don't think Caro can answer too many questions right now,” Oliver said, then shrugged his shoulders so I had to sit back up again. “At least, not while she's asleep on the floor.”

“She'll wake up soon,” I told him. “She gets her second wind after about thirty minutes or so.”

I slipped off his lap so I could curl up against his side. He put his arm around me, like a hug, like a wing, like a home. “That's what I meant earlier,” Oliver said, “about wishing I could have been here. You know things about one another. They know things about
you.”

“Too much,” I groaned.

“No, I'm serious. I don't have that with anyone except . . .”

When I looked up, Oliver was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight, his face suddenly a secret to me. “Your dad,” I finished for him.

“Yeah,” Oliver said after a few seconds had passed. “My dad. We were—” He cleared his throat. “He's my best friend. Or he was. I don't really know what he is—or was—anymore.”

I pulled his arm around me even tighter, then put my arm around his waist. “I'm sorry,” I whispered.

He hugged me against his side, then kissed the top of my head. “Thanks,” he said. “No one else has said that.”

“But your mom . . . ?”

“My mom doesn't know what she wants.” I could hear the anger as it reverberated in
his chest, low like a drum. “I think she spent so much time looking for me and now that I'm home, she doesn't know what to do with me. I disrupted her life. She was totally fine without me.”

I shook my head, more to myself than Oliver. “When you went missing, she never stopped looking for you,” I said. “She didn't focus on anything else except you.”

“Yeah. Except for getting remarried and having more kids.”

“Hey!” I sat up. “That's not fair.”

“Yeah, well. Sometimes I don't feel like playing fair. Nobody was playing fair with me.”

“Your mom had one focus, one cause. And that cause had such momentum, you know? It's all she did. It's all she thought and breathed. And now suddenly, you're back. It's over. She got you back. But, if you're driving a semi at sixty miles an hour, you can't just stop on a dime, you know?”

“Did she say that?”

“Well, no, but I've known her longer than you have. I watched her, Ollie. I saw . . .” My voice trailed off as I remembered Maureen's panic, how she used to walk with her arms out in front of her, as if to break a fall or embrace a child that was just out of reach. “Everyone's different because of what happened,” I finally said. “Especially her. And you.”

“I feel like even if I did talk to her, she wouldn't want to hear what I really have to say.” Oliver had rested his head on top of mine, his words rumbling down through my skull.

“Well,
I
do,” I said. “You can say anything to me.” But I didn't carry it further. I didn't ask what he really wanted to say. Because the truth was that I wasn't sure I wanted to hear it, either.

“Emmy!”

Oliver and I jerked apart, our arms suddenly back against our own bodies and not wrapped around each other's. “Yeah?” I yelled, even though the person was in silhouette against the lit-up patio and I couldn't really see who it was. “Who is that?” I asked.

“I have no idea who
anyone
is,” Oliver replied. “Except Caro and Drew.”

“Caro's ready to go home!” the person—male—yelled back.

“Of course she is,” I muttered, starting to stand up. Sitting outside with Oliver had sobered me up and this time when I stood, my head managed to keep up with my body. “Coming!” I yelled. “Who are you?”

“Kevin!”

“Oh my God! It's Kevin!” I whispered to Oliver. “That's Drew's boyfriend!”

Oliver squinted, trying to see better. “They're dating?”

“Well, I don't know if they're dating yet, but Drew wants to make out with him and I think Kevin feels the same.”

“Got it.” Oliver held on to my arm as I climbed down the stairs, then we navigated our way back to the house, our shoes making soft
swish-swish-swish
sounds against the dewy grass.

The party had definitely wound down, and people were either half asleep on couches and chairs or, like Caro, standing up and slumped against whatever upright objects could keep them steady.

For Caro, that object was Drew.

“Hi,” she said when she saw me. “I'm ready to go.” Then she pointed at Drew. “He totally made out with Kevin.” She announced it in a stage whisper so that both Drew and Kevin blushed.

“Um, yes, you're ready to go,” Drew said, trying to shove her off onto me. “Please leave my house and come back when you can be discreet.” But his cheeks were pink and Kevin was smiling in that way you smile when someone you like kisses you back.

“Well played,” I murmured to Drew.

“Hi, I'm Oliver,” Oliver said to Kevin, waving a little.

“I know,” Kevin said. “I'm Kevin. We went to preschool together.”

“Oh, cool. Yeah.”

“Call one of your siblings,” I said to Caro. “I can't drive like this.”