Page 24 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

Oliver hitches a breath, then lets it out slowly. His hands come down and Connor relaxes in response.

“You’re right,” Oliver says, “he isn’t,” then stalks away.

I watch his back, the way his muscles move under his shirt, the way that one curl folds lazily onto his neck, and my feet carry me after him against my will.

I’ve only been in love with two men in my life: Connor and Oliver. At twenty-five, I fell hard for Connor, and when we broke up less than a year later, that was a hard landing, too. Oliver was the one who put me back together when I was twenty-eight. We met when everything on the outside looked like a dream life, but everything on the inside was a complete mess. We had four good years, and then I fucked it up.

That’s not a surprise, right? You’re getting to know me by now.

“Oli, wait.”

He slows only slightly, but it’s enough for me to catch up.

We’re on the edge of a stone staircase leading farther down into the Forum, an old fountain in front of us, the mosaic tiles surrounding it covered in red dust.

“What, El?” he says, his voice full of the gravel of disappointment.

I stop. It’s a good question. What do I want from him?

“What are you doing here?”

“In the Forum?”

“You know what I mean.”

He blows out a breath, pushing up the curls on his forehead.

I hate how my brain catalogs everything about him, from the creases around his eyes to the touch of sunburn on the bridge of his nose and down to his lips—full, pink, kissable.

And yes, okay, I know. I know.

My inner narration about Oliver sounds like a romance novel.

I can’t turn it off.

“Touring my book,”40 he says, “same as you.”

I drag my eyes away from his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Our publisher saw fit, in its infinite wisdom, to put me, you, and that man on the same tour.”

“Oh, I—”

“Thought they’d arranged this all for you?”

“No, I… You know I don’t read itineraries.”

He smiles, almost, at this. “You prefer to be surprised.”

“I do.”

“Did you know he was going to be here?”

“He’s everywhere.”

His smile drops. “And whose fault is that?”

“The reading public.”

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