Page 112 of Waking Olivia

I climb out of bed resignedly. “5:30? Isn’t that kind of early for a date?”

“Yeah,” he says with a grin, pulling me between his legs, “but I don’t think I can stay away longer than that.”

I lean my head on top of his. “Argh,” I groan. “Do we really have to?”

He laughs. “You’ve got to be the only female I’ve ever met who would argue about this. And wear a dress, okay? Maybe the one you wore on Thanksgiving?”

“Okay,” I say, feeling suddenly shy, which couldn’t make less sense. Not 20 minutes earlier he had his face buried between my legs butthisI find awkward?

After he leaves, I go for a run, eager to try out my new racing flats, which are easily the nicest running shoes I’ve ever owned. Will and I still haven’t run together outside of team practices, and I’m not sure we ever will. Some transitions have been easy to make—being together, living together, sleeping together. But when I run I think he’ll still feel like my coach, someone judging me, someone I have to prove myself to. And given my temper and his, that seems like a recipe for disaster.

When I get back, I shower and straighten my hair. I’ve got a few hours to kill, so I go to the grocery store but have no clue what to buy. We eat at Dorothy’s a lot but when we don’t, Will actuallycooks—I mean, cooks real things that don’t come in cellophane. He has shit like arugula in his refrigerator and some fancy salt that comes in a green box. Maybe I could convince him to bag this whole thing tonight and stay in, but what the hell would I even cook? I know how how to make garbage like tacos and spaghetti, which I’m guessing won’t fit the bill for Mr. Seared Ahi Tuna.

I give up and return to the apartment, putting on makeup for the first time since the banquet. I feel excited in a small way, but mostly I feel ridiculous. He knows I don’t look like this normally. He knows I couldn’t care less about food, aside from Dorothy’s pie. And we’ve now gone a full seven hours without sex, so I guarantee that when he walks in I won’t be thinking about dinner.

There’s a knock on the door just as I’m finishing up and when I open it, I find him there, freshly showered, in suit pants and a button-down shirt without a tie. I should be used to this by now—I’ve seen him dressed up before—but God he wears his clothes well.

He steps in, his eyes lingering on my mouth. “You’re wearing lipstick.”

“Is that bad?” I ask, stepping closer, sliding my hands up his arms, wanting very much to reach for that top button.

“No,” he groans. “It’s really, really good.” He pulls me closer, his mouth ghosting over mine, making my skin prickle as it might if I were chilled, or scared, but in the best possible way. I want more, but he puts his hands on my hips and removes himself carefully, like one of us might break. “We should go.”

“Will,” I sigh, “you don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have to have a really good meal with my beautiful girlfriend?” he asks dryly. “Thanks for letting me off the hook.”

“We’re broke. We shouldn’t be going out to dinner.” The lease for the farm is a done deal, and Peter is covering Brendan’s tuition, but that doesn’t mean we’re flush. At the moment our only cash is my stipend and savings from the summer plus his last paycheck.

“Is that what this is about?” he asks.

“No,” I reply truthfully, though it should have occurred to me much sooner than it has. I’ve lived hand-to-mouth for years, and worrying about money is so ingrained that I can’t believe, for a moment, I forgot.

He smiles. “I was going to tell you over dinner, but I got a job today.”

“You did?” I gasp. “Doing what?”

His eyes are so blue right now they don’t seem real. “I’m going to lead small group excursions for a company in town.”

A smile spreads across my face. “You’re going to climb again.”

He reminds me, at this moment, of that picture in Dorothy’s room—he looks unencumbered and excited andfree. “It won’t be anything major, but it’s something.”

I step up, wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing my mouth to his cheek. “It’s a big something, Will. You’re good at it and it makes you happy.”

His buries his nose in my hair. “Youmake me happy,” he says. “The rest is irrelevant. So tell me why you’re so desperate not to do this tonight.”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “It’s just something I don’t have much experience with and I guess I don’t like feeling unsure about things.”

He stares at me for a second as if he thinks I’m joking, and then he starts to laugh, which I can’t say I appreciate. “So the same girl who threatened to feed Piersal his own balls and put another guy in the hospital is scared to go out toeat?”

I roll my eyes. “It sounds stupid when you put it like that.”

“That’s because itisstupid,” he replies.

I glare at him, and this makes him laugh as well. I really need to come up with a more effective way to convey anger.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. His face is earnest as he waits for my reply.

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