Page 76 of The Fix-Up

The Superman of vegetables?I mouthed after catching Gil’s eye.

It worked, right?He shrugged and took his first bite of pork chop. It was a family recipe and one I’d grown up eating. His eyes slid shut and he almost, almost smiled.

At first the conversation was stilted and awkward, but Oliver quickly took the reins. He shared about his day and silly new jokes he learned and a new dinosaur he’d discovered and about his “girlfriend,” Darla.

“Don’t you think you’re a little young to settle down?” I asked.

“I love Darla,” Oliver said with rock-solid conviction that was impressive.

I set my fork down and made a mental note to figure out which little girl Darla was, and fast. “Love? That’s a big word.”

“’I love her,” Oliver said with a firm nod of his head. “’Cause she always gives me her chocolate pudding at lunch and she liked dinosaurs too and she’s pretty and that’s why I love her and I’m gonna grow up and get married to her.”

Gil coughed to cover a laugh. “That seems like a big commitment.”

Oliver’s expression turned thoughtful. “I have to get big first and save up lots of money to buy us a house. It’s going to have a slide in the backyard because Darla likes slides the best. Teacher says when you love someone, you do all their favorite things with them even if you don’t like them. But first Mom has to find a boyfriend and get married and give me a baby brother.”

I groaned. “Oliver.”

“What?” he said, all innocent big eyes.

“I’ll get a boyfriend when I’m good and ready. And you’re too young to talk about marriage. You need to be at least ten before you start doing that.”

“Your mom has a point. I’m thirty-one and I haven’t given marriage much thought at all,” Gil said.

Oliver gasped. “You’re old.”

“Oliver!” I jumped in. “You don’t tell people they’re old. It’s not polite.”

“Sorry. You aren’t old.” Oliver patted Gil’s arm. “Have you never had a girlfriend afore? My mom needs a boyfriend. I think you should be it. Then you can get married.”

My mouth dropped open, my face burning. Gil’s eyes met mine over the pork chops. One side of his mouth quirked, and his eyes twinkled in amusement. I liked when he smiled. I liked seeing those little lines in the corners of his eyes crinkle. Iliked how easy he was with Oliver, too. I liked how my stomach swooshed and my pulse jumped when I saw any of those things.

That was an awful lot to like about the man in so little time. Especially when I’d been so concerned withnotliking him not so long ago.

For one awful, terrible, wonderful moment, my mind imagined another life where we three were a family, huddled around our dinner table as we told each other about our day and laughed at silly things Oliver said.

“Ollie told me all about you, Mr. Gil. He said you would be a good boyfriend for my mom. He said you two should meet one day and he was going to make it happen come hell or high water.” Oliver paused and gave me a sheepish look. “Don’t get mad at me ’cause I said hell. I’m just saying what Ollie said.”

There were very few times in my life where I could say I was speechless. But this was one of them. After several beats of silence, I touched his arm, keeping my voice gentle. “Oliver, what do you mean, Ollie said all that? You know Ollie’s in Heaven now.”

“Of course I know that.” He shrugged and stuffed a bit of potato in his mouth. “He tolded me before he went to Heaven. He said I shouldn’t be sad about him going because he wasn’t sad about it. He made me promise.”

I flopped back in my seat, overwhelmed by this piece of news. What did a person say to this? Especially to a six-year-old. Ollie had told Oliver about Gil? How had my kid kept such a secret? And the very idea of Ollie as a matchmaker? I almost wanted to laugh.

He couldn’t have cared less about my love life. There’d been just once, when I’d broken it off with someone I’d dated a whole month, a nice guy, a guy I’d thought might have potential. But on our fifth date, he gave me the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. Yeah,right. I’d gone into the café after. Oliver played with his building blocks; I rage-baked.

I’d only been there twenty minutes when Ollie slipped in. He didn’t say anything, just went about helping me roll out the dough for pie crust. We worked like that for almost an hour, side by side. Ollie’s silence could drive a person crazy most days but sometimes it was nice to have someone who understood that there wasn’t much to be said.

When someone’s sad or upset, others feel like they need to make them feel better by saying things like, “It will all be okay,” or “This was for the best,” or “God has a plan.” And then in response, I felt like I had to reassure them. “Thank you, I know it will get better.”

But you know what? In the moment, it never felt like it would get better. It was an open wound, and all their comments felt more like they were pouring alcohol on it. Sometimes I just wanted someone to sit beside me and let me be angry or sad or lonely or confused.

And gruff, standoffish Ollie? He’d been that person for me. It was only after I announced I needed to get Oliver home to bed that he turned to me and said six words: “He’s an idiot. It’s his loss.”

I’d been three seconds away from reaching out and hugging the man. But I stopped myself in time. This was Ollie; he’d probably never speak to me again if I did that.

I really missed him.

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