Page 109 of We Met Like This
I leaned in close to him, my breast pressing against his arm. “Should we find a place to be selfish now?”
He gave a breathy laugh, his jaw finally loosening, and took a sip of wine.
“I thought you said you were a quiet drunk,” I said. The bus, which had taken us to five vineyards that day, had dropped us off at the downtown city park two hours ago. The park was surrounded by shops and restaurants and bars.
The wine tour turned out to be perfect for research. I got lots of videos for Kari of scenery and vineyard owners and people and wine. It was lovely. I tried to keep my drinking to a minimum because this really was a working weekend for me. So I was only slightly buzzed. But Oliver had tried every wine they offered, oftentimes drinking an entire glass, and now, downtown, we were following up our day of wine with food and beer and several Jell-O shots for Oliver that I’d poached off a group of college kids in the midst of a bar crawl.
Oliver was drunk. Even though he kept insisting he wasn’t.
“I’m not drunk,” he said again. “I’m just expressing valid thoughts.”
“Very valid,” I said, taking hold of his hand because he kept slowing down to peer in store windows. We were heading to Boots and Spurs, the last stop of the night. “I want to hear all your thoughts. It’s nice that you want to take care of me.” That was the last thing he’d said.
“But I know you don’t need to be taken care of. You can take care of yourself. I’m a feminist, you know.”
I held back a laugh. “Yes, you keep telling me that.”
“Because I am. My mom did the same exact job as my dad, probably did it better, in fact, and made less money. It was maddening to see.”
I squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you’re still a golden retriever even when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Where is your dad now, by the way?”
“No idea. It was an ugly divorce. Hard for all of us to live through.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, pulling his hand in front of me and running my other one up his arm.
“It had been bad for a long time before that. Lots of pain, lots of tears.” He paused. “Probably another reason I’m still single.”
“Are you? Still single?” I teased. “Good to know. I might know someone who is interested.”
“Oh,” he said, as if the reality of his relationship status just dawned on him.
“Do I have to officially ask you to be my boyfriend? Would you like me to ask in note form with multiple-choice answers you can circle?”
He squeezed my hand. “I’m supposed to ask.”
“I thought you were a feminist,” I whispered.
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to see you hurt. Remember that day you were crying?”
I let out a single laugh. “Yes, I remember it well.”
“Me too. I hated it. I wanted to punch Rob in the face. I think I could take him. Do you think I could take him?”
“I think you could take him.”
He pulled me against his side and his expression went dark. “You’re good for me. I don’t know if I’m good for you.”
“You make me feel safe because of who you are, and it’s been awhile since I felt that way.” Even though I teased him for his careful, thoughtful personality, it’s what helped me feel secure with him. After being with someone who wasn’t careful at all, I needed that.
“I like you,” he said. “A lot.”
“I like you a lot too.”
“Are we going to that bar with all the people?” He pointed ahead to a building that was packed. People were standing around tables outside and a steady stream was flowing inside. The smell of barbecue filled the air, along with loud music pouring out into the streets from the open doors.
