Page 60 of We Met Like This
CHAPTER 18
I got out of the shower feeling much more clearheaded. Maybe Oliver was right. This was really only the third time we’d hung out. The first time was directly following a major implosion inhislife and the second followed one in mine. We hadn’t given each other a real chance, outside the physical stuff. And the physical stuff was mucking up our judgment, our ability to see if there was something beyond that. Despite how little we had in common, we seemed to get along over messages. That could transfer to real life. I chuckled when I thought about the first thing Oliver ever said to me: not even the best programmer could replicate human interaction. Maybe his self from three years ago knew what he was talking about.
It took me ten minutes to put on a minimal amount of makeup and some casual yet cute clothes. Then I rushed out of my bedroom, feeling bad about leaving Oliver alone.
Only he wasn’t alone.
I rounded the corner to see him and Sloane sitting on the couch together, talking.
“Look who I found in our apartment, Margot. Your boyfriend,” she said.
“Not my boyfriend,” I blurted at the same time Sloane said, “Your boyfriend is even cuter in person.”
“Sloane,” I scolded. “Stop calling him that.” To Oliver, I clarified, “It was just a joke because of how long we’d been messaging each other.”
He smirked my way like he appreciated that joke.
She stood from the couch and collected a Styrofoam box from the coffee table. “I’m going to put these delicious leftovers, that I let not a single man in my life take, in the fridge and then I’m going to come back over here and be filled in on how you ended up here. Because last I heard, you were a judgy jerk.”
I sighed and sat in the seat she had just abandoned, next to Oliver. “My roommate has an oversharing problem. Seriously, Sloane, I’m never telling you anything again.”
After several moments of Sloane grumbling about space in the fridge and how we needed to save only exceptional leftovers from now on, she finally shut the door and joined us, sitting in the love seat to our left. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, as if ready to take in all the gossip we were willing to share.
“Oliver, Sloane,” I said. “Sloane, Oliver.”
“We already met,” she said, waving a hand through the air like I was wasting time. “While you were showering.”
“Right.”
“I see you came to your senses,” she said to him. “We both know Rob is an ass and not deserving of our girl here.”
“Actually,” I said, cutting her off before she got too far, “Oliver came over because I left him an unhinged voicemail.” I narrowed my eyes at her to assess if she had been present while that choice had been made.
She cringed. “Oh, that.”
“How dare you let me leave that.”
“You told me you’re a grown-ass woman.”
“I’m obviously not.” My eyes found the empty jar on the coffee table. “And what happened with our jar?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember very little of last night.”
“Probably for the best since you performed a very poor rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”
“What?Idid Celine? I wouldnever.”
“You did.”
“Tell me someone recorded it,” Oliver said.
“You don’t need another recording in your possession,” I shot at him.
He laughed.
“Sadly, nobody recorded it as far as I know. Maybe it will show up online at some point in the future, posted by some stranger who found it as funny as we did. As for that”—Sloane pointed to the jar—“you paid half of next month’s rent with it, telling me how you were going to be broke in a year if you weren’t extra careful with money and how we should Airbnb your room while you sleep at your parents’ house.”
