Page 60 of In For a Penny
I roll off Oliver acouple of nights after the cookie-throwing incident and lie flat on my back in my bed, staring up at the ceiling. We’re quiet as our breathing calms enough to speak. Finally, he rolls onto his side and leans on his elbow, looking down at me. Oliver’s hand comes up to my neck, and he rubs what I can only assume is the hickey with his thumb.
“It’s fading,” he says quietly. “It just looks yellow now.”
“Mmmm,” I say in response. I point at the faint bruise on his forehead from the cookies I threw at him (turns out I have a phenomenal arm and impressive strength). “Yours, too.”
He grabs hold of my hip and rolls me into his side, leaning over me to check my back. He rolls me over into my original position, laughing and shaking his head.
“What?” I ask self-consciously. “What’s wrong?”
He bites his lip, trying to contain his laughter. “Don’t hate me, but I think I’ve marked you again. Scratches this time.”
“Oh.” I sit up, suddenly feeling the slight burn on my back. “How did I not notice you doing that to me?” I stand and walk to my mirror, twisting to get a better look. Relief courses through my veins as I realize it’s not as bad as it could be. “I guess I was abitdistracted.” I pull on my robe and reach for my brush on the dresser. My sex hair is out of control.
“I think I’m incapable of not marking you.” He laughs at my frustrated expression in the mirror, and I roll my eyes. At least no one can see them this time. They’re not out and about like the stupid hickey on my neck.
Of course, everyone eventually found out about me and Oliver (it turns out grad school is just high school, only you’re older and it’s more expensive), and I got so much shit because of it this week.
Josh wouldn’t stop making stupid dad jokes (“Hey, Penny. What do you call an evil wizard who gives good hickeys? A neck-romancer.”). Michael asked me if I lost a battle with my vacuum cleaner. And Jane kept sending me links for different types of curling irons that were “burn safe”.
Ha.
I hate people.
“It’s weird,” I muse, mostly to myself. “All this fucking scares me a little.”
He looks at me quizzically, slightly alarmed. “What? Why?”
I take a deep breath before I respond. “It’s stupid. And complicated. But I think I’m starting to lose touch with what it means tomake love.” Oliver gags at the expression. “Seriously,” I go on. “Like, fucking is great. It’s been so much fun. But making love is different. More intense, there’s more feeling. And I’ve reached a point where I’m so shut down that I’m scared I’ll never feel it again.”
“I can make love to you, if you’d like.”
I snort at the thought of Oliver making love to me. “You don’t love me that way.”
He shrugs. “I could pretend, if that’s what you need. I could pretend to be in love with you.”
I shake my head and laugh. “You’re a good friend, but that sounds like the worst idea that’s ever come out of your mouth. And I’ve heard you say a ton of stupid shit.” I take a deep breath. “You can’t fake stuff like that.”
“I suppose not.” He smiles at me.
Oliver leans back in my bed with his arms behind his head and legs crossed at the ankle. I used to think he would lie back in this position because it was how he was most comfortable. After getting to know him, I now realize it’s because heknowshis body looks best like this. His arms are flexed, his chest is puffed and shows off his abs, and crossing his legs tricks you into thinking that he’s at ease and completely confident in his body. He’d tell you that of course he is, but I’d stake my life that, deep down, even Oliver isn’t that arrogant. He’s too smart to be.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
See? Insecure.
“You’re starting to get a cookie pouch, my friend. You’re eating too many sweets.” He sits up, and for a brief second, I can see a flash of insecurity in his eyes. It makes me want to laugh, but I’m not lying, either. I’ve been a terrible influence on him. “You’re still hot, so don’t worry about it. I just notice it because I see you all the time with and without clothes. Just being honest because I care.” I shrug my shoulders.
“Pfft,” he scoffs. “Besides having pointed it out just now, I don’t see you complaining about it.”
I crawl back into bed and straddle him. “Nope. Definitely not complaining.”
“Well, your ass is getting jiggly. You need to do more squats.” He slaps my right butt cheek as if to prove his point.
I snort, but he’s not wrong. Regardless, I’ve never done a squat in my life, and I’m not about to start any time soon.
He bites my neck, tightens his arms around my waist, and looks up at me with pleading eyes. “Can you feed me? Or can we order something?”
I laugh and push off him. “It’s one a.m. Nowhere to order from. Get up, put some clothes on, and meet me in the kitchen.”
