Chapter Twenty
Lila
“Well you look like sex on a stick,” Grandma Claire proclaims.
“I agree, but I don’t mean it as a compliment like she does,” Mom says from her seat on the couch. The two are watching soap operas Mom DVR’d. I shake my head, trying to pretend to ignore them but now feeling paranoid.
I should’ve known this dress would be too much. The backless, supershort royal blue dress now seems foolish.
It’s too late, though. Oliver’s here.
I dash to the door before Grandma can even think of getting up. No need to scare Oliver away any more than he was at the wedding or the morning after. Seeing Grandma tango with all the groomsmen and twerk was something no one should have to witness, let alone the bra conversation and the pay-per-view debacle.
“Hey, Oliver!” Grandma shouts from the couch.
“Bye, Grandma and Mom! Love you.”
I dash out and shut the door before anything embarrassing can happen.
“Hey, I got you these,” Oliver says, handing me a dozen red roses. I smile and smell them.
“They’re lovely.” I head to Oliver’s car.
“Aren’t you going to put them in a vase?” he asks.
“Right, um, just wait here.”
I dash inside and hand them to Mom, asking if she’ll put them in a vase. Grandma insists she has a perfect vase. Yep, the flowers are gone.
I head back outside, Oliver already in the car waiting for me.
I climb in, all smiles, excited for a night out with Oliver, just the two of us, and even more excited for another kiss.
We drive to Chance’s, a local Italian restaurant fancy enough to warrant dressy clothes. I haven’t been there in ages. I’m more of a Panera bread, Chipotle, fast eats kind of girl. But the prospect of dressing up seemed fun when Oliver suggested it.
I turn on the radio, greeted by classical music. I kind of laugh, thinking maybe the radio is accidentally on the wrong channel. When I hit the autofind button, though, more classical greets me. I look over to see Oliver tapping his hands on the wheel.
“You like classical?” Oliver asks.
“Oh, yeah. It’s lovely.” For a funeral or an elevator, I think. Still, it hardly seems appropriate to tell him classical music makes me want to barf, especially when he seems to like it so much.
So I bite my tongue, listening to Oliver whistle along until we pull into the parking lot.
“Ready for some delicious Italian?” he asks as I leap out of the car.
“You bet.” I walk into the restaurant on Oliver’s arm, thinking how lucky I am and how glad I am to have opened my heart back up.
***
He’s just nervous, I tell myself. You can’t judge him from one dinner. The wedding was amazing. And that kiss rocked you. Just be polite.
I’m swirling the shrimp alfredo on my fork—which Oliver ordered for me, insisting he knew what I’d like. I hate seafood.
I smile and nod, acting like I have a clue what he’s talking about with conservatives and liberals and something about natural resources.
Oliver’s been animatedly talking politics now for at least a half hour. It’s like an explosion of politics and government.
Which I admittedly am not very knowledgeable about.
But, in truth, I only know the zany intern from work, a few coffee dates, a few lunches, and the wedding. Maybe I don’t know the real Oliver because I wasn’t looking for him. Maybe I only know the pieces of Oliver I wanted to see.
The night continues, and he does mercifully turn the conversation to Game of Thrones, which I love, and the new video game that is out—which I also love. We also end up talking about baseball, though, which is one of Oliver’s other loves. Another thing we don’t have in common.
Still, when we start talking about the new heartworm vaccine that’s in a trial period and about Panic at the Disco—our mutually favorite band—I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing we’re back on track. We do have things in common. We do have a foundation of commonalities.
What, am I looking for perfection? No one’s perfect. No one’s going to be my one perfect match. Love’s about giving and taking.
But Oliver and I are just starting out, and I can’t help but get this nagging feeling that if there are already so many things I’m having to pretend to be okay with, what else is going to arise?
When I manage to gag down half the shrimp alfredo and ask for a box to take the rest home to Grandma, Oliver kind of shudders.
“Um, are you okay with leaving that behind? I have a no food in the car rule,” he says.
“Oh, sure.”
I think back to Maren and me eating Doritos Locos tacos in the car every Saturday or Luke and I wolfing down Big Macs on the way to the beach last summer.
No food in the car seems like a prison sentence.
Still, I remind myself that this is just one of those things that Oliver is serious about. I’m sure there’s plenty about me he’s not digging, either.
Does that mean I should discount him, discount us?
Classical music isn’t so bad; maybe it wouldn’t be such a horrible thing to not eat in the car. These are things I can live with.
Because even though Oliver talks too much politics and is a bit serious in his music genres for my taste, he has plenty to offer. He’s stable. He knows what he wants and where he’s going.
He’s crazy about kids, and he’s super considerate.
And most of all, when he kisses me good night, I feel the electricity again.
Heading back home after our dinner and promising to go out with him again this weekend, I smile. The universe is all right again, and Oliver’s sneaking into my heart.
Now I’ve just got to brush up on my politics and composers.