After an afternoon spent swimming and competing to catch that damned tennis ball (I beat him by one in a best of ten), Oliver and I climbed back onto the back of the pontoon and let the sun dry us out. It’s a quiet time; I’m hesitant to speak because all I want is to ask Oliver what he meant when he looked at me like that and told me that Caroline wasn’t the one he wanted.

Instead of asking and finding out what the hell is going on between us—if anything—I lie back and let the boat lull me into a sense of calm as the light in the sky fades off to the west. I dare one look over at Oliver, whose hand is draped casually across his stomach as he stares up at the sky.

That’s his thinking face, I’d know it anywhere. For once in my life I’m scared to find out what he’s thinking. Does he regret letting something slip? Does he think he led me on? What if he’s not leading me on? What if the tides are turning here, if years of platonic are on the verge of becoming anything but?

Just when I’m about to send myself spiraling into some kind of weird panic attack, my stomach lets out this loud, embarrassing growl and Oliver sits up.

“I know a great bar down the river. Wanna go?”

I roll off the lounge and stand, reaching high into the air to stretch out. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Fully dry by now, Oliver and I both slip our clothes back on, and I take the driver’s seat.

“What are you doing?” he asks, amused.

“I won the ball toss fair and square,” I remind him, in case he’s pretending to forget. “The winner gets to steer the boat, and I’m gonna collect my prize.”

“Do you know how to drive a boat?”

“Well, no.” Kind of conveniently forgot about that part. “Can’t you drive while I steer?”

Oliver laughs, shaking his head at me. Still, the affection in his eyes makes my heart feel warm and full. “Slide up as far as you can,” he tells me, and I do as he says.

He reclines the back of the chair a little, then swings his leg over so he can situate himself behind me.

“Is this okay?” he asks, leaning so close to me that I can feel the heat from his body against my back and his breath against my ear.

It’s more than okay. “Yeah.”

The air between us is charged and full of anticipation, and I’m glad I have a task to focus on so I don’t just turn around and kiss him.

Oliver drives the boat and helps me steer it, and the further we go, the more I relax into him. To the point where my head is resting on his shoulder, and his hand is perched on my thigh. I could stay like this forever.

Oliver takes over when it’s time to pull the pontoon in front of the restaurant, and once the boat is docked and tied, Oliver takes my hand and helps me off the boat. Here in the fading light of day, he looks so tanned and relaxed. His hair is a little messy from the wind, and I want to push my fingers through it, want to go up on my tiptoes and wrap myself around him, breathing in deep.

The bar looks like a well-loved dive, with bright lights strung across the patio and oldies playing in the background. Oliver and I take a seat by the water—it’s a prime location, one that he somehow requested ahead of time, no doubt—and place our order. We order some shrimp and fried fish along with a margarita for me and a beer from a local brewery for him.

“Today was so relaxing. I had a really good time,” I tell Oliver, then take a sip of my margarita.

He smiles. “Me too. But I always have a good time when I’m with you.”

Blush creeps up my neck and warms my cheeks, making me feel light and tingly.

“I always have a good time when I’m with you.”

“It’s not surprising,” he says, fiddling with the edges of the napkin his beer is on. “That we have so much fun together, I mean. You’re my best friend.”

The admission steals the breath out of me, because for the first time those words make me feel like they’re not relegating me to a platonic place in his life. The softness of his eyes, the warmth of his smile, the intent with which he admits it make me feel like our friendship is the foundation for something so much more.

“We should probably do things like this more often,” he says.

“You mean long weekends with one night of failure where we spend the next day trying to forget all about it?”

Oliver huffs out a laugh. “Something like that. Or we could just spend more time together having fun, no failure involved.”

“Time together as friends?”

Oliver looks adorably confused, like yes, Felicity, of course as friends. Why would you even ask?

“Yeah,” he says with a smile. “I’d like that.”

“Me too.” He’s grinning, and the combination of the amazing lighting from the sunset and the jarred candle on the table is doing a lot for him, and I’m about at the end of my rope.

“I’m gonna…I need to use the restroom,” I say quickly, pointing to the ladies’ room to my left. “I’ll be right back.”

Oliver gives me a surprised nod, and I practically run to the bathroom and splash some water on my overheated face. In the mirror, I watch the water droplets fall from my cheeks, desperate to somehow grow a backbone in the next thirty seconds.

I’m tired of this back-and-forth.

Maybe I should just admit how I’m feeling? I think Oliver feels the same sometimes, and the past day has just made me wonder whether all the things I thought were platonic were anything but? Then he says things like “Yes, let’s spend more time together as friends,” and I’ve never hated an F-word so damn much. But if that’s how he feels, I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, and I don’t want to lose what we have.

Just…buck up, Felicity. Deal with it. A life with friend Oliver in it is better than a life with no Oliver at all.

Keep the status quo. Don’t mess anything up.

Yeah, that’s probably for the best. The frustration will die down once I’m back in New York and in my own apartment, several blocks away from Oliver where we’ll have some time apart. Being in non-stop close proximity isn’t helping things.

I look in the mirror, smooth my hair down a bit, take a deep breath and then head back to the table.

Oliver glances up the second I walk out the door, like he’s been sitting there willing me to open it. His lips are pressed together, and his hands are folded on top of the table. He looks…tense. Did I make things weird? I probably made things weird.

When I get back to the table, Oliver watches me as I sit down.

“Felicity, maybe we should—”

The waitress interrupts us and places our plates on the table. I smile and thank her, then do my best to avoid the awkward moment by shoving a shrimp in my mouth. Oliver follows suit, and once we get to eating the conversation gradually drifts to lighter topics. The boat, our flight tomorrow, what we both have planned for the week back in the city.

Oliver pays the check, and he leads me out onto the dock so we can make our way back to the boat. Voices from the restaurant float out across the breeze, but an early 80’s ballad blasting from a boat nearby drowns them out.

Earlier today I had a thought about asking Oliver if we could cruise along the river and look at the city all lit up at night, but the thought of slinking into my room and avoiding him completely seems pretty appealing at the moment.

Once we’re on the boat, Oliver turns to me and holds out his hand.

“Dance with me,” he says.

I let out a shocked laugh. “What?” Surely I didn’t hear that correctly.

Oliver grins. “Dance with me. I told you the other night there would be an again, and this is it.”

I’m so charmed by his spontaneity that I don’t even have time to second-guess myself. I take his hand and he pulls me in against his body, wrapping his arms around my waist. I bring my hands to rest at the back of his neck, then rest my head against his chest as he draws patterns against the skin at the small of my back.

It feels intimate, feels amazing, feels like I’m going to spontaneously combust.

Oliver’s lips brush against my forehead, and I’ve had enough. Screw awkwardness, screw ruining our friendship, screw all the times I’ve wanted to ask but haven’t because I’m scared.

I’m not scared right now. I have to know, once and for all.

I pull back just far enough to be able to look Oliver in the eyes. “What’s happening?” I ask.

His eyes are bright, his face serene. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, then glides the pad of his thumb against my cheek.

“I’m done pretending. I’m not gonna do it anymore,” he says softly.

With a short, shaky breath I ask, “You’re done pretending what?”

So gently, he cups my face in his hands. “That I’m not in love with you.”

I’m breathless. Speechless.

I can’t believe this is happening.

Oliver grins, like he’s free, and I grin right back.

He presses his lips against mine and I melt right into him, feeling warm and floaty and cherished. I’d spent a lot of time imagining what this moment would feel like, but Oliver’s taste, his smell, the feel of his warm hands pressing against my back pulling me closer, so close defies imagination.

I pour everything I’ve always wanted to say, but could never find the words for, into this kiss. My world shifts just a fraction of an inch, changing blurriness into bright, crystal clear focus, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, everything feels…right.