“And you should be resting in bed,” he says, flashing me one of those dizzying smiles that make me want to crush my mouth to his. “But you can’t always get what you want.”
“Do not start singing.”
The smile deepens. “Who, me?”
I glare at him as he finds the loophole and starts humming the Rolling Stones song, trying very hard to resolve myself to find some way to get him to go without scaring him off for good. What do I say? Hey, Oliver. Mind just waiting in the wings while I figure out if I can be with you without feeling like my heart’s being ripped out of my chest? If I could love you the way you deserve, if I’m worthy of even asking you for everything I want?
But Oliver’s holding my gaze with that same quiet, sure confidence he had the first time he ripped off my clothes and made me come undone, when he strolled in tonight with his arms full of food and looked into my eyes and told me with his body and his touch that he is not always the easygoing man he often seems to be.
“I was going to bring you breakfast for dinner in bed, but here you are, so let’s eat outside,” Oliver says, pointing to my outdoor dining table out back.
I peer out the glass panes of my back door, seeing a bright starry sky, a mellow spring breeze swaying the first blossoms in Oliver’s colorful garden. Sighing, resigned, I tell him, “Fine.”
25
OLIVER
Playlist: “Yellow,” Frankie Orella
Gavin’s grumbling under his breath as I slip a pillow behind him when he eases down to his chair and leans back. There’s something wrong with me, wires crossed in my brain, because his foul-mood muttering just makes me smile.
I’m not happy he’s in pain or struggling with me seeing him like this. I am relieved that he’s okay enough to get clean and shave, to grumble and gruff; that he’s hungry and willing to indulge me as I set our places, light a few votives, then sit across from him.
I know he wants me gone. I know he only thinks he’s safe to hurt and heal on his own.
But I can’t leave. I can’t stop replaying that moment when I realized he was on the ground, writhing in pain. I can’t stop the panic that tightens my throat again, that makes my heart fly in my chest all over as I remember how scared I was. How it felt like the world was collapsing and all that mattered was reaching Gavin, holding his hand, feeling how hard he squeezed back, his eyes screwed shut against the agony making him writhe on the field.
I stare at him, lit by candlelight as he peers down at his food, his frown tinged with confusion and vulnerability. I look at his dark hair, flopping into his face, his beard that’s neat and sharp once more, because he let me in, let me close enough to do that for him.
I look at this man who I held on a pedestal for so many years, idolizing; the man who became a reality rather than a myth and shattered the illusion I’d created, who I vilified for disappointing me so deeply. Now, I don’t see my idol or my enemy. I see him. Scared, hurting, angry, lost, a man who clings to those jagged edges and wields his sharp tongue, who’s so practiced at pushing away anyone who wants to be close.
And I see someone who’s shown me, in so many ways, that isn’t the heart of who he is; it’s his protection, his survival. His armor, shielding his heart.
I stare at him, so damn scared yet oddly relieved to admit it: how much Gavin matters to me, not the soccer legend or the sullen captain of my team, but the man. The man who makes my niece guacamole and colors with her. The man who holds me when I’m panicking, who believes in me when I have belief enough for everyone but too little for myself, who sees through every happy-go-lucky layer of my bullshit straight to the heart of my own aching fears and wants.
I promised myself I wouldn’t end up here again, falling for someone whose life is tangled with mine, whose world and career I share. And yet here I am, worse off than I ever was back in college.
I stare at Gavin, begging him with my mind: Show me. Show me how you’re different from him. Show me how this can work.
I don’t know what to do. Does Gavin want me the way I want him? Is he just as scared of this as I am? Or maybe all he’s ever wanted was to bang my lights out, then send me on my way. In which case—
“Bergman.”
I blink, forcing myself to give him an easy smile. “Hmm?”
He examines me, brow furrowed. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” I sit back, picking up a strip of turkey bacon and biting into it.
His eyes narrow. “You had an awfully funny look on your face for it being nothing.”
I throw him a glance, pointing his way with the turkey bacon. “I was remembering your caveman beard, may it rest in peace.”
“Piss off,” he growls, stabbing another neatly cut bite of pancake, which he drags through egg yolk. “If it still looks like shit, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”
“Excuse me, I am an expert barber. And cook.” I reach for his plate, pinching a piece of turkey bacon and pancake together, then popping them in my mouth.
“Oi!” He looks at me, wide-eyed, deeply offended. “Eat your own!”
“Yours looks better. That bite.” I point to my mouth and roll my eyes with pleasure. “Too perfect to pass up.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he growls, “considering I’d assembled it and was planning on enjoying it.”
“Oh, cool your gym shorts. I’ll get you more if you run out. For being excited about that bite, you left it there an awfully long time.”
He throws me a glare, which softens as I smile at him, until he’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me instead of throw me off his porch. My heart sprints inside my chest.
Finally, he refocuses on his plate. “Oliver.”
“Oh, boy. I’m being Oliver-ed.”
His jaw clenches. He doesn’t look up. “Thank you…for…this. For everything.”
Now my heart’s decelerating, stuttering. Anxiety spins its web, tangles my thoughts with familiar worries.
“But?” I ask quietly. “There’s a but coming, isn’t there? And not the fun kind.”
Gavin sighs, dropping his fork and rubbing his temple. “You need to focus on your captaincy, the team, the season. I need to…I’ve got a lot to tackle, myself.”
My heart collapses, and in rushes sadness, chased by bitter disappointment.
See how quickly he’s ready to move on? How little being together meant?
Is it that simple, though? Or is…is Gavin waging the same war that I am? Is pulling back protection rather than dismissal? Does his caution signal not that he sees me or us as something easily thrown away, but rather as something precious and fragile that deserves going slow, the gentlest handling?
Or am I just hopelessly falling for this man and trying to convince myself he could possibly fall for me, too?
Oh, God. I have fallen for him. So hard. And I have to figure out what to do with that. I have to discern if my heart’s got the best of me all over again or if it’s made the best choice despite my best efforts to deny it.
I don’t know how to figure that out except…to wait. To see if he’ll let me in, if this distance he’s already creating has a purpose that I simply don’t understand yet.