A Bird in the Oven - Kata Cuic

1

Olivia

“Do you think he has undiagnosed ADHD? There’s literally no other reason I can think of.”

Ollie sips his beer as he watches our neighbor with narrowed eyes. He’s always been the think before he speaks kind of guy—the one who studies quietly instead of making snap judgments the way I do.

“Come on!” I cajole. “It’s ten o’clock at night, and he’s running his leaf blower! He can’t possibly see what he’s doing!”

“I do not believe he has ADHD,” Ollie murmurs, tapping his beer bottle against his lips. “He exhibits no characteristics of lack of impulse control. I think he is simply meticulous about his yard.”

I stare at him. “Oliver Leonardo Cucinelli. It’s October first. There aren’t any leaves in his yard yet!”

Ollie grimaces at my use of his full name. He hates that it’s long and difficult for most people to pronounce. There are so many Italians in the Pittsburgh area that it really shouldn’t be a problem. I suspect people trip over themselves when they meet Ollie for the first time because he looks freakishly similar to another famous Italian from the area—Joe Manganiello. Only if Magic Joe was completely opposed to the idea of letting his hair grow out even a smidge and insisted on being clean-shaven at all times. Ollie’s hair is even beginning to gray at the temples, which frankly, only adds to his sex appeal.

Why do men age like fine wine while women are left to just grow old?

Ollie takes another sip of his beer as the firelight dances across his face and reflects off his glasses—another distinct difference between him and Joe that actually really works in Ollie’s favor. Women can’t resist a hot guy in glasses.

He’s being awfully quiet tonight, even for him. Neighbor-watching is usually one of our favorite pastimes.

“What about yesterday when he ran his mower for three hours? Our yards aren’t even that big!”

In fact, our yards are practically non-existent in this condo community. Ollie and I actually have more yard work to do because we share a back yard. Our fire pit is smack-dab in the middle. Over the past few years, we’ve turned it into quite the staycation oasis. He set up a pergola. I strung it with multi-colored lanterns. He bought a state-of-the-art smoker. I created beautiful garden beds. Actually, Ollie dug the beds for me and hauled all the soil and mulch. But I planted the prettiest flowers!

The leaf blower goes blessedly silent.

“He probably ran out of battery,” I whisper.

Ollie twists the top off another bottle of beer from the cooler.

Okay. Now I’m worried. He never drinks more than one of anything.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I said nothing is wrong.”

He might be telling the truth. Ollie rarely lies. He also has times when he goes so far into his own head that I can’t reach him there. When it’s because he’s using his genius to work out a complex problem, I don’t mind. This doesn’t feel like one of those times.

“Is it because you’re turning thirty next month?”

He sighs and sprawls out, his limbs hanging like limp spaghetti noodles over the edges of the super comfy Adirondack chair that he made, and I painted a lovely teal color. “Age is just a number. You are more concerned about turning thirty than I am. You have that, the…baby fever.”

I didn’t realize it was that obvious. “You’ll be fertile until the day you die. I have a ticking biological clock.”

He rolls his head to stare at me. “I researched that common misconception, and it is not completely true. With modern medicine and better health than humans have ever experienced in history, women can bear children at a much later age than was previously possible.”

“Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants.” I slump in my chair, too. “I might be able to have a child until menopause, of which the average age of onset is fifty. You could father a child when you’re seventy! You can’t deny the numbers are stacked against me while being wildly in your favor.”

He frowns. “No. I cannot deny the numbers.”

“Ha!” I’ve been best friends with Ollie since grade school, and I know he can never argue with solid data. I also know that if I keep guessing, eventually he’ll give in and tell me what’s eating at him. “Did you have a fight with Isabel?”

He quirks an eyebrow then corrects me, “Isabella.”

Oh, I know her name. I know all their names. I just don’t like them.

Living in the condo next door to my