Or maybe my parents will kill him. They like Oliver. A lot. I thought they'd freak when he told them about his sobriety, but they loved it. Called him "a positive influence." "A fighter." "A survivor."
And a bunch of stuff about how he's more than pretty eyes and strong shoulders and tattoos.
They're right.
But they don't have to act like I'm driven solely by my libido. Yes, Oliver is too handsome for words, and sexy as fuck, and I do want to come on his hand and his face and his cock—
But I love him for all sorts of reasons.
His ability to make me come is only one of them.
And…
Shit, Daisy and Holden are still right there.
And I, uh…
"Luna." Daisy pulls me back to Earth. "Let's send the boys to make drinks. Talk." She motions to the couch.
It's not far from the table. Ten feet maybe. But it's enough space we can whisper.
It's familiar. The place we watched a million hours of TV.
The place I fucked Oliver too many times to count.
Ahem.
I stand. Grab my coffee and follow Daisy to the couch.
She folds one leg over the other. Smooths her skirt. She looks the same as always—a coral dress, tan boots, flowing hair—but different too.
A little more grown-up.
A little more worldly.
And—"The ink suits you." I motion to the temp on her forearm. "You should do it."
"I will." She runs her fingers over the letters. "Just not yet." Her gaze shifts to my tattoo. "I still forget. Then I see it. And it's just…"
"This reminder that everything is different."
"I can't believe you let him do it. You were already together."
A laugh escapes my throat. "You wouldn't let Holden?"
"I don't know." Her gaze shifts to her boyfriend. He and Oliver are teasing each other about something, fighting over who uses the kettle first.
It's so much like old times. Like six months ago, before Daisy and Holden kissed, before I fell in love with Oliver.
But it's different too.
She's just visiting.
And, after this—
Well, after this, I'm going to fuck Ollie senseless. And maybe I'll spend the night. But, at some point, I'm going back to my place.
The room I rent in Brentwood, a fifteen-minute walk from school. It's small and crowded and shared with two other college students, including one who plays Beck constantly (it's even worse than Nirvana), but it's mine.
"I did try the tiramisu." She takes a long sip of her chai. "It is good."
"Too strong?" I ask.
She nods. "Dessert is supposed to be sweet."
I laugh. "We'll have to agree to disagree."
"You eat one hundred percent chocolate when I'm not looking, don't you?"
"Ninety is as high as I go."
"Uh-huh." She laughs too. "Ollie join you?"
"He lost his taste for bitter. Now that he's sober."
She nods, accepting the explanation, not looking to elaborate.
It's weird. This is common knowledge now. Oliver is an alcoholic. Oliver is sober. Oliver is trying.
Sometimes, it steals all the focus in the room.
Sometimes, it's too much for him. Or me. Or everyone else.
But it's easier. Not keeping it a secret. Putting it into the universe.
"How is he?" She drops her voice to that tone that means not drinking.
He told everyone at Thanksgiving. When he felt confident, he was going to make it to three months.
"He's good," I say. "Really."
Her eyes flash with a familiar expression—what, no way and of course.
That was everyone's reaction to Oliver's news.
No way did you stop drinking. No way was it that bad. No way were you really more than a guy that liked to party.
And, of course, you stopped. Of course, you had a problem. Of course, you needed to figure out your shit.
I guess it explained a lot. About why he'd been avoiding everyone and everything for two months straight.
He's eased into the world. But…
It's different. Everything is different. The world isn't built for sobriety. Hell, when I go to a party with him, and choose not to drink—
It's really no fun, at all, hanging out with drunk people.
I've tried it.
And I don't have that extra who did I used to be, what am I doing, can I really do this forever baggage.
"We're good," I say. "And I'm good. Thanks for asking that last."
She smiles. "You look good. I don't have to ask."
"Tell me more about my beauty."
"Happy. But that dress is fierce. And with the combat boots." She makes a show of fanning herself. "We're going dancing this weekend, right?"