And what I deserve.
With every step that I take, my head becomes clearer.
I trust Oliver enough to hold me, to listen to my secrets. I respect him as a businessman and as a friend. I appreciate his honesty and openness with me, and even though some of his good intentions are misplaced—like my raise—he means well.
He always means well.
So who am I not to believe him when he says that he loves me? Why do I always feel like there’s a game being played behind my back, and I’m the one who stands to lose?
I know the answers to both questions, and none of them are his fault. And I’d be a total jerk—to both of us—if I don’t see that and act appropriately.
“Thank you, Lis.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s not like I had anything better to do than to listen to my best friend complain about her rich boyfriend problems.” She laughs. “Oh, wait. I do. I could pull up any celebrity magazine and watch my ex-boyfriend stick his tongue down his famous girlfriend’s throat.”
“Ew.”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to come over and bring pizza? ’Cause I will. I’ll come tell you how amazing you are and how that boy—boy—doesn’t deserve a woman like you.”
She laughs. “No. I want you to go find Oliver and tell him how you feel. You deserve that as much as he does, Shaye.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. I’m just going to be here drinking mojitos, so call me if you need me.”
I grin. “Drink one for me.”
“I’ll drink two for you because that’s the kind of friend I am.”
I laugh. “I need to be at the bar in twenty minutes, so I gotta go. Stay off the interwebs tonight.”
“I’ll do my best. Love you.”
She chirps the last two words. I roll my eyes.
“Love you, too, sweetie,” I say, my voice dripping with sugar.
She laughs at me. “Good night, my friend.”
“Night, Lis.”
I end the call and turn toward the hallway. I stop when I catch my reflection in a mirror.
My cheeks are rosy, my skin golden. I look healthy. Happy.
I think about all the words of encouragement that I’ve received from Oliver and am actually wowed. He may have said his I love you off the cuff, but I’m beginning to see that he’s a man who I utterly feel safe with. The happiness in my eyes is something that I haven’t seen for years. I’m standing on my own two feet now, independent of my mom and my ex.
So, I can see this for what it is. I. Love. Oliver. Mason.
“You’re going to call Oliver after work and tell him the truth. About the flowers and that you love him,” I say out loud.
I wait for the words to make me panic, but they don’t. They feel right.
But that makes sense because Oliver—and the love that I have for him—feels oh-so right.
Twenty-Nine
Oliver
Knock! Knock!
I look up from the packet in my hands. The binder clip holding the pages of the financial agreement together clamors against the top of my desk.
I sit back in my seat and take in the one person I didn’t expect to see in my office after hours.
Rodney Mason steps into the office that used to bear his name. He hasn’t stepped foot in here since the day he retired. In the early days of Holt and me taking over, we’d have meetings with Dad on occasion. Dad met us in the conference room on the first floor.
He looks around the space, his face blank as he takes in what I’ve done with the place. The bright white walls are now a subdued cream. His desk has been replaced with a darker wood and rounded edges. The sofa is new too. By the look on his face as he observes it, I’m not sure he’s a fan.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I say with a sigh.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
His features are tight, stressed. As they should be. His determination to have this conversation here—where, despite the office being closed, could still be overheard by someone—and not in the privacy of one of our homes is surprising.
But what-the fuck-ever. Let’s get it over with.
He motions toward the chair that faces me. I nod with approval.
He sits gingerly, tugging on the knees of his pants as he unfolds himself in the chair. A grimace sits squarely on his face, and I wonder if he’s been having back problems again.
My old man looks tired. There are creases on his forehead that I don’t recall seeing before. His skin looks weathered and ashen. His appearance dampens the fire that’s been burning inside me since his failure to show up for Rosie’s party.
“What’s going on?” I ask, figuring the question is as good of an icebreaker as anything. It gives him the floor to tell me why he’s here.
He blows out a breath. “How have you been?”