“Emery. I never said that was a bad thing. It was the choice I should’ve made a long time ago. You just helped make it clearer for me. Besides, you were right. I should learn how to sit in my loneliness for a while.”
“If you ever get too lonely, you can reach out to me,” I said without thought. His brows knitted at the comment, and I wanted to smack myself for saying such a thing. He didn’t reply, so I took that as a “Hell no.” I cleared my throat, feeling like a frog was crammed in there. “Well, you have a good night.” I turned to leave the room.
“Emery, wait.”
“Yes?”
“Earlier you said something that hasn’t sat well with me.”
“Oh?”
“You said you were just the chef.” A softness flooded Oliver’s eyes. “You’re so much more than just the chef.”
Those butterflies that Oliver delivered me every now and again? They came back intensely. My mouth parted, but I couldn’t form any words.
“Good night, Emery.”
“Good night, Oliver.”
Later that night, I received a text message from an unknown number.
Unknown: What kinds of things is Reese into?
The mention of Reese’s name made me sit up straighter on my couch.
Emery: Who is this?
Unknown: Sorry. This is Oliver. Kelly gave me your number.
The sigh of relief that hit me was strong.
Emery: Oh, sorry. I’m guessing for the party? She’s really into any female superhero or Disney princess.
Oliver: Sounds good. Thank you.
Emery: Thank you!
I went back to my notebook, where I was drafting up a menu for the Fourth of July. To my surprise, my phone dinged again.
Oliver: How are you?
I was surprised by him reaching out to me again, and not only reaching out, but asking how I had been. Most of our conversations never led to much, and I couldn’t think of the last time he’d asked me how I’d been. Especially at nine at night.
Emery: I’m good. How are you?
He didn’t reply for quite some time. I figured that was what it was like living in Oliver’s brain—a lot of overthinking going on.
Oliver: Did you come up with menu ideas for the party?
Emery: Are you avoiding my question?
Oliver: Yes.
Emery: Why?
. . .
. . .
. . .
Oliver: Because I don’t want to bring down the conversation.
Emery: It’s your first night without Cam, isn’t it?
Oliver: Yes.
Emery: And you’re lonely?
Oliver: You mentioned I could reach out if I got too lonely.
Instead of texting back, I dialed Oliver’s phone number, hoping he would answer. Knowing him, it was a fifty-fifty chance. I never really knew which way he was going to travel.
“Hello?” he said, his voice seemingly deeper on the phone than in person.
There went those butterflies again.
“Hey, Oliver. I figured it would be easier to call and talk instead of texting back and forth. Are you okay?”
He cleared his throat. “Why do you ask me that all the time?”
“Because I want to know.”
“But the answer’s always the same.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding as if he could see me. “But someday it won’t be. Someday you’ll be okay.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I just get the feeling that someday you’re going to find it—your happy ending. This is just a temporary thing. Your sadness.”
“I’ve been sad my whole life, Emery.”
That fact made my heart crack a little. I wished I could hug him. “Why is that?”
He paused for a moment, in thought maybe. I could picture him with his stern look on his face. “I think some people are just born sadder than others.”
I hoped that wasn’t true. I hoped someday, Oliver would find his happiness. Find the place that made him feel free from all the sadness that surrounded him.
“Can we talk about something else?” he asked.
“Sure. What would you like to talk about?”
“Anything. Anything except me. Tell me about you. Or Reese. I want to know more about you.” I bit my lip, not completely sure what to say, but luckily Oliver gave me a question to follow up the conversation. “What made you want to be a chef?”
“My parents. Kind of. They weren’t around a lot during the week, because they worked at the church in my small town, and a lot of their time was spent there, super early in the morning and super late into the evenings for Bible studies. I came from a very religious town, where it was Jesus twenty-four seven. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it would’ve been nice if my parents came home a bit more. So, while they were gone, I was responsible for making the meals for my younger sister and me. That’s when I learned that I kind of loved cooking.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“Your parents left you alone at the age of seven to take care of your sister?”
“Let’s just say their morals were a bit out of order.”
“Do you still keep in touch with them?”