Still Us

by Lindsay Detwiler

  When he finished singing, the words came out before my rational self could step in. “I love you, soul mate.”

  Once the last word was out, I froze, biting my lip. It was too much, too soon. It was cheesy. Soul mate? The word had just jumped off my tongue before I could stop it. This was it. I’d scared him.

  Instead, though, he put down his guitar in the bed of the truck and leaned closer. He took my face in his hands. “I love you, too. Soul mate.”

  And with that reflection of my words, I eased into myself, into the kiss he planted on me. There was a mutual understanding between us that our worlds had shifted and that our hearts were stuck to each other now. In four months, I’d gone from questioning if love was even real to believing this man was my soul mate.

  But he believed it, too.

  The kiss intensified. Before I knew it, Luke was stretching out a blanket in the bed of the truck, and I was climbing backward, kissing him hungrily, pulling him on top of me. It was hardly the lovemaking atmosphere of the movies. Sure, the starry night was gorgeous and the solitude of the wilderness provided an intimate backdrop. But the bed of the truck was hard on my back, and the blanket barely served as a buffer. The truck was dirty and worn from Luke hauling all sorts of things for work. There’d probably be a roofer’s nail in my backside before it was all done, I’d thought.

  Still, I couldn’t bring myself to care or to move. I couldn’t stop for a second; the need to have Luke was so strong. We kissed voraciously, our hands exploring each other in a way encouraged by our revelation that this was serious, real. Luke pulled down the straps on my sundress, and I shuddered as his lips found the skin at the top of my collarbone.

  “Make love to me,” I whispered, pulling on his hair.

  Luke leaned up just enough for me to see the hungry lust in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” I said, needing him so badly I could barely breathe.

  My lips felt swollen from kissing, but when he dove back in to claim them again, electricity jolted through every inch of my body. We clawed at each other’s clothes like we were starving. In many ways, I guess we were. We were starving for that first passionate promise of forever, that first feel of skin on skin, of being connected in every physical way.

  When he pulled back gently after plenty of foreplay to reach for a condom, I glanced up at the sky, the stars shining and dazzling against the deep blackness of the night sky.

  “I love you, Lila Morrow,” he whispered as he positioned himself, and I smiled up at him.

  “I love you, too,” I said before succumbing to him in every possible way, the feel of him inside me helping me know, without a doubt, that this was all I ever wanted.

  ***

  Turning over in bed, the sun streaming through the blind and Henry snoring loudly, I lazily come to.

  It was just a dream. A very real dream, a memory, but still not real.

  Dammit, Luke. Why did you have to play that song last night? Why did you have to look at me across the crowd while your lips sang the words they’d sung that night under the stars?

  I exhale loudly, feeling the sexual tension and longing in me dissipate as I groggily snap out of dream world. Things are different now. That song is just a memory, and that night under the stars, although perfect, is long gone. Things changed. People changed. We aren’t the soul mates Luke and Lila anymore. We’d been wrong.

  I stretch, sleepily heading to the bathroom to get ready for work. I pull out the ponytail from my hair, undress, and jump into the shower. I think a cold shower is exactly what I need this morning.

  My head aches, and I feel like I’m hungover. I guess lying awake until two in the morning analyzing everything about Luke on stage wasn’t the wisest idea.

  I’d tried to shrug it off last night. Oliver, Henry, and I had scurried off to the funnel cake stand. We’d had a great time, and I feel Oliver worming his way into my thoughts more and more.

  But seeing Luke last night threw it all off.

  Which then makes me feel guilty. What am I doing? How am I ever going to move on? As soon as I find a guy I like, who has potential, I sabotage myself by clinging to memories that aren’t reality anymore.

  I soak my hair, wondering if I’m ever going to stop thinking about what could’ve been or what was. I wonder if there will ever be a time when I can look at Luke and not feel a pang of missing him. I wonder if I can ever give my heart to someone else.

  Maren keeps telling me it’s normal, that when you build a life with someone as intricately as I did with Luke, there are bound to be doubts about leaving. Still, it’s been months and I feel like I haven’t made any progress. Worse, I feel like I’m being such a jerk going out with Oliver, talking about dates and flirting when my heart isn’t free yet.

  I finish getting ready and head to Park Lane, smiling as I glance at my phone before getting in the car.

  Oliver: Got your coffee waiting for you. Starbucks. Hope Zoey doesn’t think I’m trying to replace her.

  He’s amazing. He is. And I feel myself wanting to let go of the past for him. It’s a good sign.

  Maybe it’ll just take time, but maybe, if I let myself, I’ll build new memories. I’ll build new moments, new soul mate revelations.

  Things change. People change. Our hearts change.

  We just have to be ready to accept that.

  ***

  “Maren, breathe. It’s all good.”

  “Lila, you don’t understand. The cake decorator backed out. Claimed bankruptcy or something. We don’t have a cake, and my friend Casey said the deejay we picked is a disaster and.…”

  I hold the phone about five inches from my ear, but Maren’s voice is still blasting. Zoey gives me a sympathetic look, and even Oliver turns to mouth “yikes.” We’re on lunch break at the office.

  Maren’s wedding is next Saturday, and needless to say the once calm and mellow bride has morphed into the traditional bridezilla. To be honest, I didn’t expect this from go-with-the-flow Maren. I guess pre-wedding jitters can create an emotional wreck out of anyone.

  Add to that Mom’s constant interference and meddling, and I guess you have the recipe for a Maren explosion.

  “Listen,” I say, taking a deep breath for her. “It’s going to be all good. Seriously. What matters most is you are marrying the man of your dreams. It’s going to be perfect no matter what.”

  “Not according to Mom. She’s calling this the wedding from hell.” I can tell from Maren’s voice that tears are flowing. This is a disaster.

  “Mom would call Kate Middleton’s wedding the wedding from hell. You know her standards are impossible. Forget what she says like you always do. Focus on you. Focus on Will. As for the cake, no worries. Zoey and I will come up with a backup plan. I’m sure the deejay is great. Even if he isn’t, you’ve got an open bar. One hour in and everyone’s going to be so drunk, they won’t care if he plays polkas all night.”

  I hear Maren take a few breaths on the other line. I think I’ve talked her off the ledge.

  “Okay. You’re right. I don’t know why I let Mom get me so stressed. I think I just lost my shit.”

  “I’ll say. Now listen. Leave the cake to me. Relax, and I’ll see you at five.”

  “Five? Tonight? For what?”

  “I’m taking you to the spa for a massage and then out for a drink afterward. My treat.”

  “Lila, I don’t have time for that.”

  “Of course you do. Give me your to-do list and I’ll give something to Mom to keep her busy and out of your hair. Relax. This is your time. Enjoy it.”

  “Okay. You’re right.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  “And you did ask Oliver to be your date, right?”

  “No. But Zoey took over like she promised. He will be accompanying me.”

  Oliver looks up at me and gives me a smile. Zoey had not so casually broached the subject a few weeks ago, tossing out the idea as we sat at lunch. Oliver had been happy to oblig
e, and I was actually happy Zoey forced my hand.

  Over the past few weeks, Oliver and I have been on a few low-key adventures—I guess we could call them dates. From the fall festival to coffee to a few lunches, we’ve been taking it slow and getting to know each other.

  And despite the vivid sex-dream memory, I’ve found something surprising; he’s been taking my mind off the whole Luke situation. I’m finding myself open to exploring whatever this is with Oliver, which is a big step for me.

  I hang up the phone and literally wipe my brow. “Oh my God, my family is losing it.”

  “Weddings do that to people. I’m surprised Maren’s getting caught up in it all.”

  “I think Mom’s getting caught up and it’s stressing Maren out,” I say. “Who knows. I guess there’s a little bridezilla lurking in all of us.”

  “Not me,” Oliver says, shrugging.

  “Smartass,” I retort, and he laughs.

  “Whoa, easy now. Is that how professionals speak to each other?” he asks.

  I raise an eyebrow. “No, but I also don’t think professionals go on dates and all that either.”

  “Oh, Lord. If you two are going to spend the rest of lunch with these sad little excuses for flirting like you did all last week, I’m getting out of here. Honestly. Just kiss each other already. Hell, have sex with each other, I don’t care. But get it out of your system so I can go back to my non-gag-worthy lunches, okay?”

  “Oh my God, Zoey,” I proclaim, burying my face in my hands.

  “Come on. Like you two haven’t been thinking about it? Please.” With that, she exits the breakroom to go who knows where, leaving us alone.

  “That was awkward,” I say, not really sure what else to say.

  “A little. But I mean, I can’t argue with her,” Oliver says before he, too, leaves the room as he eats the last piece of his sandwich.

  Suddenly, I’m alone staring at photographs of cats and dogs with a few bites of salad left, stressing over where the hell I’m going to find a wedding cake in less than a week, and curious about whether or not sex with Oliver is actually a possibility at this point.

  ***

  The next day, both Oliver and I are off work, so he asks if he can pick me up for lunch. In order to avoid the craziness that is my family—which is extra crazy this week with the wedding and all—I ask if I can just meet him.

  Maren is definitely feeling better after our spa visit last night, and I managed to find a cake baker who wasn’t booked for next weekend. Who knows what the cake will look like, but again, I’m counting on a lot of drunkenness to cover for the possibility of a lackluster cake.

  All in all, though, everything is going smoothly, I think, as I drive myself to Los Hombres, our local version of Mexican cuisine—which in reality is a restaurant serving fancy, overpriced tacos with a few old guys who know nothing about true Mexican food. Still, it’s one of Oliver’s favorites apparently, and although I’m not a fan, I figured it would be tacky to argue.

  I pull into the parking lot, sporting some simple jeans and a T-shirt, not feeling like going over-the-top on my day off. Grandma Claire insisted I slather on some red lipstick, though. I hadn’t told her I was meeting Oliver, but I swear that woman has a sixth sense when it comes to dating.

  Not that we’re dating, dating. Sure, it’s clearly a lunch date. But it’s just a one-time thing. Or five-time thing, if you count the festival and the coffee and the other random lunches. But this is a one-time official date, not a relationship. Which is why I didn’t put a lot of effort in. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.

  Because I’m not even sure if I want to try too hard.

  Then again, he is my date to the wedding, so I better get used to that word.

  Oh dear. This is just a hot mess.

  I don’t have time to think about it, though, because as soon as I park, he’s pulling in beside me, his red Mustang revving as he slides into the parking spot.

  When he gets out, I notice he’s dressed much nicer—much more datelike—for the occasion. He’s got on a button-up and some tan pants. I feel like crap now, embarrassed to get out of the car. It’s too late to peel out, though, because he waves animatedly.

  “Hey,” he says. “So good to see you outside work.”

  I notice he eyes my outfit, but he doesn’t say anything.

  I can tell, though, he’s wondering if I just rolled out of bed.

  I try to brush the insecurities aside as he hands me some roses. “These are for you,” he says.

  “Oh, that’s sweet,” I say, not sure what to do with them, not used to the whole dating awkwardness, to be honest. After a moment of running through the options in my head, I open my car door and toss them gently on the passenger seat, giving a little giggle as I do to soften the weirdness.

  “Shall we?” he asks, offering me his arm like we’re going to prom.

  I shrug, taking his arm and marching into Los Hombres, feeling all sorts of tension about being on Oliver’s arm. Still, he looks gorgeous—and he smells even better, a rich cologne dancing around us. I need to just breathe. I know Oliver. We’ve been working together closely. But knowing someone in the office is very different than being on a date. Very different.

  We stroll into the restaurant, which is pretty empty since it’s Tuesday. We’re led to a back booth, mariachi music blasting through the restaurant so loudly, it’s hard to even think.

  “Nice place, huh?” Oliver shouts once we’ve ordered our drinks—he’s taken the liberty of ordering us both margaritas, although I’m not a lime person. I shrug it off.

  “It’s very—nice, yes,” I agree, smiling.

  In truth, I’ve only ever been to Los Hombres once. With Luke.

  And we ended up just ordering a water and a serving of nachos, deeming the prices of the place outrageous and the atmosphere mediocre. We’d laughed about how if this was fine, authentic Mexican cuisine, we were clearly royalty.

  But Oliver is smiling and chomping away at the expensive appetizer tray he ordered—the service is fast since the place is empty. He’s going on and on about how he found this place during undergrad and is crazy about it. He talks about how he actually had his first date here, which was also in undergrad, and proceeds to tell me all about Melissa.

  I just smile and nod, the music providing a weird soundtrack to the encounter. I feel tense. In fairness, it’s not Oliver’s fault. He’s still got the warm smile and the inviting eyes, and he’s talking away animatedly.

  It’s just, like I said, it’s been so long since I’ve done this. It feels so weird to be somewhere with Oliver, a man I barely know, in a booth sharing nachos and talking about the past. It feels weird to be with anyone but him.

  Still, as Oliver opens up about his family life and his siblings, I smile, sensing the joy in his spirit and the excitement for life. He talks about how he wants to open up his own practice someday and how he hopes to have a big family. He talks about his plans for the future and where he’s going. He’s got vision, he’s got goals, and he’s got gorgeous eyes.

  He’s the real deal.

  He asks me about my last boyfriend, and I feel myself tense up again, a different kind of tense. “Long story. We broke up back in June.”

  “Oh, wow, that’s fresh.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, reaching for the margarita.

  “Was it serious?” he asks.

  I sigh. This is unknowingly a complicated question, but I decide to answer it as honestly as I can. “I wanted it to be,” I say, realizing this is the best way to put it into words.

  “Sorry.”

  “Me too. But it’s okay. I’m moving on, you know?” I smile wider now, and then take another gulp of margarita. I am moving on. I’m here, with Oliver, and I’m having a good time, even though that four-letter name keeps popping up.

  I’ve got to take charge, though. Maren’s right. I need to take charge and find my own happiness. I’m here with an amazing man who so many women would kil
l to be with. I just need to give him a chance, give us a chance, to be more than just friendly coworkers. I need to take that step.

  So I decide to turn the conversation from the past and exes. The waiter brings our order—some dish I can’t pronounce that Oliver insisted on ordering for us—and I poke around with my fork.

  When Oliver takes a bite, I jump in. “So, it’s crazy, but I don’t think I’ve asked you, how many pets do you have?” This is much more comfortable territory, much more neutral than Luke, Melissa, and broken hearts.

  He shakes his head, smirking. “None. I deal with enough pets all day, right?”

  I grin, waiting for him to say just kidding. He doesn’t. He just shrugs and keeps eating.

  “You really don’t have any?” I ask to verify. Most vets have loads of them. When I get my own place, I’m afraid to know how many I’ll have.

  “No. Like I said, we deal with so many animals a day. What’s the point?”

  “But don’t you love animals?”

  “I love the medicine behind it. I love the paychecks behind it, too,” he says, grinning.

  I try to muster up a laugh, too, truly confused. It’s like I’m seeing Oliver for the first time. It’s like I don’t recognize him.

  Stop trying to find the negatives, I remind myself. He’s not perfect. No one is. Your last guy sure as hell wasn’t, and you overlooked his shortcomings. Oliver doesn’t want to own a zoo. So what? It’s not like you’re getting married tomorrow.

  And even if you were, maybe it would be a good thing to have some balance, I reassure myself.

  We continue eating, talking about favorite bands, holiday traditions, and Maren’s wedding. As we’re finishing up, a family with a small girl walks in, and the hostess ushers them to a booth near us. On the way, the little girl drops the doll she’s carrying.

  “Excuse me,” Oliver says as he puts down his fork, leans out of our booth, and scoops up the doll. He ambles over to the family, offering a smile and holding out the raggedy toy.