Still Us

by Lindsay Detwiler

  “It’s fine. No apologies needed. Your family’s great,” he says.

  I take a swig of the coffee. “I don’t know if great is the word I’d use. They’re… interesting, for sure.”

  “I had an amazing time last night,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulder.

  “I did too.”

  We swing for a long moment, not talking, just taking in the sight of the morning, the serenity of my mom’s garden sharply contrasting with the chaos that is my family.

  “I like spending time with you, Lila. A lot.”

  I turn and look up at the blue eyes that are becoming so familiar. “I like spending time with you, too,” I say, and realize it’s true.

  Sitting here, swinging with Oliver, there’s a deep-rooted serenity that isn’t just because my family’s not around. It’s a peace I feel deep within. He makes me feel calm and rational. He makes me feel smart, like I’m doing the right thing.

  Being with Oliver is easy because there’s not much tension between us. There’s just two people, heading in a similar direction, walking together.

  I could get used to this.

  And then the back door opens, Grandma Claire standing in her nightie. “Lila! Come quick! I seem to have clicked something on the television and there’s something inappropriate on it.”

  I shake my head. “Grandma, I thought we told you to stop getting into the pay-per-view menu.”

  “What? I didn’t. This newfangled television just does it on its own.”

  “Be right there,” I yell, shaking my head but laughing.

  “I take it Grandma Claire has had a few pay-per-view incidents?” Oliver asks, grinning.

  “Oh, yes. Just to warn you, it’s probably not going to be pretty. Grandma likes to click on the racier titles and then swear she didn’t know they were dirty.” I sigh, heading inside to see what new disaster awaits, the serenity wearing off a little bit.

  When Oliver grabs my free hand, though, and holds it on the way into the living room, the peace is back, despite the horrifying, scream-inciting view we see when we get to the living room and see what Grandma Claire has ordered.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Luke

  Margot tosses back yet another beer, letting out a rebel yell when she does. The music is loud, and the fire is hot, the biting air slapping against my skin.

  We’re at Dean’s house for his annual bonfire. All my old friends are here, most of them with wives or girlfriends. I thought it would be a good way for everyone to meet Margot.

  And meet Margot they have.

  Dressed to kill in her skintight black dress that is suctioned to her curves like a glove, she’s been the star of the bonfire, to many of the guys’ significant others’ chagrin. Dancing wildly, drinking more alcohol than I thought possible, and singing karaoke are the highlights of Margot’s bonfire experience.

  “Well, you got yourself a wild one,” Dean whispers to me as Margot tells Dean’s wife, Sadie, about her trip to Cancun last summer.

  “That I did,” I admit, grinning before taking another gulp of beer.

  “Nothing wrong with wild,” Dean says. “I don’t think you have to worry about her wanting to settle down anytime soon.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I say, watching Margot dance her way over to me. “She claims to be allergic to diamond rings and commitment.” Dean shakes his head and laughs.

  “Stop being so boring. Dance with me,” she demands, yanking me out to a secluded spot by the fire and interrupting our conversation.

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” I protest as she wraps her arms around my shoulders, her chest pressing against mine.

  “Well, tonight you are,” she says as a rock song comes on. We dance rather wildly in the middle of the yard, Margot laughing and having the time of her life. In truth, it really isn’t my scene and I feel like I probably look like I’m having a stroke. Still, I dance with her, and it does feel kind of good, I tell myself.

  The night continues to unfold, Margot encouraging round after round of shots. Back in my day, I could’ve given her a run for her money. Margot would’ve been no match for the Luke of before, the rebellious partier who was the master of beer pong.

  Tonight, I’m doing my best to keep up.

  When it’s finally time to leave, Margot insists on going home with me. Who the hell am I to argue? Evan’s out for the night with Anna, so the only one left behind is Floyd. I don’t think he’ll mind.

  I call us a cab, and Margot is all over me in the back seat to the point the driver asks if she’s going to be okay. He looks at me like I’m some skeevy weirdo, which pisses me off. Could also be the six beers I’ve had talking.

  Margot sings so loudly on the way into my apartment that I think the neighbors are surely going to call the cops. She’s walking unsteadily, and it’s a chore to get her up the stairs.

  Apparently she’s overdone it, even for her alcohol-tolerant self.

  “Come on, stud. Screw me,” she says loudly once we’re inside the door.

  I grin and shake my head. She’s absolutely gorgeous. Any guy would kill to have Margot Lane asking him to screw her, especially in that dress. I’d be lying to say I didn’t fantasize about ripping it off her all night.

  But even with my head a little hazy from all the drinking, I know I can’t. I know I can’t give in even if every part of my body is screaming at me to take her clothes off. It’s not right, not even if she’s begging.

  I can’t have sex with her like this. It’s wrong.

  “Come on, let’s get you to bed,” I say, leading her back up the hallway. She staggers and giggles.

  “I like the sound of that.”

  I lead her towards my room, and she jumps on the bed. “Take off those clothes,” she says.

  I shake my head. “Not tonight, Margot. Let’s get some sleep.”

  She gives me a pouty face that is sort of sad but sort of sexy. I help her get her shoes off. “Sex tomorrow?” she asks.

  I grin, shaking my head. “Sex tomorrow. But I have a feeling you’re not going to be feeling like it.”

  “You don’t know me very well then,” she says, winking before plopping back on the pillow. I head to the bathroom to take a piss. By the time I’m back, also feeling like falling into bed, she’s asleep, snoring lightly.

  So I do exactly what I didn’t imagine myself doing. I climb into bed beside Margot, her sexy skintight dress still showing off enough of her to make me crazy, and I go to sleep.

  ***

  “That was an awesome night,” Margot whispers in my ear. I groan, the sun shining in.

  My head’s pounding, and I feel like shit. I open an eye slightly to see Margot propped up over me, smiling.

  She looks like she’s had the best damn night of sleep of her life.

  “How do you not feel like shit?” I ask, reaching to the nightstand for some Advil.

  She shrugs. “Practice makes perfect,” she says. “Maybe you’re just getting old.”

  “Apparently.”

  “So anyway,” she says, her voice way too chipper. She leans in to kiss my neck. “I’m guessing sex this morning is off the table?”

  “Yeah, at least until this pounding in my head stops,” I say. She treats sex so casually. I rarely hear a girl toss it around so easily.

  “I figured. Anyway, my friend Miranda is having a party tonight. I promise I won’t get so drunk. Just a few drinks. Then maybe we can go back to my place?”

  Another party? I can’t even think about getting out of bed right now. I can’t imagine going out again tonight. “I don’t know, Margot.”

  “Come on. You only live once.”

  “I’m not going to be alive at all, I have a feeling, once you’re done with me.”

  She smiles, stroking my hair. “Just wait until you see what I can do in bed,” she says, kissing my cheek.

  I feel myself harden at the thought. Before I can pursue it, though, she’s jumping out of bed. “Okay, I’m off.
I have a manicure appointment in an hour. I’ll pick you up at six if that’s okay.”

  I just groan in response as Margot skips out the door.

  Either Margot’s right and I’m getting old, or this girl is just a rare breed. So much for an easy night of Netflix and songwriting. I feel like with Margot, there sure isn’t a need for commitment… but the wild life does take a lot of energy.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lila

  “Well you look like sex on a stick,” Grandma Claire proclaims.

  “I agree, but I don’t mean it as a compliment like she does,” Mom says from her seat on the couch. The two are watching soap operas Mom DVR’d. I shake my head, trying to pretend to ignore them but now feeling paranoid.

  I should’ve known this dress would be too much. The backless, supershort royal blue dress now seems foolish.

  It’s too late, though. Oliver’s here.

  I dash to the door before Grandma can even think of getting up. No need to scare Oliver away any more than he was at the wedding or the morning after. Seeing Grandma tango with all the groomsmen and twerk was something no one should have to witness, let alone the bra conversation and the pay-per-view debacle.

  “Hey, Oliver!” Grandma shouts from the couch.

  “Bye, Grandma and Mom! Love you.”

  I dash out and shut the door before anything embarrassing can happen.

  “Hey, I got you these,” Oliver says, handing me a dozen red roses. I smile and smell them.

  “They’re lovely.” I head to Oliver’s car.

  “Aren’t you going to put them in a vase?” he asks.

  “Right, um, just wait here.”

  I dash inside and hand them to Mom, asking if she’ll put them in a vase. Grandma insists she has a perfect vase. Yep, the flowers are gone.

  I head back outside, Oliver already in the car waiting for me.

  I climb in, all smiles, excited for a night out with Oliver, just the two of us, and even more excited for another kiss.

  We drive to Chance’s, a local Italian restaurant fancy enough to warrant dressy clothes. I haven’t been there in ages. I’m more of a Panera bread, Chipotle, fast eats kind of girl. But the prospect of dressing up seemed fun when Oliver suggested it.

  I turn on the radio, greeted by classical music. I kind of laugh, thinking maybe the radio is accidentally on the wrong channel. When I hit the autofind button, though, more classical greets me. I look over to see Oliver tapping his hands on the wheel.

  “You like classical?” Oliver asks.

  “Oh, yeah. It’s lovely.” For a funeral or an elevator, I think. Still, it hardly seems appropriate to tell him classical music makes me want to barf, especially when he seems to like it so much.

  So I bite my tongue, listening to Oliver whistle along until we pull into the parking lot.

  “Ready for some delicious Italian?” he asks as I leap out of the car.

  “You bet.” I walk into the restaurant on Oliver’s arm, thinking how lucky I am and how glad I am to have opened my heart back up.

  ***

  He’s just nervous, I tell myself. You can’t judge him from one dinner. The wedding was amazing. And that kiss rocked you. Just be polite.

  I’m swirling the shrimp alfredo on my fork—which Oliver ordered for me, insisting he knew what I’d like. I hate seafood.

  I smile and nod, acting like I have a clue what he’s talking about with conservatives and liberals and something about natural resources.

  Oliver’s been animatedly talking politics now for at least a half hour. It’s like an explosion of politics and government.

  Which I admittedly am not very knowledgeable about.

  But, in truth, I only know the zany intern from work, a few coffee dates, a few lunches, and the wedding. Maybe I don’t know the real Oliver because I wasn’t looking for him. Maybe I only know the pieces of Oliver I wanted to see.

  The night continues, and he does mercifully turn the conversation to Game of Thrones, which I love, and the new video game that is out—which I also love. We also end up talking about baseball, though, which is one of Oliver’s other loves. Another thing we don’t have in common.

  Still, when we start talking about the new heartworm vaccine that’s in a trial period and about Panic at the Disco—our mutually favorite band—I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing we’re back on track. We do have things in common. We do have a foundation of commonalities.

  What, am I looking for perfection? No one’s perfect. No one’s going to be my one perfect match. Love’s about giving and taking.

  But Oliver and I are just starting out, and I can’t help but get this nagging feeling that if there are already so many things I’m having to pretend to be okay with, what else is going to arise?

  When I manage to gag down half the shrimp alfredo and ask for a box to take the rest home to Grandma, Oliver kind of shudders.

  “Um, are you okay with leaving that behind? I have a no food in the car rule,” he says.

  “Oh, sure.”

  I think back to Maren and me eating Doritos Locos tacos in the car every Saturday or Luke and I wolfing down Big Macs on the way to the beach last summer.

  No food in the car seems like a prison sentence.

  Still, I remind myself that this is just one of those things that Oliver is serious about. I’m sure there’s plenty about me he’s not digging, either.

  Does that mean I should discount him, discount us?

  Classical music isn’t so bad; maybe it wouldn’t be such a horrible thing to not eat in the car. These are things I can live with.

  Because even though Oliver talks too much politics and is a bit serious in his music genres for my taste, he has plenty to offer. He’s stable. He knows what he wants and where he’s going.

  He’s crazy about kids, and he’s super considerate.

  And most of all, when he kisses me good night, I feel the electricity again.

  Heading back home after our dinner and promising to go out with him again this weekend, I smile. The universe is all right again, and Oliver’s sneaking into my heart.

  Now I’ve just got to brush up on my politics and composers.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Luke

  “I still think we could be having way more fun back at your place or mine,” Margot whispers, hanging on my arm as we stroll up the sidewalk. My heart is still beating from Margot almost crashing into Scarlet and John’s mailbox.

  “Come on, it’s going to be great. You’ll love my sister,” I argue, hoping it’s the truth.

  “Not as much as I’d love to be doing all sorts of things to you,” Margot whispers as we step onto the porch and John opens the door.

  I paint on a smile and Margot ups the enthusiasm, hugging John and then Scarlet as she greets us.

  In truth, I am happy to be here for dinner with my sister, mostly because it’ll be a night away from the party scene—which Margot has been dragging me to quite a bit.

  Scarlet invited us up a few days ago, insistent to meet the girl who has been stealing my time after I blew off family dinner for quite a few Sundays.

  “I don’t know, Scarlet,” I’d said. “Margot’s… different.”

  “I like different. Now come on. Bring her over,” she argued.

  So I’d agreed… mostly, like I said, to avoid another night out with Margot’s friends.

  Walking behind Margot, I take in the sight of her black dress hugging her curves. Dammit, the woman looks good no matter what she wears. Although scandalously tight seems to be her mantra when it comes to fashion—not that I have a problem with that.

  We follow John and Scarlet into the dining room, where Scarlet’s made a feast.

  “You cooked all this?” I ask as we take our seats.

  “Don’t act so surprised.”

  “I mean, I just didn’t know you were so Martha Stewart,” I say, sitting down and eyeing a pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a whole other slew of items.

>   “Me neither,” John pretends to whisper, and Scarlet hits him.

  “Keep it up, and you two will be banned from my table. Don’t let my brother fool you, Margot. I’m a damn good cook. Much better than him.”

  Margot just smiles, reaching for her wineglass and taking a hefty sip.

  “Let’s eat,” Scarlet says, and we all start digging in.

  I grab the dish of roast, passing it to Margot.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m a vegetarian.”

  I pause, looking at her. “Oh, really? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” And it’s true. I didn’t know. Then again, eating was never high on Margot’s list of activities. Thinking about it, our only encounters usually involved making out, dancing, or drinking.

  “I’m so sorry, Margot. Luke didn’t tell me. Can I get you something else?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll just have a few green beans. I’m dieting anyway.”

  Scarlet raises an eyebrow, but decides not to push the issue. I shrug, not sure what to say.

  “You don’t need to diet, baby. You look great,” I try, deciding it’s probably the best way to proceed. Plus it’s the truth.

  “I mean, I don’t know how you would know. Not like you’ve ever seen all this naked,” Margot says casually. There’s a tiny edge to her voice, but not enough to show she’s totally pissed. She makes the comment as if she’s casually noting the weather or the date.

  John chokes on his water, which he’d been sipping in the awkward moment.

  “Okay, how about we say grace,” Scarlet says, clasping her hands together.

  “We never say grace,” John interrupts. Scarlet shoots him a death glare.

  “We do today. Lord, please help us all endure those things facing us, and help us all find the right path to happiness. Amen.”

  Scarlet spews the words so quickly we don’t even have time to bow our heads. There is now deafening silence. The only sound filling the void is the sound of plates being scraped and passed.

  I literally say nothing, pretending my plate of beef is the most engaging thing I’ve ever seen.