Kiss Her Once for Me (31)

I’m acutely aware that Andrew didn’t answer my question about what he wants, but after everything that’s happened in the past six hours, I’m too emotionally drained to push it.

“My parents… they don’t have the best marriage,” Andrew offers with the same level of trust his sister always showed me. “I’ve watched my dad hurt my mom my entire life. I don’t want to hurt Dylan like that, okay?”

And there it is. The legacy of shitty parents, the looming specter of morally questionable genetics. I know that fear in my bones, and I didn’t expect to see it so clearly etched into Andrew’s handsome face.

“You’re nothing like your father,” I tell him.

Andrew snorts. “You don’t know that. You haven’t even met him.”

“You’re here,” I say. “You aren’t at the office. You’re here for your mom, for your grandmas. You showed up, and your dad didn’t.”

He smiles wickedly. “I knew you wanted me, Oliver,” he teases, and the funny thing is, a few hours ago, I really did want him. Or, at the very least, I wanted to want him.

Andrew eyes the one bed, and his smile turns downright lascivious. “Are we going to do this thing or what?”

I reach out for his hand and lace our fingers together instead. “You don’t have to be that guy with me, you know.”

He does another scrunched confused face. “What guy?”

“The guy who’s only a fun time at parties.” I pull him down on the bed so we’re sitting side by side. Andrew is quiet for a moment as he fiddles with our joined hands.

“You know,” Andrew says thickly. “You’re kind of a great fake fiancée so far.”

I give his hand a squeeze. “You’re mediocre, if I’m being honest,” I say, and Andrew smiles again. “But tomorrow is a new day.”

Unfortunately for Andrew, I don’t plan to be here tomorrow.





A Webcomic

By Oliverartssometimes

Episode 2: The Honesty Game

(Christmas Eve, 11:07 a.m.)

Uploaded: December 31, 2021

I think I’m about to have a heart attack in the coffee shop at Powell’s.

This is—I press my hand against my chest—yep. This is definitely a heart attack.

I’m too aware of my heart thrashing against my ribs, and it feels like there’s something lodged in my chest, a too-crowded, overwhelmed feeling. Every time I attempt to breathe, there’s a sharp, stabbing pain. I clutch my rib cage and try to inhale slowly, but nope—it hurts too much.

This is probably it. I’m probably dying.

Except. Well. It’s statistically unlikely that I’m actually going to die from a heart attack while standing in line for coffee at eleven in the morning.

I remind myself to go through my pre-scripted self-talk. You’re not having a heart attack, because first of all, you’re twenty-four years old, Ellie, and despite your love of microwave dinners and your hatred of physical exercise, it’s unlikely you’re having an unprecedented cardiac event.

Secondly, because you’ve been here before, confusing a panic attack for something else, going to the emergency room in the middle of the night to have EKGs painfully point out that your health problems are not in your chest.

I take my first full breath.

What I’m having, in fact, is a minor panic attack. A brief flash of intense anxiety. The kind you might experience when you agree to follow a stranger to a second location. Even if that second location is just the coffee shop inside of Powell’s.

I take a few more calming, cleansing breaths. The woman named Jack orders our coffees, then leads the way to an empty table beside a wall of windows. Most of the tables are empty, actually. Outside, there’s at least three inches of snow now, with gridlocked cars lining Burnside and fat flakes still falling. Jack shrugs out of her khaki jacket, and my heart clenches for some reason. A beautiful woman with long fingers wrapped around a praline mocha sits down across from me, and my cardiovascular system is going haywire trying to figure out if this is some kind of date.

“Don’t worry. This is not a date,” she says, leaning back in her chair like she’s just read my mind.

“Oh.” I’m relieved. Am I relieved? Why am I not more relieved? “Oh, right. Um, of course not. I didn’t think—”

“This,” she continues, cutting off my rambling, “is a meeting between co-parents to discuss the future upbringing of our book.”

The copy of Fun Home she purchased sits on the table between us, and she gravely places her hand over it.

“And because this isn’t a date,” Jack says, “normal date rules don’t apply.”

That is somehow worse. At least I understand the rules of dating and know what’s expected of me socially. This is something lawless. Under the table, Jack jostles her foot, and I feel it rattling through my bones. “Normal date rules?” I finally ask.

Jack hums. “Yes. On a normal first date, you’re not allowed to unburden your childhood traumas, but because this isn’t a date at all, I think you should tell me why you were crying in a bookstore on Christmas Eve.”

I shift in my seat. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts, raising one stern finger. “Do not lie and say you weren’t crying. It sets a bad example for our child.” She pats the book. “New rule. We both have to answer every question the other person asks honestly.”