Shuffle, Repeat(36)

“Truce,” he says firmly, his dark brown eyes on mine.

I stare back, and in that moment, there’s a rip in the fabric of the universe. Everything I know—the laws of high school and hierarchies and history—they shimmer away into nothingness, and all I can register is that Oliver’s body is settled over mine and his face is very, very close.

Abruptly, Oliver jerks himself to his feet. He reaches a hand down and I allow him to take mine, to pull me up. “Truce,” he repeats. This time, he doesn’t look at me.

“Truce,” I tell him.

? ? ?

Oliver’s mother, Marley, sets two mugs of hot cocoa on the table. When I thank her, she tells me, “Wait a second, honey,” then flutters away and back. She drops a large marshmallow into each cup. “They didn’t have the small ones.”

Oliver bumps his mug gently into mine. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

After running and climbing and sliding and screaming our whole way to Oliver’s house, we arrived sweaty and wet. Marley took one look and sent me off to change, then threw my clothes into the dryer. That’s why I’m wearing Oliver’s mother’s yoga pants—more formfitting than I’m accustomed to—and her lavender thermal shirt embellished with white lace appliqués. My thumbs are poked through the holes at the edges of the sleeves, which I’m finding surprisingly comfortable. When I put it on, Marley winked at me. “It’s like your thumbs are getting a daylong hug,” she said.

Now I’m seated at the Flagg family breakfast table across from the younger Flagg family son, who is wearing a dry pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Unlike me, he was able to choose his outfit on his own.

Oliver’s mom has the same white-blond hair as he does, but hers falls long and straight down her back. Her blue eyes are big and round, and so are her boobs. Her fingernails are perfectly manicured and painted a bright red. My mom is pretty in an earthy, no-makeup kinda way, but you can totally see how a horny college senior would pick Marley first.

It’s the same way a horny high school senior would pick Ainsley first.

“How are you?” Marley asks me. “You’ve gotten so tall.” Oliver and I make eye contact and we both crack up, because she sounds exactly like my mom did when Oliver came over.

“Please don’t mention changing her diaper,” Oliver tells his mother.

“What? What did I say?” Marley asks, but we’re both laughing too hard to explain. “You kids. So silly.”

Oliver’s father, Bryant, wanders in while we’re still calming down. He greets me before swinging an arm around Marley’s waist, pulling her in for a kiss. “Have you ever seen such a woman? Oliver, you should be so lucky.”

“Dad,” says Oliver.

“Stop it, Bryant.” But Marley doesn’t sound like she means it.

“Here, if you want to be more traditional about it.” Bryant pulls her to the foyer archway and points to the mistletoe hanging overhead before sweeping her into an even lower, more prolonged kiss.

I wonder if it’s generational, all this PDA.

When the moment of marital bliss is over, Bryant turns his attention back to Oliver. “I talked to Alex this morning.”

“Cool,” Oliver mumbles.

“He says he can push your application to the top of the pile.” Oliver nods and Bryant claps him on the shoulder. “Family connections, right?”

“Sure.” Oliver turns to me. “Let’s go down to the basement. Bring your cocoa.”

“We have chips and salsa,” Marley calls after us as we head out.

Oliver’s house is big and made out of bricks, and everything is new. There are no piles of unfinished projects lying around, no exposed beams. Every interior surface is painted a muted hue, and I’ve already seen two chandeliers and a built-in wine fridge. He leads me down a set of thickly carpeted stairs to something that I would never refer to as a basement. At the very least, it’s a “lower level.” The large room features a Ping-Pong table, a wet bar, and a seriously big-ass TV.

Oliver rummages around behind the wet bar and comes up with the chips and salsa his mom mentioned. “I’m going to make an executive decision that we don’t need a bowl.” He rips the bag open and sets it on the counter.

“I second. Hey, are your parents like that together all the time?”

“They act out for company.”

“Lucky you.”

“They do everything together. Finish each other’s sentences, all that stuff that’s cliché but really kind of amazing.”

“And rare.” I’m thinking of my own parents, separated since before my memories begin. I’m also thinking of Itch and me. “Most couples don’t work like that.”

“True.” Oliver gestures to the barstools and I perch on one, reaching for a chip. I’m not sure what we’re going to do for entertainment, but I know I couldn’t take off even if I wanted to, because my clothes are still in the dryer.

“Do you want to watch TV?” Oliver asks.

“No.” It comes out sharper than I intended. Watching TV is what I do with Itch. Or rather what I don’t do with Itch. I soften my tone. “I mean…it’s not like I don’t have a television at home.”