Boyfriend Material(111)

Okay. New plan.

Demonstrate how much I care about Oliver by learning a bare minimum of information about his life. Unfortunately, he had a way of distracting me. Well. Several ways of distracting me.

So on Thursday, a little after midnight, I collapsed over Oliver’s chest, and with—I’ll admit—not the world’s best sense of occasion, said “So, tell me about your family.”

“Um”—he seemed, I suppose, about as confused as I would have expected—“now?”

“Not necessarily exactly now. But maybe before Sunday? On account of me, y’know, meeting them then?”

He frowned. “How long has this been on your mind? Because I’m a little concerned.”

“Couple of days, on and off? And,” I added quickly, “we’ve just been in an off.”

“I see.”

“It’s not… I…” Wow. I really did suck at taking an interest. “I thought it would be nice? To know more about you?”

Normally Oliver was happy for me to sprawl over him as long and as much as I wanted, but he half shifted me, like I was being tucked into a corner. “There’s very little to know that you don’t already.”

“What? You mean you’re just an immaculate vegetarian lawyer with a gym routine and a good line in French toast?”

“Is something troubling you, Lucien? I hope you don’t feel trapped with me now your event’s over.”

I sat up like I’d been stung. “No. Not at all. You make me incredibly happy, and I want to be with you. But, like, what are you scared of? When was the last time you cried? What’s your favourite place in the world? What’s the thing in your life you most regret? Are you on a water polo team?”

He gazed at me warily, monochrome in the half light. “No. I’m not on a water polo team. Where is this coming from?”

Honestly? From liking him way more than I was used to liking anyone. From wanting him to like me back the same sort of way. From a whole wet splat of feels I couldn’t put into words. “I guess I’m just nervous. I don’t want to make a dick of myself in front of your parents.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He drew me back into his arms, and I went gladly enough. “It’s a garden party, not a job interview.”

“All the same. There are logistics here. You’re not going to send me out all unprepared and un-logistics-ed.”

I’d thought the logistics thing would be a winner. But he seemed less excited by it than I’d hoped. “Very well. What information do you think is pertinent?”

“I don’t know.” Way to put me on the spot, Oliver. “Who’s going to be there?”

“Well, my parents, obviously—David and Miriam. He’s in accountancy. My mother used to be a fellow of the LSE but gave it up when she had me.”

This wasn’t helping. “You told me that when we first met.”

“We can’t all be the children of infamous rock legends.”

“No, I know. But, like, who are they? Do they have any interests? Or, y’know, personality traits?”

“Lucien”—great, now he sounded borderline narked—“they’re my parents. My father’s a keen golfer. And my mother does a lot of charitable work.”

My heart sank. I was upsetting Oliver and this already sounded awful—but I’d gone too far to back out of either the event or the conversation. “What about your brother? Is your brother coming?”

“Yes. Christopher will be there.” He sighed. “As will Mia. I believe they’re flying in from Mozambique.”

“You…” Here’s hoping I didn’t make it worse “You don’t seem entirely happy about that.”

“My brother is very…accomplished. It makes me feel self-conscious.”

“You’re accomplished,” I pointed out. “You’re a fucking barrister.”

“Yes, but I don’t go into war zones and save lives.”

“You make sure that people get fair representation in court when they wouldn’t otherwise.”

“You see? Even you can’t make it sound glamorous.”

“That’s because I’m not you. When you talk about it, your eyes all light up, and you make it seem like the most important thing in the world. And then I want to do you right there.”

He blushed. “Please tell me you won’t say anything like that at the party.”

“Are you kidding? That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m planning to say at the party. My opening line is going to be ‘Hello Miriam, I’m Luc, I really enjoy doing your son.’” I rolled my eyes. “I know how to behave in polite company, Oliver.”

“Forgive me, I’m tired. It’s getting late, Lucien, and I’m in court tomorrow.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m being weird and keeping you awake.”

Despite the mess we’d made—or probably I’d made—of the pillow talk, Oliver wrapped me up and held me like he always did. So I guess we were okay? Except I still felt kind of unsettled, and I wasn’t sure why or where it was coming from. Much less what to do about it. And maybe the problem was that there wasn’t a problem, and I was just so not used to that, my brain was trying to make one for me.