Page 9 of What If It's You?

“No, it’s fine. They’re always good.” I took a deep breath, tryingto exhale the prissiness that was seeping into the tiny cracks anxiety was leaving in me. “Honestly, I think I’m a little hangry.”

“That we can definitely fix.”

We slipped into conversation about our days, the forgettable but pleasant filler that long-standing couples so easily return to. Ollie shared stories about various students, the ludicrous demands their wealthy parents made, a fight that had broken out in Trader Joe’s when he stopped in to grab a quick lunch. It was funny—hewas funny, Ollie had always been good at telling a story—but I could barely follow, my mind a scratched record stuck onHe’s planning to propose, he’s planning to propose, he’s planning to propose.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Ollie said, looking up from his étouffée, gentle concern in his rich brown eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Why would you say that?” I focused on arranging a perfect bite, slicing off a tiny bit of the peach-and-whiskey-glazed chicken and carefully smearing a dollop of whipped cheddar polenta over it, balancing a housemade pickle on top—anything to keep me from having to meet that too-insightful gaze.

“Usually I’m not exactly the chatty one.” I caught the quirk of his eyebrow, his wry grin. Tenderness squeezed my heart while anxiety vised harder around my lungs. “Did something happen? At work, maybe?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ollie’s eyebrows shot up.

“That you have a hard job and sometimes it can be stressful?” He squinted at me, tongue moving in his cheek thoughtfully. “What else would it mean?”

I blinked, feeling trapped.

“I don’t know. It was. Stressful, I mean. The meeting this morning was a big deal, and there’s a new project that”—I stopped myself short. Ollie had met Drew, liked him even, in a nonspecific, not-much-in-common sort of way, but suddenly it felt as if even uttering his name might be dangerous. “…that a coworker showed me that could have…serious implications.”

“For your job?”

“Among other things. Sorry, I can’t really talk about it, it’s kinda…” I shrugged, then mimed zipping my lips.

“I’m not gonna leak it to the press, Lo.”

“I know that,Ollie. It’s just…” I rolled my hand through the air, flicking away his curiosity, hearing the annoyance in my own voice. “Inside baseball stuff. Boring. I honestly don’t want to talk about it.”

The little knot of guilt in my stomach tightened. Usually I didn’t keep things from Ollie, or even want to. I relished the way sharing things with him seemed to bring them more fully to life, allowed me to see them in a way I hadn’t before, sparked ideas that I probably never would have found on my own. Ollie had a way of listening to me so completely, his full attention on whatever we were talking about—whether it was a major problem I was facing or what Halloween costume to dress Bubs up in that year—that it made me feel more interesting, creative,fun.

But what was I going to say—Drew might have found a way to access parallel universes? It sounded ridiculous, for one thing, but Ollie would want to know more, would be genuinely interested, would start spinning out objectively interesting possibilities that of course he’d expect us to dive into deeper, and then I’d just feelmoreguilty, because really, the program wasn’t the thing I kept worrying like a sore tooth, it was the questions that had sprouted in my head after Drew showed it to me, the renewed flicker of…somethingbetween us today, and all the doubts starting to catch off its ember.

“Okay. Well, if you do want to talk about it, or about anything else, I’m happy to listen, alright?” He reached across the table for my hand, squeezing it once, a familiar gesture that felt intensely bittersweet at that moment.

“Sure. Right.” I nodded rapidly. “I need to use the bathroom. If the server comes by, she can box that.” I jerked my hand away, ignoring the hurt that crumpled Ollie’s forehead.

“Got it.”

In the tiny single-stall bathroom I leaned heavily on the pedestalsink, staring into the antique mirror, not quite certain what I was looking for. In the past, whenever I thought about what my future with Ollie looked like, I always assumed we’d get marriedat some point. He knew me better than pretty much anyone else, had been there for all the adulting milestones—the upgraded apartment, all the promotions at work, adopting the rambunctious tabby kitten who had grown into the fat, spoiled fur monster we both doted on. He’d held my hair back when I got sick, both after overindulging at one of his various bands’ shows and after overindulging on dollar oysters at the Irish pub near our apartment, an obviously bad choice in retrospect. He’d gotten all dolled up with me for friends’ weddings and spent countless nights with me in sweatpants on the couch, zit stickers studding my makeup-free face as I tore through yet another romance novel. He listened to my claims that I was going to try writing my own any day now, and despite all the evidence to the contrary, he agreed wholeheartedly every time, unwavering in his support of what we both had to know was a pipe dream. I loved him almost the moment I met him, and I knew he’d fallen for me just as fast and possibly even harder, and I’d never had reason to question the idea that he was my “person,” whatever that meant.

But I’d also never believed in the idea of a soulmate, had always thought it was obvious—if only mathematically—that all of us had any number of potential “my persons” walking around. I loved Ollie completely, andalsothere might be someone else out there I could love just as much, possibly even more. Besides, if we were so right for each other, why had finding the ring given me heart palpitations? Why was I thinking about Drew’s eyes when I should be fantasizing about wedding dresses? Friends of mine who had tied the knot all seemed so sure, soexcitedabout the prospect of spending the rest of their days with their partner, “forever” an ambient glow they basked in, not a flickering fluorescent glare that stung their eyes.

Wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t see what they’d all seen, couldn’tsummon the calm assurance they’d all apparently felt,proofthat saying yes would be a bad idea?

Had Mom believed in forever when she said yes to Dad all those years ago, or had she felt the same gut fear I was feeling and just ignored it? It’s not like I could just call her up and ask…

I swallowed against a wave of nausea, then splashed some water on my face. I was letting myself spiral for no reason at all—he hadn’t even proposed yet, and yesterday, when there hadn’t been a ring, I’d been perfectly happy with the idea ofat some point.This was just my anxiety talking, and as my therapist had so helpfully reminded me at countless points in the last ten years,Just because it’s whispering those things in your ear, that doesn’t mean you have to listen.I carefully patted my cheeks with a towel, smoothed my shirt, and opened the door, determined to spend the rest of the meal beingpresent.

And then I saw the server placing two glasses of champagne on the table, Ollie smiling shyly at her as he asked for something that I couldn’t interpret but that had her nodding and hurrying off with an excited grin, and all the bourbon-glazed chicken threatened to make a reappearance on the floor at my feet, the little whispering voice a roar so loud the noise of the restaurant disappeared beneath it.

Forever. Forever. Forever.

Nope. No way. I couldn’t do this, couldn’t cry happily as he slid a ring onto my finger, couldn’t pretend I was living in the glow instead of the interrogation room. Couldn’t bear the look on Ollie’s face if—when—I said no. When had I decided to say no?

I marched across the restaurant and slid into my seat, flinging a hand at the champagne glass.

“What’s that for?”

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