Page 11 of Husband Material
Oh. Right.My shoulders drooped. I was supposed to be…not like this anymore. “Why do people keep having power over me?”
“Well, one of them was your father, so power is rather a given. And the other is someone you were in love with who betrayed you.”
“So I have to go to the wedding to prove—”
I had no idea where I was going with that, but thankfully Oliver interrupted me. “You don’t have to do anything to prove anything. To anyone. Not Miles, not me, and not even yourself.”
That’s what he thought. He wasn’t me.
“In any case,” he went on, “you have time. You can think about it. And if you want to go, of course I’ll be with you. And if you don’t, I’ll…still be with you. And we’ll do something muchmore interesting than watching your ex-boyfriend and somebody you’ve met once throw a massive, expensive party in celebration of a relationship that doesn’t mean anything to you.”
I blinked. “Wow. That’s a cynical take on marriage even for me, and my dad was a junkie arsehole who walked out on my mum before I could talk.”
“I’m not opposed to marriage in general.” Oliver gave a tight little smile. “I’m just not the sort of person who can get invested in the trappings if I’m not invested in the couple.”
I didn’t think I was either, really. I’d only agreed to help organise Bridge’s wedding because she was my best friend and I was pretty sure she’d do all the important planning herself. Of course, part of it was that for most of my life it hadn’t looked like marriage was a thing I’d ever be able to do. And in some ways it was nice to think if I was growing up today, I’d be able to be one of those kids spending his days planning his fantasy wedding to the man of his dreams. But in other ways, it felt kind of like I’d missed out. “I get it. And just to be clear, I’m notinvestedin Miles at all. Like not at all. Not even a little tiny bit.”
“Good.”
There was a firmness in thatgoodthat felt more definite than his I’ll-support-you-no-matter-what demeanour implied. “Oliver,” I said, because I wanted this on record, “you are actually just a smidgeon jealous, aren’t you?”
“No.”
The response was far too quick to be convincing. I grinned triumphantly. “You are. Oh my God, you are. That’s amazing because it means you like me so much you don’t want anyone else to have me. Or possibly super insulting because it suggests I’m so damaged I’ll go back to a guy who sold me out and is marrying someone else.”
“Well, obviously I like you, Lucien,” muttered Oliver. “Ingeneral. Not necessarily right now. And I know it’s irrational. While I have a long history of people leaving me, it’s always been for quite banal reasons, not because they decided to run off with their ex at his own wedding.”
Once upon a time, this would have been a teasing opportunity and I’d have said something likeI promise when I leave you, it’ll be over something trivial. But Oliver had been dumped a lot, and even though he’d know it was a joke, it would be a joke that hurt. “I promise I’m not going to leave you. Not over Miles. Not over you going vegan. Not even over that time you got really upset at me for leaving my socks in the living room.”
That perked him right up. His eyes got a steely glint. “There is a place,” he said, “for socks.”
And it probably said something weird about my brain or our relationship that Oliver chiding me about my socks was a little bit of a turn-on. “I’m sorry.” I made a futile attempt to sound contrite. “I’m just a filthy sock harlot.”
“Lucien, are you attempting to turn my irritation at your failure to pick up after yourself into some kind of sex game?”
I shot him a hopeful look. “Is it working?”
“Well, you have made a terrible mess of the kitchen.”
“I know. I deserve to be punished.”
“You’ve already been punished,” Oliver pointed out. “You had to eat that dreadful pie.”
“That is very much not the type of punishment I had in mind.”
Standing, Oliver neatly cleared the bowls from the table. “I don’t think framing sex with me as a punishment is quite the compliment you think it is.”
“Well, I don’t think ‘Come and do me because you like me so much’ has quite the right flirtatious edge.”
“But Lucien”—Oliver’s voice had gone very low and very soft—“I do like you. I like you very, very much.”
Okay, maybe that was working. Except even after two years of relationshipping and self-care and emotional development, it still scared me how vulnerable sex could make me feel. Which meant it was way easier to saySpank me, Daddy, which we both knew I didn’t mean, thanHold me, I love you, which I definitely did. And I was just trying to find a way to articulate this—see above, re: emotional development—when Oliver came back, unbowled, and took me firmly by the wrist.
“What are you—” I started as I found myself manoeuvred onto the table.
“I’m showing you how much I like you.”
Argh. Help.My feelings. I made a valiant attempt not to melt everywhere. “I’ll feel bad if we damage this table.”
