Page 12 of Oliver
I took her hand, the contact brief and formal, but her delicate touch lingered on my skin. "Likewise."
I was already out the door when she added a whispered, "Thank you," so softly I almost missed it. The words followed me down the hall, echoing with a sincerity I wasn't prepared for.
I stepped out into the Seattle afternoon, the contract weighing heavy in my briefcase. A message pinged on my phone; Zahra had transferred the first payment. I told myself that the tightness in my chest was just anxiety about returning to Norman, but it was a hard lie to sell when Zahra was dominating every corner of my mind.
Like two binary stars locked in mutual orbit, drawing closer and closer, destined for?—
I cut the thought off before it could fully form. This wasn't a collision course. This was a precisely calculated trajectory with a defined beginning and end. It was under control.Mycontrol.
Despite it going against every law of physics, when it came to Zahra, gravity would bend to my intentions. It had to.
Four
ZAHRA
"Perfect.Now angle your cup so the logo faces the camera."
I adjusted the ceramic mug as instructed, trying not to roll my eyes at the precision of Oliver's direction. We were seated by the window of Café Reverie, a trendy downtown spot known for its Instagram-worthy latte art and exposed brick walls.
It was a rare day weather-wise for February in Seattle, as if the universe had decided to lend us a helping hand for our second “date.” The morning light streamed through the full-wall window facing the street, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that would make our photos look effortlessly romantic.
If only the actual experience was as painless as the online results.
"Good. Now look over the rim of the mug like you’re teasing the audience. I'll be in the background pretending to read."
I followed his instructions, the practiced smile I wore for client meetings fixed firmly on my face.
Yesterday we had a “surprise reunion” at a popular bar. Today was the soft launch of our fake reconciliation, designed toplant the seeds of our relationship in the social media ecosystem so that by the time we arrived in Norman, nobody would question our status.
"You're too stiff," Oliver noted, not looking up from his book. "Try to look like you’re having fun."
"I am trying," I muttered, closing my eyes and practicing my breathing for what felt like the millionth time. "It would help if this wereactuallyfun."
Oliver lowered his book slightly, his expression professionally neutral. "Structure ensures success. Deviation and improvisation put the assignment at risk of derailing."
Assignment. The word stung more than it should have. I forced myself to remember that's exactly what this was to him—a job, nothing more.
He'd arrived fifteen minutes early, hair freshly cut on the sides with styled texture on top, and dressed in dark jeans and a navy button-down that made his brown eyes seem impossibly deeper. Gone were the contact lenses he'd worn at our first meeting, replaced by stylish rectangular frames that somehow managed to look both modern and reminiscent of his old glasses. Something about seeing him in glasses again made my heart twist in a way I wasn't prepared for. Under his arm was a leather portfolio containing what turned out to be a literal checklist of approved poses and interactions.
"I've categorized each interaction by intimacy level," he'd explained, sliding my copy across the table. "We'll progress gradually through these stages over the next two weeks to make the relationship development appear organic."
Looking at Oliver’s methodical list made me think of how easily he used to hug me, and how his arms would wrap around me without hesitation, giving warmth and security. He had been the best hugger I'd ever known. Now there was a precise timeframe for how long his fingers could rest on my shoulder.
"So," I said, searching for conversation that wasn't dictated by his checklist. "How's the university treating you these days?"
Oliver took a sip of his latte, the soft, warm light a stark contrast to his hardened and closed off features. "It's fine. Teaching load fluctuates semester to semester."
"What classes are you?—"
"We should stick to general topics," he interrupted, eyes scanning the room rather than meeting mine. "Vague catching up is acceptable, but too many personal details will complicate maintaining consistent story points later."
I bit back a sigh. "Talking about your job is hardly delving into deep personal territory, Oliver."
"Nevertheless."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a diamond. I focused on my cappuccino, tracing the leaf pattern in the foam with my spoon. How had we gone from finishing each other's sentences to barely being able to hold a conversation?
Behind us, a new customer approached the counter, ordering something so convoluted that both the barista and I visibly winced.
