Page 33 of Oliver
I wondered if this was how it was going to be. Pretending we're perfect for everyone else while pretending we're nothing to each other.
"Guys!" Parisa's delighted voice interrupted my thoughts. "Come over here!"
We approached the front desk, where Parisa stood with that wicked grin I knew too well from childhood, the one that always preceded trouble.
"So," she drawled. "I took the liberty of upgrading your room."
Oliver tensed beside me. "That wasn't necessary?—"
"To the honeymoon suite," Parisa finished, triumphantly holding up a key card. "Almost top floor, best view in Norman, and—" She winked. "A jacuzzi tub big enough for two."
My mother clapped in delight, my father looked uncomfortable but pleased, and Auntie Maryam's eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline.
"Parisa," I hissed, heat flooding my cheeks. "That's too much."
“Save it, Zazi.” She shoved the keycard into my hand. “You’re making sure my wedding is perfect. This is nothing.”
“I disagree,” Oliver interjected. “It’s beyond generous, and it’s perfect. Thank you.” He slipped his arm around my waist again, pulling me against his side. "Though I think Zahra and I would have been perfectly happy anywhere, as long as we're together."
The words were honey-sweet, delivered with just the right touch of sincerity. My family melted, even Auntie's expression softened slightly.
But as soon as they were gone, Oliver dropped his arm from my waist and stepped away, the loss of his warmth more disorienting than it should have been.
"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing toward the elevators.
The honeymoon suite was exactly as over-the-top as I'd feared—rose petals scattered across a massive king bed, champagne chilling in an ice bucket, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the town’s modest skyline, and yes, a ridiculously large jacuzzi tub in a bathroom bigger than my first apartment.
"Well," Oliver said after a moment of stunned silence. "This is..."
"Excessive?" I offered.
"I was going to say 'on-brand for Parisa,' but that works too."
A small laugh escaped me, some of the tension easing. "She always did go all inandall out."
Oliver set down his bag and moved to the windows, looking out at the view. Something in his posture shifted—a tightness in his shoulders, a stillness that hadn't been there before.
"You okay?" I asked.
He didn't turn. "Fine."
That single word, clipped and final, told me he was anything but fine. Being back in Norman was clearly affecting him more than he wanted to admit.
No personal questions. His past and his family were off limits.
That left only distraction. I looked around the room, locating the loveseat near the minibar, and figured I might as well get the pullout bed ready. Only when I tried to pull it out, it didn’t budge.
At first, I thought I was doing something wrong, so I tried a different way. Then another. And another. With every failed attempt, the truth became clearer, until it was undeniable.
“Oliver?” He turned to me, face blank. That was about to change. “The couch doesn’t pull out.”
He blinked, then frowned slightly, like I’d just spoken in a foreign language. Then his gaze flicked to the bed, andsomething behind his eyes—something carefully locked down—twitched.
“What do you mean?” His voice was too flat, too even. He knew. He just didn’t want to say it.
I let the silence stretch, waiting until his eyes finally met mine.
“There’s only one bed.”
