“Right. Because who cares how I feel as long as Oliver is on board.”
“At least you’re not wearing a red stain anymore,” she says.
“True.” I shrug. “It’s not like that was my favorite shirt, though.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “I can’t bear to see an otherwise good shirt ruined.”
“What are we going to do with it?” I ask. “We can’t just leave it in the bathroom, can we?”
“We just need to keep it damp until I can get it home and treat the stain,” she says. “I have the best stain removal system. You won’t be able to tell that wine was ever spilled on it.”
She takes the shirt out of the sink and shakes off some of the excess water. We head back out to our table, and on our way there, she asks an employee for a plastic bag. When we sit down, Oliver does a doubletake just like I did when I saw my reflection in the mirror. His face turns pink and he quickly turns back to his plate.
“Did you get the stain out?” he asks.
“Tina’s going to fix it,” I tell him. I gesture to the bag that’s now sitting on the end of the table with my shirt in it.
“I’m seriously sorry about that,” Oliver says. “I didn’t mean to make you spill your wine. I’ll buy you a new shirt if Tina can’t get the stain out.”
“I’ll get the stain out,” Tina says. She sounds more confident than the narrator of a stain removal commercial.
“It’s fine,” I say to Oliver. “You did tell me you were going to get me back.”
“Staining your shirt wasn’t what I had in mind,” he says. “I feel bad.”
“Technically, I spilled it on myself.”
“Stop being so nice to each other,” Tina says with a groan. “You’re making me sick.”
“Let them be,” Ryan says. “It’s too early for their first fight as a couple.”
I think about his comment as I take my last few bites of food. Maybe Oliver and I could have pretended to have a huge fight over me smashing the bruschetta on his face and him ruining my shirt. Then we could have gotten out of this whole situation and we wouldn’t have to keep lying to our friends.
Oliver reaches his hand over, grazing my lower back with his fingertips. The action seems so natural that it almost feels genuine. I look up from my plate to him. He’s watching me. I wish that I could get inside his head and hear his thoughts.
The waiter comes by with the check. Tina takes it before anyone else can. She always does this. “We need to do this again soon,” she says.
“Yeah. Totally,” I agree, even though I was just thinking about how to get out of this a minute ago.
Once the bill is paid, we all stand up and head outside. We linger by Oliver’s truck for a minute, talking about everything except what’s on everyone’s minds—the upcoming proposals and this weird fake relationship—and then we part ways and it’s just me and Oliver in his truck again. We sit here for a moment, both of us staring through the windshield like we did when we arrived.
“I’m sorry for touching your boobs,” Oliver says, breaking the silence.
“Oh. That?” I almost forgot it happened. “You didn’t mean to. I don’t think.”
I turn my head to look at him. He’s still staring out the windshield, but now he’s smirking.
“You didn’t mean to,” I repeat. “Right?”
He finally turns to look at me, fully smiling now. It’s strange being looked at like this by him. Even in the dark, his eyes look bright, and happy, and… friendly. I want to see more of it and put a stop to it all at once.
“Not at first,” he says, “but I had to keep the act going.”
I want to throw something at him, but since I’m not in his living room with a couch pillow nearby, I settle for playfully slapping his chest.
“Whoa,” he says. “Trying to cop a feel to make things even?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I cup my hand over his chest and give his firm muscle a squeeze.
