What If?

“So, hypothetically,” Oliver Sykes started the moment I yanked open his passenger door and slid in, “if yeh were in a coma, would yeh rather stick around for ages or ‘ave them pull the plug?”

I reached over my shoulder and pulled the seat belt around me before clicking it into place. Oliver turned his key at the same moment, shifted gears, and let the car lurch into motion. The inside smelled the way it always did; of stale coffee, wintergreen air freshener, and an underlay of weed.

“First of all, you don’t have to say “hypothetically” in front of every question. That’s the whole point of the game,” I said. “And I’d probably have them pull the plug. If I’m going to just lie around like a veggie, is there any reason to stick around?”

Oliver shrugged in response and leaned his elbow and forearm against the angle where the door and the window met. “Your turn.”

“Give me a moment to think, will you?” I replied. I reached over to the radio and turned it up before grabbing the attached iPod and scrolling through songs.

“Why do yeh need to think of a question? Yeh ‘ave had nearly a year to think of loads.”

Keeping up my fidgety habits, I picked a song and I began to readjust my seat and arm rest. There was no time, ever, that I was in Oliver’s car and didn’t take full advantage of the fact only I could move or touch anything and be the only one to get away with it.

Leaning forward, I pushed the button on the glove compartment and watched it fall open in front of me. Inside, there was the usual assortment of lighters, car information, gum and gum wrappers, and coupons to the mini-mart around the corner from Matt Nicholls house. I grabbed one out and examined it, flipping it over several times and reading the small print at the bottom. We both knew this was so I didn’t have to look around, or at Oliver, while I talked.

“Because we played all day yesterday, and on the phone for the past ten months,” I concluded, speaking about our infamous Question Game.

There’d been an unbreakable, and unmentionable, vow between Oliver and I since we were eleven: keep the game going. We’d started it when I first started spending my summers at my aunt and uncle’s house in Sheffield, Yorkshire. The Syke’s happened to live four doors down, and after an initial dislike, Oliver and I became attached. Of course, back then, our game revolved around movies and Pokemon, but even so, it was continue today. No exceptions.

“Alright, I got one,” I said as Oli pulled up to a red light. “Suppose you were going to meet God, what would you wear?”

I glanced up from the Bourbon Biscuit coupon in my hands in time to watch a smile creep over his face. “Nothin’, I’d go bare arse naked. If he made it, he can look at it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Figured.”

“Did yeh expect more from me?” Oliver asked, “What would yeh have worn?”

“Invalid question, you know the rules. No back-to-backs. Your turn.”

Our questions continued with discussion and arguments in-between. Whenever I was with Oliver, words flowed flawlessly from my mouth. I didn’t stumble or get nervous. There was something about his familiarity that kept me comfortable—despite the fact his arms and chest were becoming more and more painted with each year. The way he could casually lay an arm across my seat and look at me with those eyes, it was impossible to explain on most occasions. Only with him could my heart flutter while keeping my cool.

We finally pulled up to his house at half past midnight and exited silently. There were no lights shining through the windows, not even from the attic room, which belonged to Oliver’s brother. Sneaking in now would be simple—not that either of his parents would mind waking up to find me asleep in Oliver’s room. That’s how it’d always been. But we didn’t bother walking into the house. Instead, Oliver’s palm cupped mine and walked me towards the side of his house.

“I’ll pull yeh up in a second, Celeste,” he said.

I nodded and watched his slim, tattooed arms reach up and grab the top of the stonewall surrounding his house. He pulled himself up the wall, scraping his feet along the bottom as an extra boost. He turned when his hips were level with the top so he could sit on the wall and look down at me before extending his hand.

Taking his palm with a firm grip, I used my free one to aid in pulling me up the wall. I was a meager 5’2, and the 6-foot wall was no easy task for me to scale. With me now sitting next to him, we were silent for a moment, eyes fixated on the vines creeping up the neighbor’s house.

“By the way, it’s your turn,” he said, standing up and walking along the top of the wall.

I groaned and followed. I spread my arms wide to each side of me while I balanced. Along with climbing walls, balancing was on my list of things I wasn’t very good at. Oliver was already too far in front of me to touch, and he was reaching the point where the wall became very close to the side of his house. He paused and waited for me: both for speed and the question.

I reached him and placed my palms against the house. “Alright, I’ll ask if you give me a boost.”

Oliver nodded and gripped my hips, pushing me up while I stepped on the ledge of then window in front of me. I grabbed at the window ledge from the story above me, and let Oli’s hands slip to my butt and thighs the higher I went. I definitely couldn’t say I minded the feeling of his hands on me. His palms were warm against the back of my bare thighs. My legs were clad in short shorts, and if I didn’t mind the touch, he didn’t mind the view.

“If you had to choose between being able to have sex but never having a blow job ever again, or being able to have sex, and blow jobs, but never being able to switch positions, which would you chose?”

He was quiet behind me, obviously weighing the options for either side. I kept climbing, moving slowly from one spot to another. This was worse than getting up the wall, or balancing along the edge. Here, the drop wasn’t just six feet. It was more than a whole story, soon to be two, and even more than that if you included the attic, which I was approaching. Oli was staying close behind me, never more than a reach away.

“Shit Celeste, you’re trying to make me chose between no blow jobs and havin’ boring sex,” he wined. “That’s no fun.”

“Oli, you have to answer,” I replied. My voice was strained from pulling myself up onto the top of the roof. Feeling the solid tiles beneath me, I quickly rolled onto them and lay spread-eagle facing the dark sky.

“I guess I’ll give up blow jobs.” Oliver sounded pained, as if the thought of no blow jobs was the end of the world. He peeked up over the edge of the roof and glared at me before rolling to lie next to me. “So say we have sex and—”

“Oliver, we have had sex,” I corrected.

He reached across the gap between us and nudged me. “Fine, say we shag, again, and my mum catches us. Do yeh think she’d ever let us, or more yeh, go on the road with me again?”

I looked at him, a bit confused. “You do know they probably already suspect that we’ve “been together,” right? And yes, I’m sure she’d let me on the road with you. It’s not really her decision.”

Oli nodded and sat up, sitting Indian style in front of me. I followed suite and faced him. His expression had changed, and I was beginning to wonder if that question was a hint that he wanted to have sex with me again. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of course, but he’d never made it seem like I’d be what he wanted.

“Do you ever wonder if we’ll stay friends? I mean, the way we are now? Or do you think something will happen like in books where people drift apart?”

“Of course we’ll stay mates, Celeste, the best,” he replied. He reached out and grabbed my hand. Our palms pressed against each other for a moment before he tilted his hand and slipped his fingers between mine.

He leaned his torso forwards, enough that he could kiss me. His lips moved softly over mine and it almost felt like nothing. But the almost-nothing kiss was enough to make my heart race and my mind spin. It was over before I knew it, and he leaned back into his original position. I calmed myself down and stared at the roof tiles, counting the cracks in them.

Time passed and we stayed quiet with our hands laced together. Oliver was looking anywhere but to me, and I didn’t understand what was going through his mind. I just watched him instead of asking. He looked faultless to me: his hair was perfectly feathered across his forehead, his lips were thin but looked soft enough to kiss over and over, and his light hazel eyes were shining with the moon. Something seemed off though. Maybe it was the fact his ears, neck, and cheeks were tinted red when he almost never blushed. Or the fact he kept fidgeting and shifting in his spot.

He spoke up, out of nowhere. “What would yeh say, if I told yeh I loved yeh?”

I gawked at him, my heart immediately doing somersaults. Was this just another question, or was this legit? I never knew with Oliver, and I didn’t know how to react. “I would, uh, w-what?”

“If I told yeh that I loved yeh, what would yeh say?” He repeated, much more nervous than before.

I didn’t reply again. I was shell-shocked. He was serious. Completely serious. My lips were parted slightly and my eyes were locked with his, but I couldn’t talk. I just stared at him, wondering where this came from. I’d seen Oliver go through girl after girl, none like me. And I knew something changed the night we had sex last summer on this very roof, but I didn’t think it had changed enough for someone like him to fall in love with someone like me.

“Yeh have to answer,” he mimicked me from earlier.

I nodded and looked down at our hands. “I would say that, I—I love you too.”