Take It Slow

The more I thought about this budding “thing” going on between Oliver and I, the more I overanalyzed it. I mean, let’s be real, here; I was this awkward girl who boys back home would never look twice at. I’d had one or two loser boyfriends, had only had sex with those one or two loser boyfriends (up until this point, at least…), and it had never even occurred to me that the world of hookups was not only accessible, but also acceptable for a girl in my situation. I was far away from home, an attractive man was interested in me, I wasn’t in a relationship, and nobody was judging (not openly, anyway). I suppose I should’ve been thrilled.

But something about having frantic, exciting sex with Oliver wasn’t quite clicking in my head. Not that I wasn’t enjoying it – obviously, I was. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it frustrated the hell out of me and made it really hard to concentrate whenever I was with him. I think I finally decided that I wasn’t used to the whole ‘no-strings-attached’ idea. Now, that isn’t to suggest that I was searching for a relationship, or anything. My months in England were dwindling (by the time I figured it all out, it was getting to be Christmastime, my first semester at Bolton was drawing to a close, and I only had seven or so months before I had to return to the ‘States), and the idea of getting more involved with Oliver than I already was kind of made me feel a little sick. Something in me was insisting that, when the time came to say goodbye, it would be far, far easier if it was to a friend rather than a boyfriend.

So, in simple terms, drinks followed by sex, followed by dinner and more drinks, followed by more sex and a few other outings had me feeling like some sort of tarty American strumpet. And it was mid-kiss, mid-feel on the night of November 18th that I stopped his hands in their perusal of my waistline and told him I thought we should slow down a little bit. He seemed a little shocked and was maybe a little blue-balled, but he said ‘okay’ and we didn’t have sex anymore. Screwing around was replaced by straightforward dinner and drinks, followed by a quick kiss at the train station and a parting of ways. It felt a little more natural that way, and I settled into the not-so familiar rhythm of the awkward “getting-to-know-yous”. Oliver never complained once, bless him.

He was this ever-present entity in my life, though. He’d text me random bits of trivia he thought I’d like, or we’d meet at this restaurant or that bar and spend hours just talking. But this new, platonic, sexually-charged but physically neutral thing we had going on was marked by the presence of other people. We hardly ever spent time alone together anymore, but instead went out in groups. Of course, this may have been all some sort of silly façade; the fact that other people were there didn’t stop Oliver from occasionally putting his hand on my knee under the table, or me from holding his gaze a little too long and biting my lips because all I could ever fucking think about was how he looked naked. I knew it was only a matter of time before we reunited in that sense, but I wanted to let things mellow down until they were at an acceptable level of smuttiness.

Over the weeks of no sex and getting-to-know-yous, I met Oliver’s circle of friends and found myself drawn into this comfortable life that I had never expected to encounter abroad. I met people, I went out, I learned more about myself in that short period of time than I had in the twenty-one years leading up to it. Something fit, and I think Oliver knew that. I sometimes caught him watching me when I was mid-conversation; he was almost always smiling.

That being said, there was a teeny part of my head that wondered how long it would last. I sometimes worried that Oliver would only humor me for so long. I was afraid that, as time went on, he was getting bored with me and my silly desire to take things slow, but that he was excellent at hiding it. There were occasionally several days that would pass without a word from him, and as they went, I would become surer and surer that he had just given up on me. But then, finally, after feeling so stupidly paranoid, he’d shoot me a text that would say something like “Did you know that the ancient Romans believed a crooked nose was a sign of nobility?” and everything would be fine again. But I’d still wonder when the time would come that I wouldn’t get his stupid text, and I’d hate myself for being so concerned with it. ‘No strings’ meant ‘no strings’, plain and simple. He had every right to decide he was done waiting for me, and I tried to make myself okay with that.

The week before Christmas, Oliver texted me an invitation to an ugly sweater party he and James wanted to have at the pub in Manchester – the one we had gone to the first night we’d met. He told me there wouldn’t be too many people there, that I should come because he wanted to see me, and that if I didn’t wear an ugly sweater, he would personally throw me out. I’d hastily responded with a ‘yes’ because I hadn’t seen him in more than a week – his excuse was that he’d been busy with work, and I figured it all had something to do with the release of the final Harry Potter DVD or something and didn’t question it. He still didn’t know that I knew who and what he was, and I chose not to give myself away on the subject. He then told me that I should bring a guest if I wanted, and ended the conversation with three words that made my heart thrill a little in my chest.

I miss you.

And so, even though I had a fifty-something page paper due the first day of classes in the spring, and even though I should have been packing up my dorm for the Christmas holiday, I set everything aside and decided to go to the party.

The day of, Bryony, who I had, of course, selected as my plus one for the evening, accompanied me to this atrocious little thrift shop we’d found just around the corner from campus. We selected the most terrible Christmas sweaters we could find, and it wasn’t until later, when we were strolling along through Manchester on our way to the pub, that I second guessed my purchase. It had seemed harmless enough in the store – it was chartreuse, shot through with silver threads that itched like hell and decorated with horrible kittens wearing Santa hats and jingle bell buttons. Catching my reflection beside Bryony’s in a shop front window while waiting to cross the street, I suddenly wanted to die. I looked ridiculous. No, actually, far more than ridiculous; I looked pathetic.

Of course, Bryony looked delightful as always in her sweater of dark red, decorated with green stripes and gold bell detail, which may have passed as fashionable in some circles. As if that wasn’t enough, she seemed perfectly at ease wearing the thing. I, on the other hand, kept my knee-length military jacket buttoned to my chin for the entirety of our walk.

“Oh, calm down.” Bryony said, visibly annoyed. The pub had just come into view at the end of
the next block, and I had started fidgeting with my concealed sweater sleeves.

“This sweater is so far beyond stupid.” I said miserably.

“That’s kind of the point.” She said, delicately brushing her bangs back off her forehead with slender fingers. “Anyway, you know he’s going to want to shag you regardless. You’re getting worked up for nothing.”

We reached the pub and pulled the door open together. She, of course, instantly recognized someone and took off with a little squeal of delight. I, on the other hand, lingered in the coat room for a minute or two, fumbling with my jacket and trying to check my makeup in the reflection of my cellphone. Really, I was stalling. I was petrified of being seen in my sweater.

“I thought I saw you come in.” Someone said from the doorway behind me. I whirled around and saw James standing there, beer in hand. He grinned at the sight of me, his eyes
roaming over the row of jingle bells and coming to rest on a Santa-kitten stitched into the sweater’s front pocket.

“Nice.” He said, raising his eyebrows. His smart argyle sweater was far from ugly and I was instantly put out.

“I thought this was an ugly sweater party.” I said, scowling at him.

“It is. But because it’s my party, I’m allowed to bend the rules a little. Let’s get a drink.” He looped his arm around my shoulders and towed me out of the coat check and into the slightly-less-crowded-than-normal bar.

I kept my eyes down, willing myself not to look for Oliver. James paid for my drink – a vodka sour instead of my normal beer – and then leaned on the bar close enough that we could talk without yelling.

“So,” I said, sipping my drink and trying to sound nonchalant. “What have you guys been up to?”

“Come off it, I know you’re asking about him.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re rubbish at hiding it.”

“Hiding what? I – “

“So,” He interrupted. “D’you mean other than being in love with you? Oliver hasn’t done much other than travel for work.” He sipped his beer as if he’d said nothing of consequence. I blushed violently.

“And anyway,” He continued, “Ask him yourself. He’s over there, pretending not to notice you.”

I casually glanced over my shoulder and spotted him. Sure enough, he was in the direction James had indicated, leaning against a jukebox I knew didn’t work. He was alone. There was a small stirring of victory in me when I noticed this, because my quick survey of the room when I’d entered had revealed plenty of super-pretty girls sipping fruity little cocktails; girls who were prettier, more petite, more alluring than me. I had half-expected to find Oliver standing there with someone else grinning up at him and biting her lips in a way that would probably be decidedly sexier than anything I could muster up. But he wasn’t and, as I watched, his eyes met mine and the corner of his lips twitched almost imperceptibly. He was happy to see me, I just knew it.

I had never asked Oliver if there was anyone else. It was something that he and I never brought up, and I suppose we never really had a need to. For all I knew, he was seeing dozens of other silly girls, too. The thought was a little maddening – regardless of our situation, I preferred to think that he was attracted to me and only me, the end. But I also knew that he had every right to do what he wanted, just like I could. Funny thing about that was that the only thing I wanted to be doing was him…

I digress.

“Anyway, who was that that you came in with?” James said, snapping me out of my momentary reverie.

“What?” I said, blinking.

“That girl you brought. The cute one. Who is she?”

“Oh, that’s Bryony. My roommate.” I said, spotting her laughing with a group of people I vaguely recognized at the end of the bar.

“Right then,” James said, draining his beer in one long swig and setting his pint glass on the bar with more force than I thought the situation deemed necessary, “While you go field study my brother, I’ve clearly got some work to do, myself. Cheerio.”

“James,” I said warningly, grabbing his sleeve and turning him back around to face me before he could run off and get into my roommate’s knickers. He had a devilish smile painted across his face, “I don’t care what you do. It’s her business, whatever. But if things get awkward for me, I’m going to punch you. Straight in the teeth.”

“HA.” He said, and then he sauntered away. I turned around and went to find Oliver.

It didn’t take me long, since he hadn’t moved from the jukebox. He didn’t look at me when I approached, but he was smiling a little. I leaned next to him, maintaining the charade that there was nothing between us, although I’m sure that anyone looking close enough would have noticed the way our bodies subconsciously angled toward one another, or would have noticed the way I was grinning like an idiot, or would have seen me practically trembling with the effort of keeping myself off of him. In hindsight, we probably weren’t fooling anyone. Oliver took a long sip of his Newcastle and we didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

He looked good despite the hideous snowman sweater he was wearing. His long legs were covered in dark jeans and were crossed over one another. I tried to be discreet in my once-over of him but that was probably wickedly obvious, too. Sexual tension that sparkled in the air like static was not something easily overlooked. I sipped my drink a few times.

“Hi.” I finally said. Our eyes met for a minute, and I thought about how stupid it all was. A shitty romance novel, I guess, but I liked it in a weird way. A little mush is good in life.

“Hey.” He said. “How’ve you been?”

“Not bad.”

Our conversation continued in a similar fashion for a few minutes; awkward, one-worded answers, tense formality. Gradually, though, we relaxed into our usual chatter, laughing and talking about nothing of importance. It was just good to see him again.

“What are your plans for Christmas?” He asked at one point.

“I’m staying with Bryony in Hull.” I said, searching for her at the bar. I spotted her next to James, trying to look bored. I made a mental note to ask her about their conversation later.

“No family or anything?”

“Nope. Well, not my family. Just hers.”

“Well, when are you coming back? There’s a new Thai place that opened down the way. I thought maybe we could go.” He said, looking hopeful although I probably imagined it.

“Well, I’ve got a massive dissertation to write before the fifth, so Bolton’s letting me back on campus early. Probably around New Year.” I said, swirling the dregs of my drink around in my glass and looking at him carefully. “Who’s invited on this Thai date?”

“You.” He said with a shrug.

“We’ll see.” I said, but I think we both knew I meant ‘yes’. He grinned, then abruptly took hold of my free hand.

“Come with me.” He said, dragging me along after him through the bar. I caught Bryony’s gaze as I passed her. She rolled her eyes and then grinned pointedly. I shrugged and stumbled over my own feet.

Oliver brought me to the coat check. It was dark and relatively quiet. The voices from the bar were muffled, and, for a moment, I was sort of confused.

“Are we going somewhere?” I asked, reaching to take my coat off its hook.

His response was something I probably should’ve expected. He put a hand on my cheek and wrapped the other around the back of my neck. He used his hold on me to pull me closer, and then his lips were crushed hard against mine. I kissed him back, knowing that I probably shouldn’t have but not wanting to stop because, blimey, did I miss kissing him like that.

Soon, he had me pushed against the wall and our hands were roaming to places where people who were “just friends” wouldn’t typically dare to touch. Places that held implications somewhere along the lines of “To hell with being ‘just friends’, I’d like to jump your bones”. All I could think about was how badly I wanted him and how awful that was and how I’d regret getting entangled with him too quickly because it would either end badly or I’d have to say goodbye to him in a few months and that would completely shatter my heart. My thoughts rambled on and on, weighing the pros and cons of staying there in that little room with him. His lips were tracing along my jaw and I was thinking, A one night stand is one thing, a benefriend is something completely different and infinitely more complicated. There is no such thing as “just friends”.

“Oliver,” I said, and to my dismay, it came out like something of a moan (he had just pressed his leg up between my thighs). I’d meant to sound apologetic but firm, and here I was sounding for all the world like I didn’t want him to stop. (I really didn’t, truth be told).

In response, his lips found mine again, and I felt him smirking. His hands gripped my waist, and I dropped mine from his shoulders to stop him from going further.

“Oliver.” I said, less breathy and desperate and more the way I’d intended to. He stopped, his lips hovering not even an inch from mine.

“Milo.” He said.

“This is… I, ah, I can’t… Fuck.” I leaned my head back against the wall in frustration.

“Not slow enough.” He sighed, stepping away from me and screwing up the side of his face in disappointment. He scratched the back of his neck and looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows.

“This thing. I want it to happen. Whatever it is, I don’t even care. Honestly, I don’t, but…” I pushed my wild hair back off my forehead and sighed through my nose, trying to gather words enough to explain my crazed thoughts. “I’m leaving.”

“In six months.” He amended, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. I wished I could laugh at the sight of him, all hot and bothered, wearing a snowman sweatshirt, some of my cherry lip balm smudged at the corner of his mouth. I reached out with my thumb to wipe it away.

“Yeah, sure. But what happens until then? What happens if I just let this thing run its course and we end up hating each other’s guts or falling in crazy, passionate, chick-flick love?” I said, biting my lip. He nodded slowly.

“What if we don’t worry about it?” He said.

“What if I can’t help it?”

“What if you just didn’t think for two seconds?” He said, not unkindly. He was grinning.

“Ah,” I said, holding up a finger and raising my eyebrows, “That would only cause more problems.”

“Okay.” He finally said, holding up his hands as if surrendering. “Alright, slow. Bloody slow.”

I looked at him for a minute, and it occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t going to give up completely. I tilted my head to the side, squinting.

“What?” He said, shifting a little uncomfortably when it took me a minute or two to respond.

“I don’t know.” I said, then took my coat off its hook. “I’m going home. I’ve still got to pack.”

He smiled and leaned in and I thought he was going to kiss me again. Instead, his lips brushed my ear, sending shivers careening down my spine.

“Merry Christmas, Milo.” He said, then turned and strode from the room.

I slumped against the wall and put my forehead in my hand, deciding that, when it came to sex and romance and whatever, I really had no goddamn clue.