Kiss Me Like You Mean It

As infatuated as I’d been with Oliver’s appearance, I didn’t actually expect to see him again. I’d ended the day with ringing myself up for the albums and the acceptance that I’d probably never come across anyone so beautiful in my life ever again; but when I came back the next day to open the store and found him standing outside the front door with his hands in the pockets of his black parka, I was pretty sure karma was on my side from the CD’s I’d given him.

His face lit up once he saw me approaching, and I could only pray that I wouldn’t slip on the icy sidewalk while he was watching me so closely.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” I greeted while I pulled my cigarettes out from the bottom of my purse. I handed one out to him, and he silently obliged with a smile before lighting both of our butts with a bright purple lighter from his back pocket.

“You said to come back if I liked the albums,” he replied as he exhaled through his nose.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t actually expecting you to. I figured you’d take the CD’s and go back to wherever it is that British people go.”

“Britain?” he offered, snickering.

I shook my head. “No, the other place where people talk funny.”

“Wales?”

I dismissed his second guess with another shake of my head and a sip of my iced coffee.

“Scotland?”

“No, that other place.” I’d been joking with him at first to make fun of his accent, but by that point, I was actually thinking of a real place. I just couldn’t put my finger on the exact name of it.

“Ireland?”

“The UK!” I suddenly exclaimed, almost cutting him off as the name finally clicked. “I can’t believe I couldn’t think of that.”

“You realize I just named all the countries of the UK, yeah?”

I furrowed my eyebrows at him. Geography had never been my strong suit, but I was pretty sure the United Kingdom was something else—not a group of the countries he’d named. “I’m pretty sure the UK is Australia and every other country that’s not in Europe and talks with funny accents.”

He sniggered and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I know the countries of the UK, considering I live there. I think you should stick to music, love—it’s a much stronger suit for you.”

I lowered my eyes at him, feeling half insulted, but the fact that he’d called me love, out of all names, made it too difficult to take him offensively. He was actually right, though, in all honesty. I’d all but failed my geography class in high school—although a 67.2% was in fact 2.2% above the minimum for passing.

“Which one did you like better?” I decided to ask afterward, still paying attention to my cigarette and trying to make conversation.

“I was actually rather fond of Twenty-One Pilots. You were right about them growing on you. I wasn’t so mental over it at first, but track five captured my attention quite well once I’d heard the words.” The fifth track of Twenty-One Pilots’ Vessel album was actually pretty relevant to his life, considering the entire song was about someone stealing the guy’s car radio.

I hadn’t done that on purpose, but we both exchanged smirks anyway.

“So what’s next on your list?” he questioned as we both put our finished cigarettes out and flicked them into the street.

I pursed my lips and thought for a moment. “Not sure yet,” I finally answered, kneeling down to unlock the shop door.

“I drive quite a bit,” he went on to explain as we made our way inside, “so I reckon I’ll get tired of listening to the same albums on repeat.”

I rolled my eyes being that he was walking behind me and couldn’t see. It was so typical for a guy to get tired of something so quickly. “I sure hope you don’t get tired of having the same wife on repeat,” I mumbled under my breath as I clocked in at the cash register.

He shifted his weight on his feet uncomfortably before pulling his parka off and laying it across the countertop of the cashwrap. “Music is different,” he replied softly, all hints of playfulness gone. “It never leaves.” His tone held a type of bitterness and sadness that didn’t seem right for a man with a ring on his finger to have, but I decided we didn’t have the level of friendship where I could rightfully question that—at least not yet, anyway, but after seeing him for a second time, I did have somewhat high hopes, though I’d never admit it.

Instead, “That’s true,” was all I said.

I dropped my coat, purse, and beanie off in the stock room before returning to the cash register and beginning to count it out. Oliver just meandered quietly over to the vinyls and thumbed through the disco section I’d organized the day before.

We were both quiet for a long time, the only sound in the shop being the clicking of all the coins against the till as I tossed them into their rightful spots. I was used to working by myself in the quiet—the only time I ever had company was during the two weeks before Christmas and the week after—but being that I had someone in the shop with me that wasn’t talking and the reason that he wasn’t talking seemed to be sadness, I couldn’t fight the compulsion to say something.

“What made you say that anyway?” I finally blurted; and I regretted it the second the words left my mouth. It wasn’t my business to be asking.

“Say what?” he asked absentmindedly while studying the back of Kool And The Gang’s Ladies’ Night vinyl.

“That music never leaves.”

“Because it doesn’t, and people do.” I wanted to press him because I couldn’t wrap my brain around how a man with a wedding ring could be talking so negatively about humanity—not to mention so nonchalantly—but his tone made it very clear that he didn’t want to talk about it.

To deal with the silence, I went to the stock room and turned on the stereo for the sales floor. A song called “Playing The Blame Game” came on the player, and though I’d never listened to it outside of Sam Goody, I’d heard it a bunch of times while working. One of my favorite lyrics of all time came from the opening—You’re not on my list of things to do ’cause I’ve already done you. It was pretty relevant to my life.

I was in the middle of auditing the previous day’s transactions when Oliver approached the cashwrap in silence. When I peered up at him from the current receipt I’d been looking over, he offered me a sullen smile. I returned the expression, but the difference was that mine was about a thousand times more authentic.

“You know who sings this song?” he asked, clearly trying to make conversation.

I shook my head and peered back down at the receipt. “I hear it all the time here, but the player only says the name of the song. After six years, I still can’t figure out how to see the artist.”

“It’s a band called You Me At Six,” he informed. I wasn’t entirely sure why he’d felt the need to inform me, but I assumed it was just his effort of having something in common. Music always connected people.

“I’ll have to remember that,” I responded, filing away the receipt I’d finished looking over.

“They’re from Weybridge in England.”

“Is that where you’re from?” He seemed desperate to fill the silence with the sound of our voices, so I figured it was only fair for me to put in effort, as well—even if his mood swings were hard to keep up with.

I kind of assumed his semi-bad attitude had something to do with why he was visiting New York. Something just didn’t seem right about that pretty, gold ring on his finger.

He shook his head. “I’m originally from Ashford.”

“Where’s that?”

“Southeastern England.” Though he didn’t say anything more, something about his tone made me feel like he wasn’t finished, so I peered up at him and waited.

His face suddenly turned bright red, and I couldn’t deny that it was just about the cutest thing I’d ever seen. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, dropping his gaze down to the receipts in front of me. “I haven’t really spoken to many people in the past few weeks, other than to order coffee and food for myself. I think I’ve forgotten how to be social.”

I just smirked at him. “I’m not that social, myself—don’t worry about it.”

“What’s your story, anyway, Violet?” he asked curiously.

His question had caught me off guard, so instead of answering, to stall and give myself time to think of a better answer than the real one, I just pretended I didn’t understand him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, how long have you been working here? What other music do you listen to, besides the two bands you showed me? Do you live here in New York City? You know, those kinds of things—what’s your story?”

“Six years, all kinds, and yes.” I offered him a tight-lipped smile.

I had mixed emotions about sharing personal details with him because while I preferred that people just didn’t get to know me altogether, I also highly doubted that he would share anything personal with me if I didn’t reciprocate—and I really wanted to know about that ring.

It wasn’t even to see if he was available or not, either. He just had some odd, inconsistent behavior, and I had the utter gut feeling that it had to do with that ring.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked when he didn’t say anything in response and just nodded pensively instead.

“Can I take you out to dinner tonight?” He didn’t even try to beat around the bush in evading my question.

I felt my face flush with heat, though, because it was just about the last question I’d ever expected to hear out of his mouth—especially directed at me, no less. I just couldn’t get past the ring, though. What was he doing asking me out?

“I just think we’d make good mates,” he quickly went on when I didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t have much people to talk to at this point in my life, and I feel like I could trust in you.” His own face reddened, and I couldn’t deny how cute he was when flustered; but before anything, I couldn’t get past one thing he’d said.

“...Mates?”

“Yeah—like friends, buddies, whatever you Americans call it.” He smiled at that and almost laughed.

“Oh. Yeah, I didn’t get that at first. You gotta watch your slang here, dude.” I snickered because he talked so funny sometimes.

“So dinner tonight, then?” he pressed.

I wanted to say yes a thousand times because I was utterly infatuated with his appearance and was pretty sure I could fall in love with his personality, but that left hand of his was bothering me like a gnat at a summer barbecue.

“Are you not married?” I finally sputtered out.

He dropped his gaze back down to the receipts I’d all but forgotten. He rolled his hands together nervously and seemed to subconsciously cover the fingers on his left hand with the palm of his right. “I am legally.”

I pursed my lips. “You’re really shady, you know that?” I finally blurted, smirking and shaking my head—because he was pretty shady, but at the same time, he seemed so harmless. It was an odd combination.

He just furrowed his eyebrows at me.

I could only roll my eyes back and warmheartedly sigh. “Dinner sounds great, Oliver. I’ll be out of here at nine.”