Andy, You're A Star

The next Monday at school was painfully normal.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly didn’t happen. It was just another cold, boring Monday. Oliver didn’t even look at me when he slinked into the room twenty minutes late for fifth period.

Lunch was the same, too. Tyler had his bespectacled face buried in a Palahniuk book like always, and I ate silently, until I felt someone standing behind me, to the right a little. I turned and was met by a torso clothed in an old, faded Pantera shirt, and two skinny legs sheathed in tight blue jeans. When I looked to his face, he smiled small, and sat down next to me backwards on the bench of the table so that his right arm brushed my right arm and sent flames dancing over my skin.

“Well, look who decided to join us,” Tyler spoke up, dog-earing his page before setting the book on the table in the empty space where his tray would be if he ate lunch with the rest of us.

“Tyler,” Oliver acknowledged him with a terse nod of his head, before looking back to me, and smiling small.

“How’s lunch?” he asked, and I grimaced, glancing down at the tray of hardly appetizing food.

“I thought so. I was just about to head home for lunch, thought you’d like to get some fresh air,” he suggested, and I was about to object, before Tyler butted in again.

“She has off the last two hours of the day,” he smiled small, raising his eyebrows at me when I glared.

“Good then,” Oliver smiled, standing from the seat as I stared daggers at Tyler. He just picked up his book, pushed his glasses back up the long, narrow bridge of his nose, and continued reading.

I released my glare when I saw movement from the corner of my eye; Oliver picked up my tray of food and waited for me to stand up before walking up the center isle, me following half a step behind. When we reached the trash, he tossed the tray in along with the food (these were not disposable trays) and placed a hand on my lower back as he led me out the doors located off the south wall of the cafeteria.

It took us past the entire lunch room, and I could feel people staring, just like I had so many times when I would watch Oliver and his past obligations exit these same doors. I asked myself again why I was allowing this to happen, but as soon as the cold air hit us and he pulled me close into his side and shielded me from the bitter air, I gave up arguing with myself.

Oliver’s car was already running, heating up I assume, because it was warm when I slipped into the passenger seat. Oliver plopped down next to me, threw the car into reverse, and backed out of the parking space smoothly.

We were soon on a long stretch of remote roads, leading into the more expensive area of the city. Oliver was busy manning the stick shift, and I couldn’t think of anything that needed to be said, so silence hung over us. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but it felt like there should be some sort of noise.

It wasn’t long until Oliver pulled into the driveway of a big white house with brick accents and large, curtained windows and killed the engine in front of the three car garage.

He stepped out and I had my door open by the time he was around the car, insisting that I allowed him to help me. I didn’t need help though, as I told him, refusing his hand and getting out by myself.

He laughed very quietly at my defiance, but said nothing about it as he had rested on my lower back again, walking with me to the door that was connected to the garage, right next to the car-accessible door.

The garage looked bigger from the inside, I noticed as I followed Oliver to another door, that led into a storage area that held sporting goods, lawn chairs, shovels, and a big white freezer among other things. We continued across the small space, to yet another door, and Oliver opened it, allowing me to enter first. This door led into a huge kitchen, with light wooden flooring, white cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and black marble counter tops.

There was a large arc leading to the next room, the dining room, which was just as big, if not bigger than the kitchen. The dining room had dark, warm wooden flooring, a big cherry tinted oval table and matching chairs, and rich burgundy walls.

These were the only two rooms I could see from where I stood, but I was almost afraid to see more after this incredible display.

"Take your shoes off, love. Mum gets a bit fussy when I mud up the floors," Oliver grinned, kicking off his Vans onto a mat that was bare of any other shoes. I quickly untied my chucks and pulled them off, setting them next to Oli's.

"What are you hungry for? God knows we've probably got it," his voice held a hint of something I couldn't identify. I ignored it and stood there awkwardly, shrugging in response to his question.

"Have a seat, you're making me nervous," he insisted, and I walked over and took a seat on one of the stools sitting around the island.

"I hope you like grilled cheese. My cooking skills are limited to...pretty much grilled cheese," he grimaced slightly, and I laughed.

"I can make tomato soup. I think I may have caught the sniffles when you dragged me to the park yesterday," I joked, and he rolled his eyes. But he hadn't denied my help, so I stood and walked over to the large pantry where I assumed the canned goods would be, and pulled the doors open.

"I think it's near the top. You're probably too short," Oliver called with his head buried in the fridge. I glanced back and only his behind and his legs were visible from my perspective. I couldn't help but notice how his jeans were slumped below his butt, showing much of his black and gray striped boxer-briefs.

I swallowed hard and looked up at the top shelf which was a good foot over my head, and sure enough, there were at least four cans of tomato soup sitting there.

I tested my reach; if I went on my tip-toes, I could almost reach one of the bottom cans. I hopped a little and still couldn't reach. Discouraged, I made a 'humph' noise and crossed my arms over my chest, trying to think of a way to get them without Oliver's help. I didn't like being called short, not by anybody.

But it was too late. Oliver came and stood next to me, mimicking my stance. I glared up at him, and he smiled widely, leaned in and pecked me on the lips, and then stood up on his tip toes, stretching to reach one of the top cans. A sliver of his back about three inches thick showed, and it had me fighting to look away before he turned around again.

"Show-off..." I muttered, and he handed the can to me, still smiling.

"You can open the can," he assured me, and I stuck my tongue out at him. As soon as I committed that silly, childish action, I was shocked to realize that I was more relaxed than I'd been in years.

How Oliver managed that, I will never know, but it worried me that I didn't respond in a negative way when he slipped his arm around my waist and pressed his lips to mine again for the second time in twenty minutes. This kiss lasted longer though, and he put more into it. His lips moved slowly against mine, and I was kissing him back eagerly, raising myself onto my tiptoes and wrapped my arms around his neck, soup can still in hand.

None of it was making sense to me, but it made me feel wonderful to have his fingers gripping my hips and to have my hands buried in his hair and his mouth against mine. It all felt perfect, and I didn't know why, but I knew that I didn't want it to stop.

It was too soon that Oliver pulled back, smiling, before placing two more quick kisses on my lips, and then releasing me altogether.

My heart was racing at this point, and my breath whirred past my parted lips, before I started searching drawers for a can opener.

"Third row from the left, second drawer down," Oliver said, and instantly after, I heard the sizzle of frying butter. My stomach grumbled as soon as the smell wafted my way, and I hurried to open the can and get it on the stove before Oliver finished the sandwiches.

Of course, Oliver had been right. He was very good at making grilled cheese.

"Tip of the cap to you, sir. This is some of the best grilled cheese I've ever tasted," I smiled, finishing the last bite of my sandwich.

"You are a wonderful soup-maker, love. A little piece of heaven, I think," he winked, and I sighed, wondering when all of the niceties were going to stop. All of those things I've heard about Oliver being a player couldn't have come from nowhere.

I supposed that only time would tell, and I vowed that I wouldn't get too attached.

But that didn't mean I wasn't going to enjoy it while it lasted, if it was going to be a fling.

"Can I take you out again this Friday? We won't go to anymore lame movies, and we'll bring jackets," he smiled small, looking hopeful.

It was sincere enough, and I agreed, watching his stunning smile widen before I leaned over the island counter and pressed my mouth to his.

I would not allow Oliver Sykes to hurt me.

Not without taking him down with me.

Of course, this is assuming that Oliver isn't as sweet and caring as he seems.

Like I said before, only time would tell.