➴ O L I V E R
There were nights when Oliver missed the bus ride home on purpose after his evening shift at the Book Cellar. On those star filled nights, he stayed late not because the bookstore was overflowing with customers, but because Leo Wilson had left a sealed white envelope next to his paycheck by the register.
The first time Oliver stepped into Leo's secondhand bookstore, he was fifteen years old with a severe case of acne, a heart made of dreams, and a wrinkled school uniform that was too tight in all the wrong places. He stumbled across the Book Cellar by accident one fall day, his eyes merely gliding over the pinstriped letters on the window front. Colored leaves scattered the cracked sidewalks outside, the October air swirling around him brisk like a passing stranger.
While Leo was talking to a young customer who learned her English from listening to American rap music, fifteen-year-old Oliver borrowed a copy of Catcher In the Rye without asking. He barely made it down the street before he succumbed to the guilt gnawing at his chest. When he turned himself in, Leo didn't hand Oliver over to the authorities, only told the timid boy in a wrinkled school uniform to come back to his store anytime he wanted to discuss the book.
Six years later, Oliver found himself standing in the same book store. Fate always had a peculiar way of introducing itself at the front door.
Oliver was leaning against one of the bookshelves when Leo walked out from the back room, his hips swaying to the beat of the lyrics brushing along his lips in hums and whispers. With thinning white hair and eyes as blue as the ocean on a midsummer day, Leo had a laugh that could fill a room instantly and a voice that only knew one volume. He wouldn't need a microphone if he were speaking to a room with a thousand people on his worst days.
"What are you still doing here, Bradshaw?" Leo lifted his head from the floor, curiosity woven into the curve of his crinkled eyes. His voice was rough, laced with a Southern accent that stuck to him like glue even after he moved up north.
Oliver ran his finger along the fold of the envelope as the autumn wind whistled for attention outside. "Sir—"
"What did I tell you about calling me Sir?"
"Leo," Oliver started over again, sliding the envelope along the edge of the counter. "You know I can't possibly take this from you. I missed two days last week and you're paying me for an extra day?"
"Why don't you keep it for now," Leo insisted with a generous smile, his heart swelling too large for his chest. "Take a pretty girl out to dinner or something, Oliver. You can always put in some extra hours later."
As Leo limped from one side of the room to the other with a broom and dustpan in hand, Oliver's frown deepened. Leo's back always gave him trouble when the seasons changed, the temperature outside damaging the nerve endings in his spine. Oliver's eyes drifted to his scuffed up pair of black Chucks, a lousy excuse for sneakers. He gripped the envelope in his hand tightly as he reached for his jacket behind the counter, feeling the weight of a fifty dollar bill in his hands.
A lump formed in the back of his throat when Leo said, "Go home, Oliver."
Instead of hopping on the city bus, Oliver walked to the Chinese restaurant across the street as oncoming traffic slowed. After three years of working for Leo Wilson, Oliver knew that Leo spent too many nights eating dinner alone. Leo didn't have a wife or children waiting for him at home. The Book Cellar was all he had in this lonely town—it was his home. Leo had hired a high school student for the weekends and holidays, but on most days, it was just Oliver, Leo, and the books that surrounded them. Oliver was Leo's family.
When Oliver came back to the bookstore fifteen minutes later with a container of lo mein and fried rice in his hands, all Leo did was chuckle and shake his head. Some days, that very laughter masked a gut full of pain and misery. Leo had spent half of his life on the ground in combat before he inherited the Book Cellar from his grandparents. He saw more bloodshed in Vietnam than most people would ever see in a lifetime. There were nights when the voices of children playing in the streets kept him wide awake until he could hear the birds singing outside his window at sunrise.
"What the hell are you doin' back here, boy?" Leo cleared the back of his throat and stood up straight. He eyed the plastic bag in Oliver's hands, arching a brow. The gears in his head rotated like the hands on a grandfather clock. "I thought I told you to go home."
"This is almost like home." Oliver shrugged lightly, disappearing into the backroom. He came back out seconds later with a foldable table, placed it by the window, and was extremely careful not to scratch the hardwood floors he had spent four hours last week polishing. As he unpacked the take out containers, Oliver cautiously warned, "Now don't you even think about complaining anymore, Leo."
"I've always been allowed to complain, Bradshaw." Leo laughed heartily and sat down in one of the two plastic chairs. He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest, rubbing his unshaven chin. "Haven't you heard? I'm a cynical old man. I get to do whatever the hell I want."
"You're not allowed to complain when I bring you dinner," said Oliver as he handed Leo a pair of wooden chopsticks.
"Do you need some glasses?" Oliver looked up from his plate and stared at Leo who had his fingers stretched wide on the tabletop and was tapping his foot to the stereo in the background. "The last time I checked my own reflection in the mirror, I wasn't a pretty girl. I mean I sure am pretty, but I'm no girl."
Oliver wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "You don't have to be a pretty girl for me to buy you dinner."
"Then do I have to be a pretty girl for you to buy me flowers?" Leo's sense of humor could be likened to a gentle storm.
"One step at a time, Leo." Oliver chuckled and flashed a crescent shaped smile. "One step at a time."
They ate by the moonlight and spent the rest of the evening talking about basketball, a sport Oliver learned to love because of Leo. As they finished the containers of fried rice and lo mein, Oliver watched how Leo's eyes always brightened when he talked about college basketball. Halfway through the night, Leo told Oliver how a secondhand basketball was the only toy his parents could afford when he was younger. He told Oliver about the pickup basketball games he would play with his neighbors after school and how he often wondered what they had done with the rest of their lives. Soon enough, time passed and Leo fell in love with the sport before he even knew what love was.
Leo Wilson would always be one of the smartest people Oliver had ever met. Even without a formal college education, he understood the world on a level Oliver couldn't even begin to fathom. His senior year of high school, Oliver spent more time at the Book Cellar than in the classroom, but Leo never asked questions. He just listened when Oliver needed him to, and that alone was more than his parents were ever willing to do.
As a child, Oliver learned that there never was going to be enough love for everyone in this world. Some people gave too much, and some people took too much. But if there was one thing Oliver was sure of after twenty-one years of existence, it was that Leo Wilson deserved all the love in the world.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Leo," Oliver said on his way out the door, tossing the empty containers into the trash can up front. "Nine o'clock sharp."
"Don't forget my flowers tomorrow, Bradshaw!"
Oliver left the Book Cellar with a smile painted on his face that night for more reasons than one. It wasn't until the door slammed shut that Leo spotted the white envelope underneath his cash register. He walked slowly over to the register and peeked at the contents inside. The fifty dollar bill rested neatly in the envelope, completely untouched.
"That smooth bastard," Leo snickered under his breath.
✵✵✵
The clock hands were seconds from striking seven when Oliver unlocked the door to the two bedroom apartment he shared with his best friend. Coins reserved for the bus ride home rattled inside his jean pockets as he brushed the soles of his shoes against the welcome mat. After a day at work, he always smelled like coffee and secondhand books.
Oliver knew it was going to be just another ordinary night when he walked into his roommate's natural habitat. Standing across him in the living room was a completely distraught and shirtless Keenan Quintiliani. Oliver snickered into the sleeve of his leather jacket. "Warn me next time before you're going to give me a strip show, Keenan."
"Why are you even complaining, Oliver?" His roommate laughed, raising a brow suggestively. "I've been told I'm the whole package."
"Keenan, the last thing I want to talk about is your package," Oliver responded, taking a seat on their leather couch. He reached for the television remote hiding under a textbook and turned on the television.
"I wasn't talking about that package, but if you ever need to talk about—"
"Would you please just shut up and put on a goddamn shirt already?"
Keenan rolled his eyes and picked up the first shirt he saw laying around on the ground. "You know Larkin would never complain about this."
"Do I look like Larkin?" Oliver asked sarcastically, peeling his eyes away from the television screen during the commercial break. He recognized the sky blue t-shirt that hugged Keenan's toned figure immediately. It had his mother written all over it. "Wait a minute, is that my shirt?"
"But don't you think I look better in it?" Keenan shot him a harmless grin from across the room and ran his fingers carelessly through his honey colored hair.
Oliver smiled back because he knew that Keenan was just teasing him, but the truth was Keenan did look better in blue. When he thought about it some more, Keenan actually looked better in almost everything. The only colors Oliver felt comfortable in blended in with the night.
Keenan Quintiliani was the textbook definition of a golden boy. He was the boy all boys wanted to be and the boy all girls wanted to marry. His skills underneath the water were only half as good as his skills with the girls. He somehow managed to balance a collegiate swim team with a double major in pre-law and economics. Keenan could have the whole world wrapped around his pinky finger with one smile.
Oliver, on the other hand, had a talent for disappointing his parents and a penchant for trouble. He was born with rough edges, housed a tongue that ran away when he wasn't paying attention, and left the house with rugged hair that often shaded his light brown eyes. Oliver frowned more than he smiled and spent most of his time sitting alone pensively with thoughts twisting in his head. To put it simply, Oliver was everything Keenan wasn't. For everything he didn't have, he made up for it with witty remarks and a shield of sarcasm.
"You sure you don't want to go to Al's tonight with us?" Keenan asked for the second time tonight, slipping a jacket over his t-shirt. "It's not too late, you know."
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. It wasn't that Oliver hated bars or public scenes—he just loved being alone more. "I'm not really interested in being the third wheel tomorrow, Keenan."
"You're not going to be the third wheel. Larkin's bringing a friend, her roommate."
"I'm not really interested in being set up with a stranger either."
"One day you're going to get tired of living on my couch, Bradshaw." Keenan shook his head in defeat, knowing all too well that it was incredibly hard to persuade his best friend otherwise. "Well, you know where to find us if you change your mind."
"I could really go for cigarette right now," Oliver muttered under his breath. He rubbed his forehead and eased himself of the headache that always seemed to come around this time. His mind was a freight train running loose off the tracks as the sun disappeared behind the horizon outside.
Keenan hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his dark jeans and held his tongue. Most days, he just tolerated his roommate's addiction and accepted Oliver the way he was because life for the both of them was easier that way. But after three years of knowing each other, Keenan couldn't stand to be in the room while Oliver was throwing his life away.
"I can quit whenever I want to," Oliver assured on his way to the balcony, a sliver of confidence seeping through the smile that was carefully etched across his lips.
"And I'm going to be the next King of England when I grow up," Keenan responded in the same tone, his words crisp.
"You can't even pull off a British accent."
"My point exactly." Keenan couldn't help but frown as he grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter. All the words he couldn't say could be heard in the look he gave Oliver from across the room. "Oliver, you can't quit something unless you want to quit. No one can make you do anything."
"And what about those things we can't seem to quit even though we want to?" Oliver pulled out a cigarette from his coat pocket and held it in between his fingers, his eyes temporarily wandering to the stars scattered along the skyline.
"That's a conversation that's going to take a lot more than ten minutes, but I should probably get going before Larkin kicks my ass for missing half her show."
"I hope she kicks your ass anyway."
"Don't do anything stupid tonight, Bradshaw. I don't want to come back here and find you in a body bag."
"If anyone is going to be in a body bag, it's you, Quintiliani," Oliver said, amusement laced in the laughter that escaped his lips. "God, I've never realized, but your last name really is a mouthful."
"I guess it's just another perk of being Italian."
Oliver waited for Keenan to close the door behind him before he fished a lighter out of his pockets. He held the cigarette between his lips and brought the lighter to the tip. The golden flame glowed against the night sky for a brief second after he released the lighter and inhaled slowly. Oliver couldn't explain it, but he loved the way the nicotine wrapped his lungs like a blanket, paralyzed his mind for a couple of seconds, and made him feel alive. It silenced his thoughts and made him feel as if he actually had the power to change the world around him. Sometimes, that was all he could ask for.
As Oliver stood there on the balcony, he glanced down at the city beneath his feet. All the lights seemed to blur together in the darkness, a myriad of colors splattered on a canvas. Oliver loved everything about the night from the silhouettes of strangers projected onto the sidewalk to the moon whispering secrets to the stars in the sky. On nights like this, Oliver often felt like the moon: distant from the rest of the world and a little lost here and there.
✵✵✵
I'm probably the worst updater in the history of Wattpad, but this is probably the hardest story I've written so far because of the language and complexity behind not only my two protagonists, but the supporting characters. I hope everyone from Jamie and Oliver to Leo and Mrs. Chang has been two-dimensional so far. As always, I would love to hear any feedback if you have any at all! Hopefully we won't have to wait another month for an update.