"Hey," a low whisper filters into my ear.
I spit my champagne back into the glass, choking on it just a little as I turn. The picture of grace, as always. Cringing inwardly, I smile at Ollie. "Hey. You surprised me."
And then I wait for the snappy retort. He isn't one to ever let me get away with anything. Spitting up in public? Perfect fodder. But to my surprise, the joke never comes.
"So what do you think?" he asks instead. And I can't help but notice that his body is turned mostly away from me, hands in his pockets, as though he's uncomfortable. But aren't I supposed to be the one who's uncomfortable around him?
I furrow my brows. Something is definitely wrong here. "Um," I say and shrug, following his lead as I turn toward the painting on the opposite wall. It's an almost but not quite symmetrical circle of blue on a white backdrop. Mind-blowing… "It's nice."
He cracks a little, lifting the corner of his lip. And I wait for it, for the teasing. But his mouth evens back out and he nods seriously, still keeping his eyes locked on the painting. "Yeah."
And then silence descends. But not like a nice silence between friends. It's the sort of silence that expands with each passing second, that ginormous elephant in the room kind. I lick my lips, heartbeat surging a little faster as my anxiety starts to seep in. What's going on? Where is this coming from? I haven't seen Ollie since our double date, since the quick goodbye outside the bowling alley as Patrick and I went our way, and he and Aubrey went theirs. Overall, I thought the whole night went pretty well. I never learned to bowl any better, but you know, I wasn't expecting a miracle.
Maybe something happened at work? It's been about a week.
Or did he an Aubrey get into a fight? It's possible, I guess.
I lean over, needing to at least say something, hoping to cheer him up. "You know, Bridge told me some of these are worth more than I make in a year. Some might be worth more than I'll make in the next ten years."
His eyes widen disbelievingly, and then he shakes his head, releasing a tight breath. "Clearly, I went into the wrong career."
And well, I sort of agree. So I just nod, prolonging it as much as I can, but then, oh shoot, the silence is back. Only this time, I think I've been brought down to Ollie's level. I mean, really, when you think about it, that is a little absurd. I knew going into it that writing wasn't exactly a lucrative profession, but come on.
I peek sideways, taking in Ollie's profile, the clench of his jaw.
My curiosity gets the best of me.
"Ollie, are you ok—" I start, but an excited voice drowns mine out before I can finish.
"You made it!" Bridge chimes, appearing almost out of nowhere. "Are you having fun? What do you think of the party? Isn't the artist just amazing? A real genius? We were so lucky to nab him from the other galleries."
I process each question one at a time, a little lost in the whirlwind of her enthusiasm, which is about as far away from where I was thirty seconds ago as you could possibly get. But I know from the impatient bounce of her toes exactly what she wants to hear.
"Oh my gosh, he's fantastic," I gush, bringing a wide smile to my lips. "I mean, I don't even know how he comes up with these ideas, they're magnificent."
"I know," she says, speaking insanely fast. "I mean, the composition is incredible. There's a perfect balance in the imbalance. The way he plays with light and darks, with emptiness, with colors. It's so simple, but so complex. I could stare at these for hours."
I nod along, sipping my champagne because I don't really know how to respond. I mean, I took a lap around the room when I first got here and was pretty much done after that.
"You know, I think I've seen these somewhere before," Ollie chimes and for the first time tonight, there's humor coloring his words. I can't help the grin that pulls at my cheeks as I wait to hear how he's planning to end that sentence. Bridge glances at him with her eyebrows cocked. He just points toward the blue circle behind us. "Didn't you paint something like that back in kindergarten? I'm pretty sure it was on our refrigerator for months."
Bridge just rolls her eyes, exasperated. I meet Ollie's gaze, silently agreeing with him, overjoyed when I spot the twinkle in his cerulean irises, the one that was missing before. He's not complete without it. And all I want to do in this moment is make sure it stays there.
"Ollie," I start in a sort of chastising manner. "Don't be ridiculous. Bridge wasn't in kindergarten when she painted it…she was a preschool prodigy."
Bridge glares at me and I know exactly what that look says—traitor. And even though I probably should, I don't really care.
"She was a master of the potato stamp," Ollie adds, tone dramatically serious.
I lean in, adopting the same persona. "If you ask me, finger-painting was her true art."
"It's a lost art, really," he comments sadly.
I nod. "Definitely underrated."
"Say what you want," Bridge interjects before Ollie has a chance to speak. "I'm going to find two people who aren't such smartasses to talk to."
And then she leans across the space, grabs my glass of champagne from my hand, takes a long sip, and saunters off. I mean, you have to hand it to her. The girl knows how to make an exit.
I'm left shell-shocked, holding the empty air, peering at my fingers a little sadly. That was great champagne—and more importantly, it was a great excuse to not speak. Something I'm in dire need of as the air between Ollie and me stretches to a taut tense once more. I smile at him, but the spark has already disappeared from his eyes. And I can't help but wonder if it has something to do with me.
"So," I start, trailing off. When exactly did things get so strange between us? Did I miss something? When did Ollie decide it was no longer fun to ridicule me? To tease me? Because I tried for about a decade to make him stop, and now that it's gone, I sort of miss it.
"Evening, everyone," I hear over my shoulder, just as an arm wraps around my waist. Just like that, I'm saved from the overwhelming awkwardness and confusion of the situation.
"Patrick!" And then I stretch up, kissing his cheek.
He glances around, scrunching his forehead. "Where's Aubrey? And Bridget?"
"Bridge is schmoozing the crowd," I say and then turn expectantly to Ollie.
He coughs, clearing his throat, before running a hand through his lusciously dark hair. I hate how that move always makes it look better than it did before. With my luck, if I even tried to sexily flip my hair, I'd end up getting my fingers stuck in a web of knots. But Ollie just makes it look easy, like being drool-worthy is second nature to him. Which it probably is… Wait. How did this train of thought start again? It's veering off into wildly dangerous territory.
Oh, right. Aubrey.
And Patrick!
My boyfriend, Patrick, whose hair is the only hair I should be thinking about. I lean into his side, enjoying the warmth of his body.
"Aubrey couldn't make it," is all Ollie says.
"That's a shame," Patrick says politely, clearly making small talk.
But it seems like that's the only kind of talk this conversation has any hope of having, so I just try to keep it going. Any talk is preferable to cringe-worthy silence. "Yeah, that stinks. It's your first Friday off in weeks."
Ollie just shrugs.
I want to throttle him. Work with me here!