“Want some wine?” Oliver asked, pulling me out of my thoughts once again.
“Red?”
“Pinot noir?”
I smiled. “We’re meant to be.”
With drinks ordered, we settled in, both of us staring at the other across the table like schoolboys out on their first date. I cracked first, looking down at the napkin on my lap, a goofy grin on my face and an odd kind of warmth surrounding my heart, the rest of the restaurant slowly disappearing around us.
12 Oliver Brightly
The restaurant was a boogie affair. There were glittering chandeliers and newborn baby–sized candles and golden utensils that ended in crazy-looking feathers. This place was always booked, but I’d managed to pull a string and get us some last-minute reservations. I was over the moon when Beckham said he didn’t want to reschedule, but honestly, I wasn’t sure if I even could reschedule. I offered it only because I was worried Beckham was upset with the paint drying on his clothes; maybe he needed time to clean up. But, as I was quickly coming to learn, Beckham rolled with the flow exactly like me. So what if our shirts were crusty and there were still a few random splotches of color on our arms and face? We were still going to make our reservation, and we would still have a freakin’ blast. That was the kind of man I wanted by my side. I’d gotten a taste of the ones who were always uptight or too into themselves to see much of anything else. Those guys would have called tonight quits and probably ghosted me the next day.
“So you’re allergic to cats but still worked hard to be a vet?” Beckham asked, picking up on the casual fact I’d tossed out about myself.
“And I own two cats, too.” I pursed my lips and nodded. “I’ve got a lifetime subscription for antihistamine meds, don’t worry. I also vacuum like once every thirty minutes.”
“That’s dedication,” Beckham said, taking a sip of his wine. It was our fourth glass. I already figured I’d be leaving my car parked overnight and Ubering, so the wine kept flowing even after we were done with our main course.
“It’s a sadistic form of self-torture, but I can’t complain all that much. I love what I do and I love my cats, even if I can’t cuddle with them as much as I want to.”
“How’d you come around to owning them? Or did you find out you were allergic once you had them?”
“Oh no, I knew I was allergic when Mason and Jar made me their permanent human concierge.” I grabbed the stem of the oversized wineglass and lifted it to my lips. “They were, uhm, Derrick’s cats. His parents live across the country, and, well, they didn’t really talk to him anyway. So I took them. Didn’t want to risk putting them in a shelter.”
Beckham’s eyebrows rose. “Mason and Jar are in good hands. Exactly what Derrick would want.”
“Yeah. He probably wouldn’t want to see how fat Jar’s getting, but I can’t help it. He practically rams down the cabinet door with body slams at around four o’clock every morning. I call it his bitching witching hour.”
Beckham’s laugh lifted my spirits. I took another gulp of the wine, my fingers already tingling, same as my lips.
“And what made you want to be a vet?”
“I wanted to be a vet for as long as I could remember. I loved animals, always. I begged my parents for all kinds of pets. When they wouldn’t get them for me, I’d sneak out with Jonah, and we’d end up getting our grandpa to take us to the pet store and he’d buy us what we wanted. My parents made us return the iguana, ball python, and any reptile basically. But we got to keep the hamsters and rabbits.”
Beckham’s face cracked into a wide, disbelieving smile. “So you and Jonah were trouble together?”
“Oh yeah, he and I fed off our troublemaking ways back then. We’d constantly be doing things and covering for each other. Our friends were similar, too, and we rarely ever fought. I know some people who fight tooth and nail with their siblings since birth, but that’s not us. Do you have any siblings?”
He shook his head. “Always wanted a little sister, though. I’ve had a protective streak in me since I was a kid, so I think I’d be a good big brother. Just me, though.”
“That’s good, too. You got all your parents’ attention whenever you wanted it.”
“And that’s a good thing?” Beckham’s brow arched.
I recognized that look. “Did you and your parents butt heads?”
“We did much more than that.” He took another drink of his wine, finishing his glass and dabbing at his lips with the cloth napkin on the table. “My coming out wasn’t exactly butterflies and rainbows. When I told my parents, I was sixteen. They both flipped. My father worse than my mum. We got into a physical brawl, curses were shouted, punches were thrown, lips were busted.”