The One That Got Away

“Hey,” Oliver interrupted, probably glaring, “I’m not gay.”

“You’re not straight either,” Monique reminded him.

“What do you call somebody who just got it up for one person?”

Monique, being alone as she was, allowed herself to smile all adoring and bashful in a way she never would if Oliver was standing in front of her.

“Are you still carrying that torch for George Clooney?” Monique asked, her voice gently teasing but mostly just soft, touched. Oliver snorted, probably smiling just as dumb and lovesick as Monique was.

“Shaddup,” Oliver said, just as quiet. “C’mon, the lights, babe. Tell me.”

Monique wanted to say whatever you like because she honestly didn’t care, but she knew how much Christmas meant to Oliver, how much he considered it a participatory activity and how hurt he got when Monique removed herself from festivities.

“The clear kind,” she finally said, making her tone decisive. “I’m a classic kind of girl.”

“Vanilla,” Oliver retorted, but he seemed pleased.

“That’s not what you were sayin’ last night,” Monique replied, grinning when she finally stepped into the kitchen and flicked on the light, finding the chicken already defrosting on the counter.

“Mm,” Oliver rumbled in her ear. “Stop bein’ hot when I’m so far away.”

“Then come home. I’m making you dinner.” They were using those little intimate voices they only used with each other and only when they were feeling extra close, extra lovey, when they felt so much like a married couple that it would probably disgust anyone who witnessed it, and not just because they were technically an old married couple. It had been nine years even though technically six of those years had been spent apart.

Monique kinda loved it.

“Be home soon. Be prepared to help me drag this monstrosity of a tree into the house.”

Monique dropped the cutting board onto the counter with a clatter.

“What?!”

“Byeee!” Oliver sang into the phone. The line went dead.

“Di*k,” Monique said again, but more emphatically this time.

*****

Dinner (just roasted chicken and potatoes, and asparagus that Monique can trick Oliver into eating if she added enough butter) was ready by the time the door opened at the top of the stairs, and the deafening sound of a tree being shoved in through a too-small door made Monique go running into the den and looking up at the balcony where she saw the pointy top of a tree being birthed into the mansion.

“We might need to fashion some kinda pulley system!” Oliver said from somewhere behind the tree, still outside.

Monique sighed, untied her apron, and headed up the stairs.

“You know if you just waited until tomorrow, the boys would be here to help you with this sh*t.”

“There,” Oliver said with a pleased little grunt, ignoring her words as he took a step back from the truly gigantic tree that had just a foot or two of clearance before it reached the high ceiling in the den. Oliver unearthed a ladder from somewhere and spent an hour stringing lights around the tree, going excruciatingly slow, making sure he distributed them evenly all the way around. He turned to look at Monique who was sitting at one of the tables in front of two plates of food as she tasted from both plates. “Whaddya think?”

“I think dinner’s cold,” Monique replied, maybe being a little bratty. She looked past Oliver at the tree anyway, at the golden glow the lights cast on the whole room.

“Monique,” Oliver sighed, his shoulders drooping. Monique could tell he was tired, probably hurting from all the lifting and moving, and he was sure as hell hungry because, well. He was awake. “C’mon.”

“It looks good, Oliver,” she admitted, her voice softening. “It looks really good.”

Oliver grinned at the tree, hands on his hips.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Monique rolled her eyes, her smile digging a dimple out on her cheek.

“C’mere and eat, Father Christmas. I’m not reheating it again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Oliver grumbled but he obeyed, crossing the room and leaning over when he got near it to press a kiss to Monique’s awaiting mouth. Their foreheads stayed pressed for just a second, Oliver’s breath washing over her face, the most beautiful smell in the world because it was nothing but familiar.

 “Thanks for dinner.”

Monique smiled in response, watching out of the corner of her eye as Oliver settled in and grabbed up his fork, digging into the potatoes first and taking a savoring bite, letting his eyes fall closed as he chewed.

“Mm-mm,” he said with his mouth full. He swallowed and licked his lips, cracking an eye to look over at Monique. “Better n’ s*x.”

Monique scoffed, her face twisted up in dramatic annoyance, but she could barely muster up enough emotion to snap “Hey!” at Oliver.

Oliver just grinned at her, so fu*king cute and so fu*king charming, his boot knocking against Monique’s still socked foot under the table.

They ate by the surprisingly romantic lighting of the Christmas tree, and Oliver watched it as he chewed, half-admiring and half-inspecting his own work, Monique could tell. She watched Oliver–the greatest show on earth–in the low, gold light, quietly cataloging him; the very laugh lines around his green eyes and his mouth, the worry creases on his forehead from all that stress about his latest Android invention, the top secret gray hairs hidden in his platinum blonde locks that they Do Not Talk About but that Monique finds so sexy she can barely keep her hands and mouth off of them.

Monique knew that tonight Oliver would take a shower as hot as he could stand it and that he would come to bed and bare his back to Monique, silently asking Monique to use her delicate yet strong hands to rub out the knots from the muscles of his back and shoulders, a task Monique would do with almost embarrassing indulgence. She would massage Oliver’s arms and his legs, his feet and even his hands, his beautiful hands that Monique could draw with almost hyper-realism straight from memory, at any minute of any day.

She wordlessly worshiped all of those things about Oliver, all of the tiny reminders that they were together in spite of all the odds; his mother’s hostility, her mother’s resistance; their fathers’ ambivalence… She kept a running mental list of all those little changes and pored over them when she got scared, when it got too dark in her mind. When memories of lost babies or Afghanistan were too much to handle.

She gave thanks to God every single morning and every single night for the second chance she’d gotten with him. And that was a secret she didn’t mind keeping from Oliver.

“What? Do I have food in my teeth or something’?” Oliver asked, pulling Monique back to the present. She blinked, realizing that she had been staring at Oliver, a probably cold forkful of chicken and a potato hovering just above her plate. Oliver was chewing on a spear of asparagus, miraculous as that was, his eyebrows raised while he waited for Monique to reply.

“Nothing,” Monique said with a shake of her head, finally eating the food from her fork just to busy her mouth, but Oliver was smiling at her like he maybe knew anyway.They decorated the tree after dinner, their bellies full as they took turns climbing the ladder and placing ornaments all over. Monique followed Oliver’s directions, amazed at how good he was at this, at what an eye he has for color and balance and composition. Oliver could have been an amazing artist in another life, maybe. Oliver could have been so many things, in so many different lives.

Oliver put a star at the top last; a bright gold one that shimmered in the lights twinkling beneath it. Oliver drank a couple more frosty beers straight from the fridge as they admired their work, the tree full to bursting with ornaments and tinsel and little starry lights. He had side eyed the glass of water in Monique’s hand, a speculative look in his eye.

“Looks amazing, Oliver,” Monique told him, and she meant it.

“Hey, seriously though,” Oliver said out of nowhere, his beer paused halfway to his mouth. He turned to look at Monique. “What do you call somebody who only wants one person? Who only… who only sees you?”

Monique smiled, rubbing absently at the slight protrusion of her stomach; a little gift for Oliver safe within. Oliver’s eyes dropped to her hand and then looked up into her eyes, a question lurking in the background, but not yet asked.

“Mine,” was Monique’s reply.

The end.