Oliver looked at his reflection in the passenger window, then grinned. “I’m the eighth dwarf,” he said. “Surfy.”
“Ha! If anything, I’m Surfy. You’re . . .”
“Newbie?”
“Perfect.” I shucked the dress and threw it into the van before pulling my own hoodie over my head. It smelled like it had been in the van a little too long, which was definitely not pleasant, but it was warm enough that I didn’t care. “Okay,” I said, slamming the door shut. “Let’s eat.”
“After you,” Oliver said.
We crossed PCH and went to the Stand, a tiny outdoor restaurant that was aptly named. The menu was written underneath the ordering window, but I didn’t have to look. “You already know?” Oliver said, not taking his eyes off the menu.
“Yep. Same thing every time. Potato and guacamole burrito, green juice. It balances out the guacamole,” I added when Oliver side-eyed me.
“I’m not sure that’s how nutrition works, Emmy.”
I pretended not to notice that it was the first time that he had said my name since he had come home.
“Are you a nutritionist?” I asked, then continued before he could answer. “No, I don’t think you are, so be quiet.”
He smirked like someone who knew that science was on his side.
I gave them my order while Oliver stood next to me, then slid the twenty-dollar bill my dad had given me under the window. “It’s for both of us,” I told the cashier, jerking my thumb at Oliver.
“Hey, wait, no—”
“It’s on my dad,” I said. “He thinks we went to the movies.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, now that you’ve brought me into your web of lies . . .” He looked at the menu for another second, then said, “I’ll have the same as her.”
“You’ve chosen wisely,” I said. “The web of lies will totally be worth it.”
We grabbed a tiny table on the side of the restaurant, two stools and a rickety wooden table that looked like it wouldn’t survive the next rainstorm. We were looking directly at the parking lot, but if we sat up straight, we could see across the street and out to the ocean where we had just surfed a few moments earlier. “Just think, Oliver,” I said, pretending not to notice the way he winced. “You conquered that today.”
“I think YOU conquered that,” he countered, playing with the paper-napkin dispenser. “I just sort of . . . floated.”
“No, you did really well!” I insisted. “You stood up on your board, that’s a big deal.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. You’re the expert, you would know.”
His gaze was a little further away than it had been when we were in the ocean, though, and his voice was flat. “Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Only if I can ask you one.”
“That’s fair.” It also wasn’t the response I had been expecting, but I rolled with it. “Do you want me to call you Colin?”
Oliver set down the napkin dispenser with a small clang! then turned to look at me. His eyes were bright—some thought or emotion burning behind them. “Why?”
“Because you flinch every time someone calls you Oliver,” I said. I wondered if I had just waded into a conversation that was over my head. My dad was right. We should have just gone to the movies.
The food arrived then, nestled in red plastic baskets lined with wax paper. I’m always happy to see a burrito, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy for a distraction as I was right then. “Thanks!” I said to the server with waaaay more enthusiasm than the situation required, but he just nodded and left us alone again.
“Sorry,” Oliver said. “I didn’t mean to sound, like, mad or anything. No one’s called me that name since I’ve been back, is all. It kind of startled me. Sorry.”
I was still looking at him. His hair was falling over his forehead again and I had a sudden urge to push it back, run my fingers across his skin and ease the worry away. “You don’t have to apologize,” I said quietly. “I get it. I mean, I don’t really get it, but I just wondered if you would feel better if I called you something else, that’s all.”
Oliver sighed a little, picking up a chip and shaking it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth. “You’re right, these are good,” he said, then grabbed a few more. I ate some, too, then took a sip of my juice. I think we were both waiting for someone to say something, anything.
“When we first moved,” Oliver said, his eyes watching as pelicans flew over our heads in a wavy line that swooped up and down over the rooftops, “my dad said that he had always wanted to call me Colin, but my mom was the one who insisted on Oliver. So he asked if it would be okay if I started using that name instead. And I just wanted to make him happy, because y’know, he was my dad and he seemed so upset that my mom was gone, so I said yeah. And it stuck.” Oliver shrugged as he balled up a napkin in his fist. “I guess I’m just not used to hearing Oliver. I thought Oliver disappeared with my mom, only it turns out that both of those things were never really gone, soooo . . .” He looked at me and smiled. “I’m really fucked up, in case that wasn’t clear.”
I took a page from Drew’s playbook and gave Oliver some space to think. Then he took a sip of his green smoothie. “Oh my God,” he spat, wincing. “I’m fucked up, but not as much as this smoothie. You drink these things on purpose?”