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All Your Dreams

Page 57

by K.H. Anastasia

“For now,” I point out.

As we continue playing, the wine disappears and our conversation flows between topics. I tell him about the black cat x golden retriever romance I’m currently buddy reading with Rose where milkshakes are a love language. In return, Ollie tells me about his ever-expanding vinyl collection.

“The first record I bought after moving to Brooklyn was Ready to Die as Biggie is from the borough,” he says, pulling the album off the shelf and passing it to me. “I’d only been here a week, barely had any furniture in the temporary place I stayed at until the renovations finished here. But there is this record store a few blocks away that I still regularly visit and I found a copy there.”

I run my fingers over the worn sleeve before flipping it over to read the tracklist, our game forgotten for now.

“I remember walking home with it tucked under my arm, thinking maybe I'd be okay here after all. Every time I play the record now, I'm right back in that first apartment, eating takeout on the floor and feeling like I was finally starting to live instead of surviving,” Ollie continues.

I let my gaze roam over the shelves lining the wall, realizing how many chapters of his life are sitting there in plain sight. “You collect records like they’re memories.”

His brows lift, like the comment caught him off guard. One hand rubs at the back of his neck while he looks down at the floor, suddenly looking far less smooth and confident than he had a second ago.

“That’s, um, accurate. I never thought about it that way, but you’re right.”

The cardboard feels different in my hands now. Carefully, I slide the record back inside. “I’d love to go to the store with you sometime,” I say, wanting to see the place that means a lot to him.

A small, almost shy smile spreads across his face. “You want to see me nerd out over records?”

“Yes. I want to see the side of you that I haven’t yet.”

“We could go next weekend. It’s a less known spot, but I’ve found some great things in those four walls. We could spend an evening digging through crates,” he suggests.

“It’s a date.” The word lands between us with a soft thud. “An outing,” I correct myself.

“An outing, huh?”

“Two friends geeking over music,” I clarify, not missing how his eyes dim after the comment.

We finish the game eventually. I win by a narrow margin and throw my hands in the air. “Yes! I defeated the beast.”

“You cheated,” he rumbles.

“I absolutely did not.” I grin as I gather the pieces across the board. “Admit it. You had fun.”

Ollie doesn’t answer right away, but the look he gives me says enough. His eyes linger on me with a mix of amusement and warmth. He stretches his hand toward the board, reaching for one of the tiny houses at the same time I do. Our fingers brush before he lets go, leaving it in my hand instead. The gesture is so small it shouldn't matter. Somehow, it does. It so does.

After we clean up, I sink into the couch. Ollie pulls a record from the shelf and sets it spinning. The soft crackle fills the room, giving way to the opening beats. I curl into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath me, wine glass balanced between my fingers. He sits a respectable distance away, one elbow resting on the armrest, fingertips tracing the edge of the couch.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this.” I let the words float out while leaning back into the cushions.

“Cheating at Monopoly?”

“I meant staying in and just being.”

“I’m glad we could experience it together, then.”

Tilly stirs, a soft little sound, and Ollie’s attention shifts instantly. He gets up and walks to the bassinet in the corner. His whole expression softens and he smiles down at his niece like she’s a miracle he’s still trying to understand.

I don’t know how my life will be when the annulment is final or if I’ll stay in New York. But sitting here, watching Ollie with Tilly, I realize that there’s no need to hurry. I have time to figure it all out.

17

OLLIE

The nightmare always begins the same way. I’m standing in the hallway of a house; our last foster home. The walls are a dull beige color, the carpet smells faintly of mildew and cheap cleaning products. Everything is exactly as it was.

Yet completely wrong.