“He’s totally gay,” Not-Joe says, louder this time.
Oliver makes a skeptical noise, finally looking over at him. “I don’t reckon he is, though. He got married.”
“Really?” Not-Joe asks, coming to rest his elbows on the counter. “But if he was, would you do him?”
I raise my hand. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Not-Joe says, waving me away.
“Who’s the front and who’s the back?” Oliver asks. “Like, am I getting George Clooneyed by George Clooney, or am I doing the Clooneying?”
“Oliver,” Not-Joe says. “He’s George Fucking Clooney. He doesn’t get Clooneyed!”
“We’re turning into idiots,” I mumble.
They both ignore me and Oliver finally shrugs. “Yeah, okay. Why not?”
“Like, actually losing IQ points,” I interject again.
Not-Joe pretends to grab a pair of hips and thrusts back and forth. “This. You’d let him?”
Shrugging defensively, Oliver says, “Joe, I get what we’re talking about here. I also get what the man-on-man sex would look like. What I’m saying is if I’m going to be with a guy, why not Bad Batman?”
I wave a hand in front of his face. “We should get back to the part where my comic is going to be a movie, though.”
Oliver turns to me and relaxes and his smile is so sweet, it makes everything inside me melt. “We absolutely should. That’s bloody brilliant, Lola.” He tilts his head, his blue eyes holding mine. “I’m really fucking proud for you right now.”
I smile, and then suck my bottom lip into my mouth because when Oliver looks at me like that, I can’t even be a little cool. But it would terrify him to see me swoon over him; it’s just not what we do.
“So how are you going to celebrate?” he asks.
I look around the store as if the answer is right in front of me. “Hang out here? I don’t know. Maybe I should do some work.”
“Nah, you’ve been traveling constantly, and even when you are home, you’re always working,” he says.
Snorting, I tell him, “Says the guy who is in his store every waking hour.”
Oliver considers me. “They’re making your movie, Lola Love.” And the nickname makes my heart spin in my chest. “You need to do something big tonight.”
“So, like, Fred’s?” I say. This is our usual routine. “Why pretend we’re fancy?”
Oliver shakes his head. “Let’s go somewhere downtown so you don’t have to worry about driving.”
“But then you have to drive back to Pacific Beach,” I argue.
Not-Joe pretends to play the violin behind us.
“I don’t mind,” Oliver says. “I don’t think Finn and Ansel are around, but I’ll round up the girls.” He scratches his stubbly jaw. “I do wish I could take you to dinner or something, but I—”
“Oh, God, don’t worry.” The idea of Oliver leaving his store to take me out to dinner makes me both giddy and totally panicky. It’s not like the building would catch fire if he left here before dark, but it doesn’t mean my body doesn’t feel that instinctive panic. “I’ll just head home and freak out alone in my room for a bit, and then get exceedingly drunk later.”
His smile melts me. “Sounds good.”
“I thought you had a date tonight,” Not-Joe says to Oliver, coming up behind him with a giant stack of books.
Oliver blanches. “No. It wasn’t—I mean, it’s not. We aren’t.”
“A date?” I feel my eyebrows inch up as I try to ignore the growing knot in my stomach.
“No, it’s not like that,” he insists. “Just the chick across the street who works—”
“Hard Rock Allison,” Not-Joe sings.
My heart drops—this isn’t “just the chick across the street” but someone we’ve all remarked upon once or twice for her keen interest in Oliver—but I work to give an outwardly positive reaction.
“Shut up!” I yell, smacking Oliver’s shoulder, and adding in a dramatic French accent, “A very hot date.”
Oliver growls at me, rubbing the spot and pretending it hurt more than it did. He nods to Not-Joe. “She wanted to bring us both dinner, here in the store—”
“Yeah, so she could bang you,” Not-Joe cuts in.
“Or maybe because she’s nice,” Oliver says, a playful challenge in his voice. “Anyway, I’d rather go out and celebrate Lola’s movie. I’ll text Allison and let her know.”