Page 83 of Lessons in Love

“Eden! Come through!” She says over the noise, grabbing my hand as she leads me around the back. “He’s just in here.” She pulls the curtain back and steps aside.

He’s as beautiful as the first day I saw him.

Deep in concentration, he mutters something to himself as he rewrites that one section of the speech I know he will never be happy with. I’ve been woken up too many times over the last few weeks, Ollie asking if this sentence works or makes sense. Like I’m the one with a master’s degree. Like I’m the one teaching Literature at the university.

His ink-stained fingers tap anxiously against the table and that’s when I decide to clear my throat. The response is immediate. One second he’s deep in his own head, the next he’s cleared the space between us in two short steps to wrap me in a bone-crushing hug. I breathe in the all-too-familiar scent of him.

“Hi, baby. I’ve missed you,” Oliver sighs. “Please don’t say it’s time to go out there.” A quick glance to my watch draws a smile out of him.

“Not yet. And I really don’t think I’m the one in charge of that.” We sit back at the desk, Oliver refusing to let go of my hand. “Nervous?”

He nods, chewing his full bottom lip. “It’s just…a lot.”

The rest of his words stay unspoken. ‘A lot’ is the only way to describe the whirlwind of the last few years.

Getting his Master of Arts in English Language and Literature.

Finishing his book.

Becoming a tutor at university.

Getting interest in his mum’s story.

Signing a deal.

Throw in all the added pressure of my PhD and I’m surprised he’s still standing. But all of that has led to this night.

Oliver’s book launch.

It was supposed to be an intimate little thing with family and friends, but a journalist caught a whiff of it and posted an article about his mum. And it’s blown up since then.

Oliver is slated to be on two morning shows, three TV news broadcasts, and seven radio interviews. I think there’s even plans for him to meet the prime minister. It’s a miracle he’s still upright and breathing. As wonderful as it is, I can’t wait for everything to settle down so he can be all mine again.

“Is he here yet?” Oliver asks, voice small. I shake my head in response.

“He’ll come. He promised.”

Oliver nods. “Okay.” The girl from before sticks her head in and shoots us a soft smile.

“We’re ready for you.”

I stand, Oliver following my lead. “You’ll do perfect, baby. I’ll be out there watching you the whole time.” He doesn’t say anything, just kisses me again.

By the time I take my seat next to Jake, the room has fallen silent, with only the murmur of excited whispers remaining. When I glance back over the rows of people both standing and seated, I see him by the door. My stomach tightens.

“What are you looking at?” Jake asks, nudging me in the side. His eyes follow mine, and a smile teases at the corner of his mouth. “I told you Ollie’s dad would come.”

“I’m glad he did.”

When Oliver takes the stage, a mesmerised hush comes over the room. For the next hour, we are all enthralled, hanging onto every word he says. About his mother. Her experiences. Her photos, her words. How her loss shaped his life and that of his family. How her death influenced foreign policies, the rights of journalists in active war zones. By the time he’s done there’s not a dry eye in the room, myself included. My heart is just about to burst with the love I have for him.

Hours later, after all the questions are answered and all the books are signed, I curl myself into Oliver’s side. The bedside lamp casts a shadow across his face, dark circles more evident than ever. But he looks happy, content. This tiny apartment that we rented after we finished university may be exactly that— tiny. But it’s ours.

“You did wonderful tonight.”

“Yeah?” He asks, voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah.” I press a kiss to the mess of curls on top of his head. “I couldn’t be prouder of you.”