“Now, Mr. Hayes,” Oliver says. An odd something zips down my spine, hearing him call me that. “I’m a simple man with a simple need to start his day on the right foot: sunshine filling the sky and the best of Broadway filling my ears as I cruise in my environmentally conscious vehicle.”
“And I have a raging headache. The music stays off.”

After the opening number finishes, I ask him, “Well?”
He shrugs. “It’s surprisingly…poetic.”
“That’s because Lin-Manuel Miranda is a genius. Shakespeare and Sondheim in one body. It’s all poetry.”
“Shh,” he chides as the next number starts, eyes not leaving the TV. “I’m trying to listen.”

Once they’re gathered around, Oliver throws on his widest, most reassuring smile. A twinge of guilt hits me. His optimism, his blithe always-all-right-ness—I gave him such shit for it, called it a lie. But I realize now it isn’t a lie. It’s…coping. It’s how he survives.

“Lin-Manuel Miranda is your weakness,” I growl against his neck, biting it, then soothing it with my tongue. “You hummed Encanto during our entire warm-up before the game. You called him Shakespeare and Sondheim in one person. And I don’t appreciate being jealous of a musical theater dork who is, by the way, actually much too old for you.”

“Hmm.” I peer down at him. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’ve liked it when your halo slipped a little. It’s good, you know. To not care quite so much, to not please everyone, all the time.”
He shrugs, dipping the razor in the water, rinsing it. “Yeah. I’m starting to figure that out. It just feels…safer to be what people need, to keep things positive rather than sharing the messy stuff. I hide behind that upbeat front. It’s not all purely good intentions.”
“Everyone hides,” I tell him. “One way or another. At least your way is kind. You see people in a way others don’t. You see the good in them. You make them feel special and appreciated. You hold on to hope in moments that are so easy to be cynical about. If that’s not bravery, nothing fucking is. Don’t discredit yourself.”