OLIVER HAD NEVER “MET THE FAMILY” before, not officially, not like this. Sure, his dating resume included passing introductions to this parent or that, and he’d had to endure a handful of pointed questions from suspicious fathers or doting mothers—and even one veiled threat from an overly muscular uncle or two. Pesky siblings had been deployed to spy or eavesdrop or disrupt any potential make-out sessions before they could heat up. But there had been no family picnics or sit-down dinners, no fatherly rounds of golf or trips to amusement parks. Looking back over his romantic past, the most enduring familial relationships he’d managed to forge had been with his girlfriends’ family dogs. Which was fine, because Oliver usually liked other people’s dogs. There was no subtext with dogs, no pretense or angles or hidden agendas.
So Oliver was almost disappointed when he rang the doorbell and wasn’t greeted by a husky bark. In fact, there was no sound at all. No buoyant shouts of “I got it,” no curtains dropping, not a single muted footfall approaching. He did think he smelled something burning.
When Mattie had suggested dinner, she’d mentioned an informal evening of pineapple pizza and root beer. Somehow it had morphed into dinner at her parents’ house, which was fine, but a little nerve-wracking.
He was trying to decide between ringing the bell again, knocking, or just going home when he heard the muffled hoof beats of someone bounding down stairs. Mattie opened the door seconds later and Oliver’s first thought was, She didn’t tell me she had a sister. Then she smiled her lopsided Mattie smile and Oliver felt like he was seeing her through Barry’s eyes. She had reverted back to the little-girl haircut from their first, unremarkable introduction—a puffy bouffant with a shoulder-length flip. But now she looked like a grown-up girl from a half-century ago. He allowed a small laugh to escape as he surveyed her outfit.
“Are you making fun of me, Oliver Miles?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, still unable to stop grinning.
“I think you are.” Mattie began pushing the door closed, but not like she meant it.
“I’m not, I promise.” Oliver put his foot on the slow-closing door and said, “In fact, I’ll prove it.”
Mattie leaned on the still-cracked door and waited.
“Your paisley print shift dress is authentic. Probably rayon and probably not very comfortable. The style is a mid-sixties hybrid, kind of a crossover between the tailored Jackie O influence and the mod look. I’m guessing you picked it up at B&V’s, or some online boutique, and probably paid a small fortune for it.”
Mattie eased the door open another few inches and said, “Impressive.”
“The go-go boots are imitation, probably from some retro shop near Vandy.”
“Okay, now you’re just showing off.”
“Sorry, my mother always dreamed of opening a vintage clothing store.” It dawned on Oliver that bringing up his mother and her dreams would naturally invite unwanted questions about his family. So he quickly added, “And those bright orange leggings are a nice touch. Although I have no clue where you got those.”
“Second-hand store,” she said with a hint of apology. “But there is a point to all this. We have a gig tonight.”
“Does that mean I finally get to hear The Family?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay, fine. You can’t come see me do stand-up then.”
Mattie made a thinking face. She even rested her finger on her chin, then said, “If that’s what it takes.” She extended her hand and Oliver shook it. “We’ll call it a pact.”
“That didn’t quite work out like I’d hoped.”
“Too late now. You already shook on it.” Then Mattie sighed dramatically and said, “Hope you’re ready for this.”
The smells were delightful—garlic, freshly baked bread, the scent of something charred, which Oliver hoped was coming from the fireplace and not the kitchen.
Mattie made a grand sweeping gesture toward the tall man with the sharp nose and silver hair hunched near a stone hearth. “You remember my father from the wedding?”
Sparks glowed and tumbled upward as he gave the fire one last poke and stood. He wore a tweed jacket, starched button down, and fuzzy bedroom slippers. After pausing to blot each corner of his mouth with a silk handkerchief, he tucked it away and extended his hand.
“Evening, Mr. Holmgren.”
“Please,” he said, “call me Walter.”
Voices wafted in from another room. Oliver couldn’t make out the words. But judging from their cadence—and their heat—it sounded like an argument. Mattie and her father shared a knowing frown that Oliver pretended not to notice. Instead he surveyed the room, noting the enormity of the dining room table. It was large enough to seat ten, but only six places were set. Tall candles burned on either end and several dishes sat steaming between what looked like fine china. Oliver could already imagine himself breaking something expensive.
Mattie’s mother entered the dining room carrying a large casserole dish. Mattie made a quick introduction as Mrs. Holmgren placed the dish in a vacant spot on the table. Then she took a quick inventory, biting her bottom lip and dotting the air with an index finger as she counted off place settings and gravy boats and wine goblets. Satisfied, she smiled and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Oliver.”
Walter said, “Everything looks lovely, Vonnie.”
She didn’t respond, probably because she was already engrossed in realigning the cutlery.
Walter squeezed Mattie’s shoulder and said, “Why don’t you let Reese and Trish know it’s time to eat?”
“Do I really have to?” Mattie said.
“I heard that.” Oliver recognized the animated whine of Reese’s voice from the wedding.
The first inklings of a joke about honeymooning with the in-laws tickled Oliver’s subconscious, but he ignored it.
“He wasn’t even invited.” Mattie directed this at Oliver, as if trying to justify.
“Of course he was, dear,” Yvonne said, now seated and waiting. She appeared to be inspecting the glasses for spots.
“As you know,” Mattie said with an air of conspiracy. “This was supposed to be a casual dinner at my place. Pizza and whatever sweet stuff I could find in the fridge. But then I made the mistake of joking about being too broke to make good on those rain checks I owe you. So they insisted we get together here. But I promise to make it as quick and painless as possible.”
Oliver was about to respond, but Walter Holmgren beat him to it. “I do hope we’ll still have time for a quick Scrabble match?”
“I should have warned you, the only thing Daddy likes better than playing Scrabble is beating people at Scrabble.”
“Not true, dear,” he said, clearly offended. He focused his overly earnest defense directly at Oliver. Mattie then turned so only Oliver could see her and mouthed the next words along with her father. “I just find the game stimulating. And a darn fine judge of character. You can tell a lot about a man by the words he chooses.”
Oliver stuck close to Mattie as they migrated toward the table. But Yvonne had already planned the seating arrangements. Walter Holmgren assumed the head of the table with Oliver at his right, his wife on the left. Mattie was directed to the seat next to her mother. This seemed to Oliver like a tactical move, making it impossible for him to see Mattie and her parents at the same time. The remaining place settings were to Oliver’s right, ostensibly for Reese and his new bride. But their argument had awkwardly ceased in the next room.
The resulting silence finally broke when Yvonne aimed a series of deliberate throat clearings at her husband. Oliver sensed a more overt signal under the table.
“Right, yes,” Walter said. “I suppose grace is in order.”
All four heads bowed as Mattie’s father stumbled and stuttered his way into a prayer. Once he finally found his groove, the sentences grew longer and more complex until he sounded like he was warming up for a Scrabble competition. He continued to lecture God until his wife kicked him again under the table. When the family said Amen in unison, Oliver was surprised to hear Reese settling into the seat next to him.
Walter said, “Good of you to join us, son.” There was no trace of irony in his tone. He looked and sounded sincere.
Reese said, “Not every day a guy gets to eat with a celebrity.” There was more than a trace of irony now. “Could you pass the potatoes, Yoko?”
A thousand and one snarky comments scrolled through Oliver’s brain. But mostly he had to wonder again why regular people routinely thought it wise to trade insults with comedians. Dealing with hecklers was part of the job description. Thankfully, Mr. Holmgren responded first.
“Reese, don’t you owe Oliver an apology? From your rather rude introduction at the wedding?”
“Oh yeah, right.” Reese sounded like he was working from a script. He glanced in Oliver’s direction and said, “I owe you one, buddy.”
Walter looked grim, Yvonne disappointed. Oliver smiled politely and passed the potatoes. Mattie ignored her brother and scooped leafy greens into her salad bowl. This ignited a flurry of passing, spooning, ladling, salting, and peppering.
Finally, Yvonne said, “So how is Trish feeling?”
“She’s fine,” Reese said.
“I am not fine,” Trish called from the living room. “I’m nauseous.”
Mattie’s mother called, “Can I get you anything, dear?”
Her offer was drowned by the sound of Trish clicking the TV on in the other room.
“Does she have to do that?” Yvonne said, pleading.
“I think she does,” Reese said, his mouth full of chewed bread. “Takes her mind off vomiting.”
This time everyone glanced at Reese before aggressively ignoring him.
“So …” Mattie’s mother began. She appraised various serving dishes and nodded a silent approval to herself. Oliver was pleased for her too but couldn’t quite shake a twinge of pity. Her relief seemed out of proportion, fleeting, as if she’d cast herself as the underdog in an unwinable battle. The rest of the Holmgrens seemed not to notice or even care. Or maybe they were just used to it? When everyone wielded their cutlery and began buttering and scooping and cutting, Oliver followed suit. “Does everyone have what they need?”
“It’s all very lovely, Ms. Holmgren,” Oliver said. “And delicious.”
“Why thank you.” She used one hand as a shield and the other as a pointer, then pretend whispered to Mattie, “I do believe this one’s a keeper.”
“He’s not a pet, Mom.”
“No, but he is a marked improvement over you know who.”
“We all know who, Mom,” Reese said. “Speaking of which, Max might be stopping by later.”
“Whatever for?” Yvonne said.
Mattie added, “Yes, Reese. Whatever for?”
“I asked him to drop off our latest demo.”
“Won’t you see him in a few hours at your concert?”
“It’s not a concert, Mom,” Reese said. “It’s called a gig. And it’s at a really crappy bar.”
“Language …” Walter said.
“Sorry, a really defecatious bar. Is that better?”
“That’s not a word, son.”
“Hey, like the book says, everyone poops.”
“But not at the table,” Mattie said.
Scandalized, Yvonne said, “Could we please change the subject?”
“Anyhow,” Reese said. “I figured I should probably listen to the demo before the gig, to refresh my memory.”
Mattie stopped her fork on the way to her mouth. “You’re talking about ‘Cuts Both Ways,’ right?”
Reese nodded, but didn’t look up.
“We’re not even playing that tonight.”
“You never know,” Reese said. “We might.”
“Well, I’m not playing it,” Mattie said.
“Me neither.”
All heads turned in unison at the sound of Trish’s voice. She wobbled into the room, cast a queasy glance at the empty seat next to her husband, then sat next to Mattie.
Proving that chivalry wasn’t quite dead yet, both Walter and Oliver rose from the table to help her into her seat. Trish’s father-in-law busied himself ferrying platters and bowls toward Trish. In his haste, Oliver bumped Reese’s elbow, ran his own sleeve through a puddle of gravy, then bumped Reese again on his way back down. When he saw Mattie’s gaze, Oliver was more than a little pleased to see her laughing at him.
“Thanks, Pop,” Trish said. The endearing nickname made Oliver turn wistful at once. He felt homesick, but it was by proxy, nostalgic about someone else’s past. The better word, he supposed, was jealousy.
Trish ate voraciously, her knife and fork working in tandem, preparing the next bite before she swallowed the last. Without looking up she said, “Would everyone please stop looking at me?”
“No one’s looking at you, dear.” Yvonne’s voice bordered on panicky. “Why would anyone be looking at you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m fat and waddly and shoveling food like a refugee.”
She didn’t seem fat to Oliver, but he kept that to himself.
“Nonsense,” Yvonne said, grabbing the bowl nearest her and spooning a mound of green beans on Mattie’s plate. Several bounced off the back of Mattie’s hand and spilled onto the table.
“What are you doing?” Mattie said.
Yvonne ignored the question and reached for the potatoes. “You don’t eat nearly enough, Mattie. You’re nothing but skin and bones.”
“Just so you know,” Trish said, looking directly at Oliver, “I didn’t always eat this way. This pregnancy thing has thrown my hormones all out of whack.”
“Patricia!” Yvonne said.
“He already knows, Mom,” Mattie said. She sounded either bored or embarrassed or some of both.
Reese glared at his sister. “What gives you the right to blab all our personal business to your new boyfriend?”
Oliver felt various sets of eyeballs drifting toward him then flitting away. He wanted to confirm Mattie’s statement, to rally to her defense. But in the heat of the moment he couldn’t figure out if that meant nodding his head or shaking it.
“Besides,” Mattie said. “I’m pretty sure Oliver took biology in high school. And he knows how to count to nine.”
“Still, if I want people to know about our … our … situation, I’ll take an ad out in the paper. Right, Trish?”
Trish regarded her new husband pitifully, “You’re such an …” She eyed each of her in-laws in turn, and finally settled on “jerk.”
“What did I do?” he said.
“First you made me pregnant. Then you made me marry you. Now you’re making my morning sickness a twenty-four-hour phenomenon.”
Several tense moments passed. Then Mattie said, “In case you weren’t able to follow all that, Oliver, my mother is offended that Trish mentioned her pregnancy to a relative stranger. Reese is offended that I told you, although he’s been bragging about it from the stage since the little pink line showed up on the pregnancy test. And Trish is offended that my brother is apparently more upset about you knowing that he knocked her up than he ever was about knocking her up in the first place.”
Reese opened his mouth to speak and Oliver braced himself for an eruption. But he simply pointed his fork at his father and said, “So what’s his deal?”
All eyes shifted to the head table where Walter Holmgren seemed to be indulging some deep or distant thought. Finally, Mattie said, “He’s waging an epic Scrabble battle in a faraway land.”
Everyone chuckled at Walter Holmgren’s expense, and most of the previous tension magically evaporated. When the silence began to crescendo, Mattie said, “And here’s where we change the subject and pretend our family flare-ups didn’t happen. Trish, would you like to do the honors?”
“Sure,” Trish swallowed and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “You find a roommate yet?”
“Too bad,” Trish said. “The sooner you break the lease, the sooner you can hightail it out of here.” She cupped her hand conspiratorially at Oliver and said, “I’m planning to stow away when she moves to New York. But don’t tell anyone; it’s a secret.”
Mattie kept her gaze down, chewed her food with more deliberation than necessary, and pushed beans around on her plate.
Finally, Walter blinked himself back into the present and said, “So, tell us about yourself, Oliver. What do you have planned for this life of yours?”
Up to then, Oliver had been free to enjoy the meal and domestic fireworks display as a mere spectator. But now he had the floor, whether he wanted it or not. “Well short term, I was hoping to get seconds on those mashed potatoes.”
There was some polite laughter as Yvonne scooted the large bowl in Oliver’s direction. He wasn’t really that hungry but had no choice now but to scoop out a fresh dollop.
“Save room for dessert,” she said.
“How about long term then?” Walter said.
Reese swallowed and said, “What he’s asking now is, ‘Surely you don’t plan to be a security guard forever, do you?’”
“Hey,” Trish chimed in. “Maybe he hails from a long line of proud security guards.”
There was more laughter, less polite this time. In an attempt to head off the next potential flare-up, Oliver added, “The first thing I need to do is finish my education.”
“Good man,” Walter said, raising his glass in a mimed toast. Reese grumbled something under his breath. Mattie rolled her eyes at no one in particular.
Oliver made the mistake of following up on his own comment. “I promised my mother I would.”
Mattie’s mother stopped chewing and patted her heart.
Walter said, “So what’s your major?”
“At this point I’m still undeclared.”
“Well surely you have something in mind.”
Reese said, “What he’s asking is, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’”
“Actually, I’m thinking about following in your children’s footsteps and working in the performing arts.”
Something passed between the Holmgrens then, something ancient and weather-beaten. This was clearly another wrong answer. Walter found it suddenly imperative to start clearing dishes. Oliver watched him leave with an armload and wondered if the man was offended or disappointed.
“I hope you don’t think you’re joining the band,” Reese said. “Is that what this is about, Mattie? Recruiting band members without my consent?”
“He can take my place,” Trish said. “You play drums, Oliver?”
Oliver shook his head. “Nope, sorry. Mattie already asked.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Reese said.
“Why don’t you tell us about your family?” It was Yvonne, beaming again.
“There’s not much to say, really.” Oliver looked at Mattie for help, but she looked as curious as her mother. Walter came back, along with his benevolent smile and bemused expression, a Scrabble board tucked under one arm.
“I’m pretty much an only child,” Oliver said.
“Pretty much?” Reese said, clearly mugging for what he considered his crowd. “You’re not sure?”
“Well I’m the only one I know of.” This elicited a round of courtesy laughs. Oliver’s unease was becoming glaringly apparent. And the harder he fought against it, the worse it got—too many awkward pauses, too much heat in his cheeks, and he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with his hands.
Yvonne said, “Let’s hear about this mother of yours,” obviously trying to help.
When Oliver seemed at a loss for words, Mattie said, “She’s in health care.”
“So your mother’s a nurse then?” Walter said.
“Gee, that’s not very sexist.” This came from somewhere in the vicinity of Mattie and Trish.
“I was just going with the odds,” Walter said. “Statistically speaking, there are ten times as many nurses as there are physicians. And I certainly meant no offense, Oliver. So what does your mother do exactly?”
“She doesn’t really practice medicine anymore,” he said. “In fact, she retired recently.”
“How about your father?” Walter asked. “What does he do?”
Oliver almost said, He works in food service. Then he considered, He’s a money manager—but apparently not a very good one. Finally, he said, “I don’t really know him all that well.”
Someone said, “Oh.” Maybe a few someones.
Then there was more clearing of dishes and Walter unpacking the Scrabble box. It was the most animated Oliver had seen him all night. Mattie noticed Oliver noticing the exorbitant number of letter tiles.
“Pop adores Scrabble,” Trish said.
“So I have, like, no chance?” Oliver said.
“None,” Mattie said.
“Nonsense,” Walter said. “He has just as much chance as anyone at the table.”
Once all the tiles were facedown on the table, Oliver collected seven of them and began lining them up on the little wooden easel. The object of Scrabble when he played with his mother was not to score the most points, but to see who could make the other one laugh the hardest. A winner was declared when the other person had to excuse his or her self to the restroom, which always gave Oliver a distinct advantage.
Walter scooped up a large handful of tiles, at least a dozen or more. He took his time arranging them onto a pair of little wooden racks. Occasionally he would frown at one tile, place it back in the pile, exchange it for another.
Reese said, “Dad has his own rules.”
Mattie tried to explain but finally said, “Just grab fourteen tiles and brace yourself for a beating.”
“And be prepared,” Trish said. “Pop likes to use words that are both abstruse and recondite.”
“Yes,” Mattie said. “He plays the game with great erudition.”
“Go ahead and mock me,” Walter said. “But your vocabulary is obviously improving as a result.”
“Is your mother going to play?” Oliver asked.
“She abstains for the sake of the marriage.”
“The woman is a saint,” Walter said with no small trace of reverence. He even stared off toward the clattery sounds in the kitchen.
The game itself moved quickly. Mattie, Reese, and Trish plunked down whatever obvious word came to mind, words like “pea” and “snoop” and “also.” All the Holmgrens played with urgency; the ones not named Walter added large doses of irony. Oliver couldn’t tell if their small words and seemingly little effort were in homage to the master or to indulge his inflated sense of competition. Or maybe they were just trying to make it harder for him by giving him so little to work with. Regardless, when his turn arrived he was always ready with another word Oliver had never heard of. This time it was veracious.
“Put me down for twenty-seven points, please.”
“Wait a second,” Reese said. “Did our illustrious father figure just make a spelling error? I do believe voracious is spelled with an o, not an e.”
He reached to remove the offending tiles, but Walter batted his hand away. “A veracious man is one who habitually tells the truth. He can’t help himself. Whereas a voracious man is unnaturally eager, usually about food.”
“Is he making fun of me?” Trish said.
“Although,” Walter mused, “I suppose it is possible that one could be voracious about one’s veracity.”
“How’s it going in here?” Yvonne entered with an enormous tray of coffees and thick slabs of key lime pie and began passing them out.
“What she really means is,” Mattie explained, “just how bad is it?”
Walter used the time between turns to lecture Oliver. He explained the meaning of the words he used, words like louche, abstemious, yeomanly, peripatetic, and monogamous. He parlayed each definition into a miniature dissertation on character and integrity, especially as it pertained to the sanctity of marriage. Oliver wasn’t sure if this was directed at him or at Reese or to Walter himself.
His next word was fealty. “It means loyalty, fiercely loyal.”
Reese whistled and said, “Losing your touch there, Dad?”
“Only two syllables?” Mattie said.
Trish added, “And about eight measly points.”
They were having fun at Walter’s expense. And he seemed to be taking it in stride. Then Yvonne chimed in with, “Yeah, are you feeling okay, dear?”
The room broke up at what was obviously an inside joke, one rife with history and family irony. The laughter was infectious and Oliver found himself laughing along with them, although he didn’t actually get it. He allowed his gaze to rest on each family member before studying his fourteen tiles. He began shifting tiles, in a near frenzy, as he tried to form the words scrolling through his brain—ambivalent, bittersweet, melancholic, nostalgic, wistful—but the tiles wouldn’t cooperate.
When it was Oliver’s turn, the best he could come up with was whatnot.
The game ended when Trish announced she needed a shower before the gig.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Oliver said.
“That’s because Daddy was more interested in lecturing you than beating the rest of us. That’s why he only tripled our scores instead of really trouncing us.”
“You kids run along,” Walter said. “I’ll spot Oliver everyone else’s points, which ought to even things out. Then he can represent your team while the rest of you kids get ready for your jig.”
“It’s a gig, Dad,” Reese whined.
“I think Oliver’s had enough,” Mattie said.
“Probably so,” Oliver agreed. “But that really was fun.”
Everyone looked at him curiously, as if the word “fun” would never have occurred to them.
After an enthusiastic round of thank-you’s, great-to-meet-you’s, and promises to do this again real soon, Mattie walked Oliver to his car in silence. She hugged herself against the chilly night air and finally said, “I’m resisting the urge to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For, you know … that.” She swept her arm back toward the house.
“Are you kidding? I had a great time.”
“Don’t make fun, Oliver. I already know my family is weird.”
“I promise,” he said. “There were some tense moments. But mostly it was strange and wonderful.”
She looked suspicious, scrutinizing his face for any trace of irony or hidden punch lines.
“Anyway,” Oliver said. “Thanks for inviting me.”
An awkward silence descended, thick and bloated with possibility. Then Mattie leveled her most penetrating stare and said, “Look, I realize that if this were a movie, this would be the part of the scene where you’re trying to figure out whether to kiss me or not.”
“Well, I was wondering …”
“Please don’t, Oliver.”
“Don’t wonder, or don’t kiss you?”
“It will only complicate things. I promise.”
“Which things?”
“Just about everything.”
Oliver was surprised to feel relief flooding his veins. There was no getting around the fact that he wanted to kiss Mattie. But he didn’t want the pressure that came with it, what it might mean, how it might change things. Besides, he liked having something to look forward to. And then he thought of her moving to New York. He was trying to figure out a nondesperate way to shoehorn that into the conversation when Trish came hobbling out, zombielike, eyes closed, arms extended in front of her. Her long gown and full bouffant created a Bride of Frankenstein effect.
Mattie said, “What are you doing, Trish?”
“You guys done kissing yet? I can’t bear to look.”
“Yeah, Trish. We’re done. You can open your eyes now.”
“Sorry, I just can’t stand to see happy right now. I don’t think it’s good for the baby. Anyway, it was really nice to meet you, Oliver. I’d tell you to run for your life, but it’s obvious that Mattie’s too far gone for that.”
Oliver looked at Mattie for confirmation, but she was staring at her sister-in-law with virtually no expression whatsoever. He thought of Barry and wondered how everyone else could tell how Mattie felt about him but him.
Trish leaned in close and said, “But if you do make a run for it, take me with you. I can drive the getaway car, cook the meals, just whatever.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Oliver said.
That’s when Max pulled to the curb in a gleaming Saab. His windows were down and he was spinning a compact disc on the end of one finger.
“Hello Security Guard,” Max said.
Oliver served up his most sarcastic wave and said, “Guess I’ll be going. Thanks again, Mattie. For everything.”
Oliver climbed reluctantly into his car and was about to shut the door when he heard his name again.
“Technically,” Mattie said, “I do still owe you dinner. You know, since I didn’t really pay for this one.”
“Is this another rain check?”
“You can collect them,” she said. “Like trading cards.”
As he neared the end of the block Oliver was surprised to realize he was thinking of Mattie’s father, specifically the man’s fierce loyalty to his family. By the time he reached the four-way stop, he was mired in a bog of secondhand envy—Walter was just the kind of man his mother always needed, but never found. But of course, she looked in all the wrong places. The Holmgrens seemed to take their intact family for granted. And why wouldn’t they? They didn’t know any better.
Oliver turned at the corner, and as he looked back toward the house his envy turned to outright jealousy. Mattie was on her way to a gig with Max while Oliver would be stranded at the hotel for hours, alone with his unreliable imagination.