Read Olive Oil and White Bread for Free Online Page A

days.
    Angie picked it up, caressed the neat handwriting with her thumb, and saw a flash of blonde hair and dimples. In a split second, she decided to take advantage of the wave of self-confidence she was riding before it washed down to nothing and she became her insecure self once again. She picked up the handset and dialed as quickly as she could, not wanting her fear to catch up to what she was doing.
    As the ringing began, Angie nibbled on the side of her thumb and prayed for an answering machine to pick up.
    â€œHello?” A female voice.
    Angie tried to speak, but croaked instead. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Hi, is Jillian there?”
    â€œI think so. Hang on.” Rustling sounds followed. A thump. A muffled voice called, “Jill! Phone!” A moment or two crept by. Angie’s palms began to sweat. Just as she considered hanging up and trying another time, noise that sounded like somebody had dropped the phone clattered in her ear. A muttered curse. Then a voice.
    â€œOkay. I’ve got it.”
    â€œUm, hi. Jillian?”
    â€œUh-huh.” A little bit of an edge to her voice.
    You’re annoying her. Pull it together, Righetti . “Um, hi. This is Angie. Angie Righetti.”
    â€œI’m sorry, who?” Confusion now.
    Realizing Jillian would have no idea what her name was, Angie cleared her throat again. “Yeah. I, um, I bought you a drink at AJ’s a week or so ago? You gave me your number? Remember?”
    â€œAngie. . . .” She said it like she was thinking, trying to grasp something. Then, “Oh. Oh!” Jillian’s voice lost its edge immediately. “Of course, I remember. It took you long enough to call. I was beginning to give up on you. Angie.” She was teasing, that much was obvious. Angie felt herself warm from the inside.
    â€œI know. I know, I’m sorry. I’m . . . a little . . . I’ve never done that before. Bought a drink for somebody I’ve never met. Took me a while to work up my nerve.”
    â€œWell, I’ve never given my number to a complete stranger before, so I guess we’re even.”
    The way she said it, playfully accusing, like it was Angie’s fault Jillian had handed over her phone number, made Angie smile like a schoolgirl. “I guess so.”
    A few beats went by. Jillian said, “So, Angie.”
    â€œSo, Jillian.”
    â€œAre you going to ask me out or what?”
    Somehow, rather than making her even more nervous, the mischievouslilt in Jillian’s voice gave Angie strength, made her feel brave. “I was thinking about it.”
    â€œGood. I was thinking about saying yes. Where should we go?”
    â€œWell, how about we start with someplace neutral?”
    â€œAh, I see. That way, if we decide we can’t stand each other, we can retreat easily. I like it. It’s smart. Safe.”
    â€œHow about we grab a drink at AJ’s—er, The Dimpled Pickle—during Happy Hour on Friday? Then, if we’re enjoying ourselves, we’ll get some dinner.”
    â€œAnd if we’re not, we’re free to leave or mingle or whatever.”
    â€œExactly. What do you think?” Angie held her breath.
    â€œI like it. What time?”
    Angie shrugged, even though Jillian couldn’t see it. “Seven?”
    â€œWorks for me. Should we meet there?”
    â€œGood idea. That way, we’re each free to go when we want to.”
    â€œPerfect. I’ll see you Friday at seven.”
    Jillian’s voice softened. “I’m really glad you called.”

    The bar was hopping, surprisingly, but Jillian knew it would only get busier; she hoped it wouldn’t get much smokier. The older crowd was always in first, the dykes stopping in for a beer after work. As the night progressed, they’d go home and make way for the younger crowd. At almost twenty-four—and gainfully employed—Jillian couldn’t imagine doing