The message was clear. She wanted space. Space from me.
I pulled up outside her apartment building, idling at the curb. For a moment, neither of us moved. There was so much to say, but the words were stuck in my throat.
"Thanks for the ride," she finally said, reaching for the door handle.
"Liv, wait." I caught her wrist, my fingers brushing against her hair tie. "About this weekend?—"
"Don't," she said. "Not now. We have a job to finish."
I let go. I’d fucked things up, and it was time to follow her lead. "After, then. We'll talk after."
"Maybe." She climbed out, grabbed her bag from the back seat, and closed the door with a soft thud. I watched her walk up to her building, key card in hand, until she disappeared inside.
The drive to my place took less than ten minutes. My apartment was above the tattoo shop, convenient for work, but a bit noisy sometimes when the shop was busy. With today being Sunday, the shop was closed, the street quiet.
I took the stairs two at a time, hoping a hot shower might chase away my bad mood. Inside my apartment, I dropped my bag by the door and headed straight for the bathroom, stripping as I went. As the hot water beat down on my shoulders, I replayed the last three days in my head, cringing at the way I’d treated my best friend.
What the hell was I so afraid of? Olivia was the best person I knew. She was loyal, kind, and fierce when it mattered. She'd been my best friend since we were kids. She knew all my flaws, all my failures, and she was still here. At least she had been until I'd pushed her away.
I got dressed, snacked on what I could find in my fridge, and unpacked from the weekend. There was still an hour before I needed to be at the party, and my apartment felt too empty, too quiet.
Restless, I grabbed my sketchbook and a pencil, settled on the couch, and let my hand move across the page. Olivia's face emerged, just like it always did when I drew without thinking. This time, I captured her as she'd been the other night while she slept… soft and vulnerable, her hair spread across the pillow, her lips slightly parted. Beautiful. Perfect.
I flipped the page, not wanting to see the evidence of what I'd thrown away. Thank fuck, my phone buzzed with a text.
Priest: Heard you're back. Going to Miles and Kinley's thing tonight?
I typed back a quick confirmation, then checked the time. I needed to leave soon.
Before I closed my sketchbook, I tore out the drawing of Olivia, folded it carefully, and tucked it into my wallet. The piece of paper was a reminder of what was at stake. Of what I stood to lose—had maybe already lost—because I couldn't get out of my own way.
I grabbed my keys and headed out, determination replacing the dread that had dogged me all day. I'd get through this party, stage my argument with Olivia. And then, somehow, I'd find the courage to tell her the truth.
All of it.
CHAPTER 8
OLIVIA
The hairbrush shook in my hand as I stared at my reflection. Three quick strokes. Stop. Four more. Stop. I'd been at this for fifteen minutes, mechanically brushing hair that was already smooth, trying to delay the inevitable.
My phone buzzed on the bathroom counter—another text from Ruby.
Ruby: Everyone's here. Where are you?
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and set the brush down. Time to get this over with.
The sundress I'd chosen was pretty but unremarkable, perfect for blending into the background at a housewarming party. My makeup was subtle, my hair down and straight. Nothing that screamed "look at me" or "just had my heart shattered by my best friend."
Nothing that would betray how hollow I felt inside.
The drive to Miles and Kinley's new place didn’t take long, not nearly enough time to prepare myself for seeing Garner again. My stomach twisted at the thought of our upcoming performance. We'd planned the lead-up to our final breakup on Friday night carefully. The fight at the housewarming party only needed to be a disagreement that would spread through town without causing a scene. Simple. Practical. Painless.
Except everything about it felt like agony.
I paused outside the craftsman-style house, admiring the fresh paint and newly planted flower beds. Music and laughter spilled from the open windows. For a moment, I considered turning around, texting some excuse about a migraine or food poisoning. But running away wouldn't solve anything.
I straightened my shoulders, plastered on my most convincing smile, and climbed the porch steps.
