Chapter Two
There are a lot of places I fantasized about running into Tyler again outside the halls of Becker High School, but the cramped economy seat of a thirteen-hour flight was not one of them. It’s almost 6:00a.m., I’ve been up all night, and I’mnotprepared for this conversation, so I do what any self-respecting eighteen-year-old would do: I pull the strings of my hood tighter around my face, pop my earbud back in, and pretend it’s not happening.What the hell is he even doing here? It’s a week before break—is he skipping school?Somehow, that seems totally on brand for him. And sure, I may be skipping, too, but that’s for…reasons. Reasons that are definitely far more important than whatever stunt Tyler’s trying to pull.
Still, I’m curious and can’t help taking a peek. Next to me, Tyler goes back to getting settled. He looks the same as he did a week or two ago when I saw him in the cafeteria and breezed right past him as he tried to say hello—long, slender frame, slouchy black hoodie, his signature dark brown flip of hair that matches the muddy brown of his eyes. Eyes he always said were boring but I used to find endlessly fascinating when the light hit them just right and lit up all the flecks of gold nestled there. Eyes that stilltrack my movements whenever I catch a glimpse of him across our school hallway, instead of us walking side by side like we used to. He’s usually laughing with Delia about some inside joke, the kind that I used to be a part of.
I can’t force myself to look in Tyler’s direction any longer, instead staring down at my hands in my lap, the petal-pink polish now chipped and gnawed away from the stress of the last few days. The soul-sucking panic after leaving Jack voicemail after voicemail after voicemail, text after text after text, and not hearing anything back. The kind of stress that makes you do something irrational, like convince your mom to let you start your spring break a week early and fly nearly halfway across the world.
Yeah, that kind of stress could wreak havoc on even the best manicure.
I was already exhausted, and now I’m really not in the mood to have an awkward, stilted conversation on what is now becoming the Flight from Hell. Next to me, Tyler says nothing, giving me the floor to get my feelings out, like he always does.
Or, rather, like he alwaysusedto.
I stare hard at my hands until I weaken and take out my phone, not blinking for so long that the letters of the podcast episode title start to blur together in front of me. In my peripheral vision, I see Tyler taking out his own phone. My mind immediately starts swimming with possibilities.Is he texting his friends about this? Has he given up on trying to talk to me?
Two seconds ago, I was considering emptying my wallet to the woman next to me to avoid having to speak to Tyler, so I’m surprised by the painful twist in my gut at the thought that maybehe’dalready given up trying.
Before I can open my mouth and finally force myself to say something, the screens on the in-seat televisions all synchronize and start their safety demonstration.“Aloha and welcome aboard.”The screen flashes through examples of how to tighten your seat belt, use your oxygen mask, find the emergency exits—all wonderful things to put into your mind right when you’re about to take off into the skies in a giant metal death tube.
Another scene: an awkward (and scarily in sync) group of rowers slicing through the churning ocean, all of the men turning to the camera at once and saying in cultish unison,“It is a federal offense to remove any vests from the aircraft.”
It’s so creepy and campy that Tyler and I both snort in surprise at the same time. He turns to me, eyes skimming over mine before quickly jerking away at the intense contact, pocketing his phone. “That’s mildly disturbing for nearly six in the morning, huh?” His tone is light and easy, clearly letting me off the hook for not answering his previous statement. It’s a gift that I’m not sure I deserve, but I feel my shoulders relax in relief anyway.
“Yep,” I mumble, angling myself away from him.
After another second, from the corner of my eye, I see Tyler turn back toward his own screen, getting the hint that the conversation is over. “Well, it’s good to see you, Olive.”
Shit, shit, shit.
I jam my eyes shut in a weak attempt to fake sleep, praying the hot flush of my cheeks isn’t visible. Of course he’d actually try to make small talk with me—I must be out of my mind to think he’d pretend to be semi-strangers for this entire journey. But that never stopped me from being irrational when it comes to Tyler Ferris and my stupid, fickle heart.
And now, Olive Austin, you’re well and truly fucked.
Chapter Three
When I first met Tyler Ferris, I was being peer-pressured by my mom.
I wasn’t particularly thrilled about having to work at a greasy, sweaty pizza joint. Sure, the food was good, and I wasn’t the poor soul stuck doing deliveries, but coming home smelling like yeasty dough and simmered sauces isn’t high on your list of priorities when you’re sixteen. But Mom was insistent that, now that I was growing into semi-adulthood, I needed a semi-adult job to prove it. She’d already successfully coerced me into joining the field hockey team freshman year—arguing that spendingallmy time with her probably wasn’t the most healthy—and now she was on a kick to get me employed, too.
“Besides,” she’d added jovially as she drove me to the interview. “It’ll feel nice to make your own money. You’ll certainly be making more here than you do for your weekly allowance taking out the garbage.” (She was right on that point, but not by much.)
I’d walked into Suburban Slices feeling wary, eyeing the chipped cement sidewalk outside and the hopelessly outdatedglass brick window design, a pit forming in my stomach. As much as I wanted to go to the mall with my friends on the weekend with my own bit of cash to spend, I suddenly wasn’t sure if it was worth workinghere.I made a mental note to see if any of the stuck-up shops at the mall were hiring. All the while, I was gripping the handle of my bag, feeling the reassuring weight of my planner inside.Hey, even if this interview is a bust, at least I got to put a cute pizza sticker next to the interview note in today’s date box.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside, enveloped by the comforting smells of warm tomato sauce and crispy dough. The place was nice, if not a little small, with a few mismatched tables and chairs and a glass-topped pizza counter where two people were busily working. One was an older-looking man, all dark, wiry arm hair and bushy eyebrows, radiating the aura of being in charge, twisting dough between his fingers and spreading it out into a circular shape. His accomplice was younger, around my age, and was intensely stirring a vat of sauce before ladling some onto the stretched-out dough. At first glance, his face looked vaguely familiar, in a way that I couldn’t quite place. Had I seen him around before?
“Hi.” My voice came out embarrassingly squeaky and nervous, so I cleared my throat and started over. “Is Nunzio here? I’m supposed to have an interview for a position.”
The boy just looked up from where he was helping the chef sauce a doughy circle of uncooked pizza, one eyebrow quirking up curiously, dark eyes studying me. “Interview?” he repeated, as if it was a foreign word, turning to the chef for confirmation. “I didn’t even know he did those.”
The chef responded with a grunt, sprinkling soft-looking cheese onto the pizza. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to say anything else, the boy turned to me apologetically.
“Sorry about that.” He laughed awkwardly. “Let me go try to find him.” He returned the ladle to its vat of sauce and disappeared into the swinging back doors of the kitchen.
I tried my best not to be awkward—and certainly failed—by wandering over to the fridge of bottled sodas, checking out their collection. The chef at the front continued his pizza-making task, completely ignoring me, and I couldn’t help but think that maybe thiswasa bad idea after all. Sure, the stores at the mall were filled with snobby employees who seemed to resent you for wanting to shop, but it was probably better than working here.
I heard the doors swing back open and turned around just in time to see a short, gray-haired Italian man strolling out from the kitchen, the dark-haired boy in tow. Nunzio, the owner, judging by the way he clapped his hands and studied me, came to a stop practically nose to nose with me.
“Olive, yes?” He squinted as he looked at me, whether from old age or old-school Italian scrutiny, I couldn’t be sure.
