“No, you’re not. And neither am I. He doesn’t deserve the death penalty because I wasn’t enough.” Ollie’s voice is surprisingly steady, but her eyes tell a different story. I’ve never seen her so broken.
“I’ll burn his house down. Just say the word.” I offer, only half joking.
Ollie’s eyes finally meet mine with the smallest smile at the corners of her lips.
Stomach. Flip. Fuck me.
I keep telling myself that I do not have a crush on my boyfriend’s best friend, but my sudden desire to burn the world down says otherwise.
“You guys are stupid,” Ollie scoffs, but the humor is lost from her face.
Vince doesn’t wait for an invitation. His tall, solid frame is an unstoppable force against her token resistance as we spill into the dim light of her living room.
Ollie’s place is a mix of cozy maximalist clutter and mismatched thrift store furniture. Soft enough to feel comfortable, messy enough to feel real.
Picture frames litter the walls with some of her favorite tattoo designs and clients. I’m honored to be featured in a photo on the wall above her couch, a mid-session snap of the time she tattooed the tops of both of my shoulders in a beautiful floral outline. The sensation of her fingers sliding down my bra strap mixed with the pain from the tattoo needle was an eye-opening experience I have yet to unpack.
“Why are you here?” Ollie asks, closing the door behind us. “Shouldn’t you be on the road by now?”
“We weren’t going to leave without checking on you,” Vince practically barks, hurt wrinkling his brows. “Look at you.”
“I’ll be fine,” she whines. “I just need to re-center.”
“We both know that’s code for couch rotting and eating cereal straight from the box.”
They glare at each other for a moment like an old married couple trying to decide if this is the hill they are choosing to dieon, but Ollie surrenders quickly, knowing full well she doesn’t have a good enough argument against his assumption.
“We're allowed to be worried about you,” I say, stepping closer to her. “If you try to push us away, we'll just latch on tighter. Really sink our claws in.”
“Joke's on you, she’s into that shit,” Vince murmurs as he moves to the window and yanks the curtains open.
Ollie hisses as light fills the room, illuminating her dangerous brown eyes that are looking right at me.
“Show me your claws,” she says, her voice low.
I raise both hands, showing off the fresh manicure I got yesterday. Almond shape. Dark Brown. Matte.
The kind of nails that look like they’ll break skin but are soft enough to glide over even the most sensitive areas. Ollie’s gaze lingers on them for a beat too long before throwing me a wink, and my world stutters for a moment.
A tiny, electric jolt, so brief I almost convince myself I imagined it.
Almost.
Vince walks around the room, gathering discarded coffee mugs and bits of trash, his movements efficient and familiar. I wonder how many times they’ve gone through something like this.
Ollie was the one who usually had her shit together, the one who kept Vince from spiraling into his own head too much. But right now, she looked like a different person entirely, and Vince stepped in without hesitation to pick up her pieces.
I grab a few tissues and chip bags from the floor when I see her sketchbook and headphones resting on a plump army-green duffel bag next to the couch.
Is she already packed?
I grab a few more pieces of crinkled-up paper and follow Vince into the kitchen.
"I fucking hate seeing her like this,” Vince says, placing the cups in the sink. “I hate the thought of leaving her alone."
“What?” I bark a little too quickly as I toss the trash in the can. “We’re not leaving her alone! She’s coming with us!”
"You don’t think it would be weird if we asked her to come?"
