“She’s a good one,” the bartender says, tipping his chin towards the glass I was holding. “Most would’ve made it worse. You didn’t.”
I set the glass down, feeling creepy for touching something she just held—like I’m some nut job. He’s right. I could’ve made it worse—rescuing her from one creep just to turn around and hit on her myself. I need to snap out of it, stop daydreaming about strangers, and go upstairs to my hotel room.
Tomorrow, I plan to head back to Eli’s and try to convince him to leave the house. If I can’t get him to write, maybe I can at least get him to put some sun on his pale-ass skin. We could hit up the Japanese Tea Gardens or do something touristy like walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ve never done that.
If the brunette’s a local, I bet she’s walked the bridge before. Maybe she could show me those secret cement slides I’ve heard about, hidden somewhere in the city.
Oh my god, Owen, go to bed, you freak.
Chapter 3
Liv
“Mom, I’m just not sure if I can make it tonight,” I say, yawning and pulling my dark waves into a messy top knot.
“Don’t tug on your hair like that, Olivia,” my mother says, scowling at me over FaceTime. She’s the only one who calls me Olivia—everyone else, even my dad, calls me Liv. “You’ll give yourself split ends,” she adds with a disapproving tut.
I’m not sure if that is true, but I let my hair drop to my shoulders and try to drag my fingers through the mess. I had finally slept, and by the looks of my hair and the pillow creases on my face, I had slept hard.
“You might benefit from a few highlights. Have you seen Ricardo lately?” My mother’s hair is platinum blonde—thanks to Ricardo—and perfectly styled, even though it’s barely 9 a.m. on a Saturday. Then again, Marlowe Arden has probably already played a round of tennis and is getting ready for brunch, while I’m just now dragging myself out of bed after too many bourbons and sleeping like the dead. “Maybe he can fit you in before the gala tonight.”
“Work has been intense lately,” I sigh and pour a cup of coffee from the machine on the counter. “I could really use the night to get ahead of the launch.”
“Olivia, everyone will be there. You need to make an appearance, or people will think there is some rift between us.”
I pause, struck by the irony of my mother bullying me into attending an event just so she can look like a good parent. But that’s my mom—as long as everythinglooksperfect, she can pretend it actually is.
Andy’s bedroom door opens, and she bounds out, looking way perkier than I feel. She is wearing her favorite cartoon-sushi-roll-covered pajama bottoms and a thin cami that leaves nothing to the imagination. But I had lived with her for the last three years and this was far from the first time I’d seen her boobs.
“Hey, Mrs. A!” Andy leans into FaceTime and waves at my mother, taking her own oversized coffee cup from the cabinet.
“Adeline,” my mother replies coolly, “How’s the glamorous world of leash-holding?”
“It’s great,” Andy says, spooning an ungodly amount of sugar into her coffee. “Better than chasing approval, Mrs. A.” She puts a smacking kiss on my cheek, and my mother turns away from the screen like Andy had stuck her tongue in my mouth or worse, used off-brand skin care.
“Olivia,” my mother continues. “Tonight is very important to your father. You need to take something seriously… for once.”
I slip out of the apartment and into the hall. Andy has witnessed my mother’s tirades more than once, and I want to spare her today’s edition.
I shut the door. “I am taking something seriously. My job.”
“Oh, Olivia, playing video games for a living is hardly taking things seriously.”
I’m not going to respond. Despite my repeated attempts to explain my job to my mother, she consistently reduces it to “playing video games,” “watching YouTube,” or, her personal favorite, “wasting the expensive college degree they paid for.”
My mother does not take the hint at my silence. “The gala starts at six; you need to be there by five thirty. What are you wearing? Not that yellow dress. That color does nothing for your complexion.”
“Mom,” I try to cut in, but she just pushes forward with her plans, disregarding anything I try to say…as usual.
“You know what? I can’t trust you to be on time. I’m going to have Peter pick you up. It makes more sense for you to show up together, anyway.”
What?
“Please tell me you didn’t tell Peter I was going to the gala.”
“Of course not. I did better. I told him you needed a date for the gala.”
“Mom!”
