Next is twins in tutus doing a ballet-slash-karate hybrid routine. One of them roundhouse kicks the air and almost takes out a paper sunflower. The room gasps. I clap like she just nailed Swan Lake.
“YES, QUEENS!” I call out.
Olive gives me a look that sayscalm down, rockstar.But she’s laughing.
Then comes a kid with a plastic ukulele and the stage presence of a Vegas showman. He strums aggressively and sings something that sounds like “Old MacDonald” but remixed with heavy metal chicken sounds.
I pump my fist. “That’s my guy!”
It’s all absolutely, fucking adorable.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for watching Olive Hart crouch in front of a sobbing five-year-old with one Velcro sneaker and a glitter mustache, whispering, “It’s okay, buddy. Everyone gets nervous sometimes.”
She’s calm. Soft-spoken. So damn patient.
The kind of patient I didn’t think existed outside yoga instructors and monks.
And when the kid hiccups a laugh, Olive smiles and hands him a neon star sticker from her back pocket like it’s a golden ticket.
“You’re brave,” she tells him. “Brave enough to go up and dance anyway?”
He nods, eyes wide, and she gives him a high five so gentle I feel it in my chest.
Jesus.
I sit back on the bench—one clearly not built for six-foot men with tattooed arms—and watch her float through this chaos like she was made for it. Tie-dye handprint banners flap overhead. There’s someone in a cat costume breakdancing near the front of the room. And Olive? Olive’s thriving.
She directs kids with the authority of a general and the warmth of a marshmallow. She remembers every name, every favorite color, every sibling. She smooths one girl’s hair and helps another with a wrinkled paper crown.
And the way theylookat her.
Like she hung the damn moon.
I feel something stir in my chest—something dangerous. Something warm and weighty and stupidly soft.
Because this is the real Olive.
The one who shows up. Who gives a damn. Who makes scared kids feel brave and chaos feel safe.
I lean forward, arms on my knees, and just watch her laugh with one of the parents, gesturing like she’s retelling the funniest story in the world.
God help me.
I think I’m in trouble.
13
OLIVE
Like a Frosted Cupcake
Margot is polishing the kettle like it’s auditioning for a magazine spread when I pass her in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Olive.”
“Good morning, Margot.” I hover there, struck by the sudden urge to… explain myself.
“Hey, Margot,” I say, too brightly. “Hypothetical question.”
