“I think that I would have felt very lonely growing up if it weren’t for your family.”
“I’m glad we were there for you,” she says.
“Doyouget lonely?”
I can see something shifting inside her. “I didn’t used to. I mean, a little bit when I first moved to Pittsburgh and when I first moved to San Francisco. But I was so excited, it didn’t really matter.”
“And now?” My body tenses up in anticipation of her answer, just as her body relaxes because she’s finally letting it out.
“Now I feel lonely when I think about all the time we didn’t spend together. And all the things we haven’t said. And all the things we might never say out loud.” She isn’t being mean or sardonic or accusatory. She isn’t crying anymore. It’s just an honest acknowledgment of something that she’s coming to terms with.
A thousand words flash across the monitor in my mind, so many things that I know I could say that would make her feel better in this moment. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it, and she knows it. “I’m sorry,” I say, kissing the top of her head.
Olivia presses her face into my chest, not quite kissing it. “Tell me something. Something you’ve never told anyone else. Something aboutyou.”
There are so many things I haven’t told anyone about myself, but I know what I want to tell her. She’s the only person I’d tell, because I know she’ll understand. “I used to keep a spreadsheet about my parents. When I was, like, ten to twelve years old,” I tell her. “So I could optimize my time with them whenever we were actually spending time together. Lists of things they liked to talk about. Movies or TV shows or music my mom liked so I could put them on if she seemed unhappy. Things I could ask my dad about his parents if he seemed open to it. If I sensed that they were fighting, I noted that I could suggest we go to a restaurant that I knew they both hated. Because they’d both object, and it would make them feel united in their dislike of it. Things like that.”
“Johnny,” she whispers. “That’s so sweet. And sad.”
“I guess. I only did it for a couple of years.”
“Do you keep a spreadsheet about me?”
“I don’t have to. I told you—I remember everything you ever said or did. I tried to forget about you, but I couldn’t. I won’t.”
She traces the shape of a heart on my chest, over my heart.
“Tell me a secret aboutyou,” I say.
Olivia takes a deep breath and then whispers, “I had a crush on you when I was a little girl.”
“That’s not a secret.”
“Itsois. I never told anyone.”
“I knew. You couldn’t take your eyes off me when you were little. You were in awe of me.”
She laughs and nudges me. “Shut up. That’s not true.”
“It’ssotrue. It was really cute.”
I expect her to punch my arm. Instead, she wraps her arm around my chest and curls her leg, wrapping it around both of mine, pressing herself against me. Almost like she’s trying to protect me from something.
If only she knew the person we both need to protect me from is myself.
Hours later, I wake up and we’re still in the same position. Her cheek is flat against my chest, leg curled around mine. My arms are around her waist, and my head is raised up on three pillows. I watch her sleep. The Beautiful Dreamer. My foot’s asleep, and my neck is sore.
I don’t know the choreography of the next part of this dance, but I know I won’t move until she does.
CHAPTER 25
OLIVIA
“Oh shit. You’re going to murder me, aren’t you?”
I’m half joking, but the other half of me is convinced that the international man of mystery formerly known as Johnny B. Nerdballs is capable of anything: swoony one-liners, life-changing orgasms, impromptu public serenades while slow dancing, advanced Manhattan-gala tux-wearing skills, effortless model-ex-girlfriend crazy-making abilities, choreographer douchebag-withering sidewalk bravado—and sure, possibly, why not—murder of his best friend’s sister.
I knew this was too good to be true.
