Junie farts.
“Oh, my God,” Olive groans, and both of us bust out into laughter. Junie giggles for no other reason than because we’re laughing and then goes back to playing and watching her show three seconds later.
“Don’t lie to me, Kellan James,” Olive scolds, pinning me with a stern look. She holds up a hand and ticks off each point, finger by finger. “You moved to this state because of her. You live in those dorms to be as close as possible to her, despite being able to afford a goddamn mansion by now. You lost your ever-loving mind when she got a boyfriend your sophomore year and, in my personal opinion, were extremely caught up on her having S-E-X with him.”
“Did fucking not,” I snap defensively, cursing be damned, but Junie’s too engrossed in her Busy House to notice, anyway. “And excuse me for caring about safe S-E-X practices when her getting pregnant by some stupid-head would’ve been extremely inconvenient for me and all my nefarious plans.”
I might as well be a ghost because she acknowledges absolutely nothing I said.
“You lose your mind every summer when she disappears to go travel or whatever she does, because you won't see her until fall semester.”
“It's dangerous to travel alone.” Again, she dismisses me as if I didn't speak at all.
“You think about her when you're eating, sleeping, breathing—probably even when you're pooping.” My mouth pops open to tell her I donot, in fact, think about her when I'm shitting, but she moves along before I can defend my honor. “You could not have, for a single second, actually believed your obsession with her wouldn't eventually lead to S-E-X.”
I can only stare at her while I roll my tongue along my inner cheek, extremely unamused by her very misconstrued observations.
She gives me a sassy look, appearing satisfied with herself. “What, nothing to say now?”
“I have plenty to say. Are you going to actually listen now?”
She arches an expectant brow. I cross my arms.
“I don't think about her when I'm pooping.”
Her face falls flat with exasperation. “Yes, you do,” she states dryly. “Also not the point. You've been so far up her ass these past four years, it's a wonder you didn't visit next door to explore her vagina sooner.”
I glance at Junie, who's still too preoccupied to hear Olive’s slipup, then settle a narrow-eyed glare on my ex-best friend. “I'm sorry it's come down to this, but sometimes people just aren't meant to be. You keep the house. We'll set up a visitation schedule for Junie, and be cordial for hersake. And we'll have fond memories of one another moving forward.”
Olive snorts, her eyes glittering with amusement, unfazed by my breakup attempt, and offers a wry, “Cute.”
“Whatever,” I grumble, turning my stare toBluey. “Mark took care of the tape, and we might be done anyway after last night. Lionel called Reverie, and there were a few revelations.”
The mirth bleeds from her expression, replaced by a serious but gentler stare.
“Okay,” she says softly. “You want to tell me about these revelations?”
With a long-suffering sigh, I repeat the Cliffs Notes version of everything Reverie told me, obviously barring the details of when we were shoving our faces in each other’s genitals prior to Lionel’s phone call.
I can’t even think about that without my stomach flipping and chest squeezing painfully. There have been moments today where I was pissed off purely because I wanted to rewind to that moment so desperately, and I couldn’t.
Olive’s silent for a few long moments while she processes, sightlessly staring at the TV screen. Lionel murdered Olivia after Georgia, so I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fucking chomping at the bit to hear her thoughts and feelings.
I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping it’ll help me decide what to feel, too.
When Olive drags her stare back to mine, a light sheen of tears coats them, but she doesn’t appear angry, just sad. “That poor fucking girl.”
I nod, working to swallow, focusing hard on Junie to distract me from thinking about Rev’s story. It’s the wrong move, though, because I instantly realize I’m staring at a little girl almost the same exact age as Reverie when Regina drowned her. It feels like shoving a flamethrower down my throat before flipping it on, the burning waves billowing throughout my insides.
She’s so fuckingtiny. Still a baby, for Christ’s sake. And the version of Rev who witnessed the sheer brutality of Georgia’s murder is only three years older than her.
I quickly look away, needing to think of anything else before I explode.
“But that poor fucking boy, too, Kellan,” Olive says quietly, referring to the eight-year-old version of me. I bring my attention back to her.
She doesn’t even care that she’s slipped several times with curse words. Whether it’s distraction or Junie senses it’s not the right time, she keeps her focus pinned to her Busy House.
“You’re allowed to be angry,” she continues. “I won’t sit here and act like thatwhat-ifdidn’t run through my head too. But it’s just one of a million otherwhat-ifs.What if you made yourself known to Lionel when he came to pick Katherine up? What if you went to your friend’s house like you were supposed to and never saw Lionel, so he was never caught at all? What if Ididn’tgo to my friend’s house, so my mom would’ve had to stay home from the bar where she met Lionel? What if the entire world believed you? There are endless possibilities for what could’ve happened differently, but none of them change a damn thing.”
