“Separate or together?” the barista asks.
“Separate,” I say at the same time Olivia says, “Together.”
She turns to me. “Don’t worry, I got it.” I start to protest, but Olivia’s already focused on her order. “Iced mocha for me,” she says. “With oat milk.”
“I’ll have a small latte. Regular milk.”
The barista taps a few buttons on the screen, then looks up. “That’ll be twelve fifty.”
I fight all of the urges telling me to reach for my wallet. I’ve always been allergic to anyone spotting me. When Ethan and I go out, I insist we split, even down to the nickel. He once asked me what the deal was, why he couldn’t grab sandwiches for us or why I insisted on paying him back. I’d never thought too deeply about it, but once he asked, the answer was obvious: I never wanted to feel like I owed someone something, even if it was only Ethan, who did nice things for me all the time.
Even now, six months later, I still think about what he said next.“It makesmefeel good to take you out,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t need me for anything. Like if I disappeared for a few days, you’d be fine.” At the time, I didn’t respond with what I really wanted to say, which wasOf course I would be fine. I don’t need you. I want you, and isn’t that better?But I said none of those things and instead let him cover our tab at the diner.
I fiddle with the strap on my tote bag to stop myself from making this whole thing weirder when Olivia sucks in a breath of air.
“Shoot,” she says, rummaging around in her tote. “I must have forgotten my wallet. Oh my god, I’m mortified.”
I reach into my bag. “Don’t worry.” I slip out a twenty and slide it across the counter. “You can get next time.”
“Sure.” Red splotches form on Olivia’s neck, and her jaw tenses.
When we collect our coffees and walk outside, she says, “I’m really sorry. I’ve been so absent-minded since Billy died.”
I wave my hand in front of me. “It’s coffee. Don’t worry.” Besides, I’m just grateful to talk about anything that’s not Ethan so clearly claiming me as his in the coffee shop. Olivia looks like she wants to melt onto the concrete. I rest my hand on her forearm and stop walking. “Seriously. Forget about it.”
She stops, too, and her eyes search mine like she wants to say something else, but instead she nods once, and says, “Okay.” Her mouth forms a smile. “You know, I always thought that people change so much from year to year, but you’re the same. Very ‘no bullshit.’ It’s what I always liked about you.”
The skin on the back of my neck tingles but I ignore the sensation. “We can’t really change who we are,” I say. “At least you put in a nice way. Ethan says I need to let other people do things for me sometimes. Make other people feel needed.” As soon as I say thewords, I want to take them back. There’s no reason in the world I should let her in on that aspect of our relationship.
Olivia laughs, leaning her head back and exposing the soft, long part of her neck to the sun. “I don’t think that’s a very good reason to let people do things for you.”
“What’s a good one, then?”
“Because you trust them.”
A spring pulls apart inside my chest, and I take a sip of my latte to keep my teeth from grinding together.
Olivia tilts her head. “Do you think I’ve changed much since you last saw me?”
“I don’t know. We’ve barely spoken.” Which is by design. It’s not like I’ve spent my out-of-work hours trying to track her down to hang out. In fact, it’s probably best if we spend as little time together as possible.
“Fair,” she says. “I have, though. Changed.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m not interested in playing pretend anymore,” she says. I want to ask her what she means, but Olivia skips ahead, pulling the door open to Mayor Cho’s office. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go inside.”
The first half of the workday goes by in a blur of press releases and meetings with Anjali, who dumped a dozen files on our desks for our property records project. As I pore over document after document, I barely have time to think about what Olivia said. Well, that’s not true. I’mchoosingnot to think about it, not to let the words sink deep, deep into my brain.
Because you trust them.
I’m only interrupted by incoming texts from Erica, who has been sending the strangest messages, checking in constantly.
Have you heard anything new? What do you know? Are your sisters saying anything?
They’re cryptic and desperate, as if knowing what people are saying might change what’s happened. I keep telling her the same thing:I haven’t heard anything, but I’ll let you know if I do.
I turn back to the folder on my desk and get ready to file it quickly, just like the others. But then I realize it’s not just a simple property record but a whole stack of papers clipped together. The front page saysVREELAND V. GODWIN.
