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And when she stretches her arms and lets out a yawn—
Well, it's only natural my eyes go to her bare stomach.
It doesn't mean anything.
It's not like I'm desperate to touch her. Not at all.
"Don't eat too much," I say as I set a plate of eggs in front of her. "You need room for the veggie meatballs."
Her nose scrunches in distaste.
"I will if you will." I hold out my hand.
"We suffer together?"
"Yeah."
"We could just not suffer."
"Where's the fun in that?"
She shakes.
Chapter Thirteen
Luna
Mid-morning on a Friday, the traffic is light.
We zip down the 405 in Oliver's car, to the sounds of some Nirvana album, and the sights of sun-bleached concrete.
All this time to design the perfect room.
Since my bedroom—the one I designed over the last eighteen years—is no longer a perfect space.
I shouldn't complain. I'm an adult. Plenty of people leave the house the day they turn eighteen. Or sooner. When they're way too young.
Maybe I don't have my parents' emotional support, but I do have their financial support.
Physically, my house is a perfectly safe place.
Is it really so bad it's an emotional landmine?
That I have to watch my parents sell our house, argue over assets, ask me where I want to stay on Thanksgiving and Christmas?
I'm the one that gets to choose.
I'm the one that has to hurt them.
One of them.
I close my eyes. Focus on the warmth of the sun. The softness of my tank top. The steady mumble of the music.
There isn't much I'll say in favor of Kurt Cobain, but damn did the guy know how to project an uncomfortable numb.
Oliver's fingers tap the steering wheel. He's quiet.
He's usually quiet. Even now that we're spending all this time together, drinking our morning coffees, making dinner, watching The Bachelorette—
He's always there, quiet and steady and sure.
Only, right now, he's not.
He's frantic. Well, by Oliver standards.
He's tapping too fast. Like he's got no other way to unleash his energy.
Light floods my senses as I open my eyes. It's way too bright. Sunglasses now.
Even if they make it harder to understand Oliver's expression.
There's something on his mind. I have no idea what it is. And I want to know. Too much. Way too much.
Not falling for my best friend's brother.
My new roomie.
The only person in my life who doesn't want to convince me to let Mom's affair go.
I motion to the stereo. "Isn't this enough misery?"
"There's a limit?"
My laugh is light. Easy. "For you, no. But for me. The pain of listening to Nirvana… it's all I can take."
"You want to play Lorde, don't you?"
I press my hands together. "Please."
His eyes flit from the road to me. "Are you begging?"
"If that's what it will take." I hold up my hands. "Please, Oliver Flynn, the powerful and merciful. Please change the music to Lorde before I go insane and pick up your cell and toss it out the window because that's the only way to stop this awful grunge music."
"Well, when you put it like that." He shakes his head you're ridiculous and hands me his cell.
"Thanks." My fingers brush his as I take it. Mmm. His hand just feels good. Warm and strong. I already want it everywhere.
And I am not thinking about that. Nope. Music. Songs.
I'm playing one. Something.
Melodrama. Right. There. I pull it up on Spotify. Cut Kurt off mid-sentence in favor of my favorite Kiwi songstress.
Green Light flows through the speakers.
"Ah… so much better, don't you think?" I hold the cell to my chest. Lean back in the chair. Let my shoulders soften. Maybe everything else is fucked up. But I have music. I have a friend who will go to Ikea with me. I even have a lunch of veggie meatballs to fear.
Oliver's eyes flit to me again. He takes in my expression with a smile. Shakes his head. "Terrible." But his smile only gets wider.
Every song, he shakes his head terrible.
Every time, his smile gets a little wider.
We park, climb the stairs to the second floor, scan the fake rooms for possible furniture.
"You could take Daisy's room, you know?" Oliver steps into a fake studio bedroom. It's tiny. Only a futon, a TV, a two-person table, two chairs, a fake sink, microwave, stove.
"She said the same thing." I follow him into the space. Not that there's much of it. He's right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to push onto the couch and mount. "But it's hers. I don't want her to feel like she can't come home."
He nods. "I think that too. About moving."
I run my fingers over the futon. Black. Soft. Not at all supportive. "That she'd visit less."
"Wouldn't she?" His voice softens.
"I don't know. She could still see you. But she… she'd be disappointed."
"I know." He shakes his head of course she would. Sits on the cheap futon. Pats the spot next to him. "This is probably what I could afford. If I want to move into a place near the shop."
