Page 3 of Mile High Heist

More silence.

The Old-Olivia would’ve called her out on it. Why are you being so weird? I would’ve demanded. Talk to me, dammit.

But I lived in a constant state of worry that I would push her too far. My worst fear was losing her again. The memory of her empty room still sent bolts of cold panic through my body.

The grim reality was that she wasn’t back. Not really. Her body was present, but her mind was somewhere else. Sometimes, she stared at me like she was looking through me, and I wondered what terrible things she was remembering.

Then I hoped I’d never find out.

Another awkward silence made me fidget. Something thumped in the background.

“What was that?” I asked.

Molly waited a beat before answering. “Nothing.”

“Where are you? There’s a weird echo.”

Molly released another, barely-there chuckle. “Mom’s redecorating. The energy of the house is off, apparently.”

That didn’t surprise me. Our parents were a class act in emotional avoidance. Depressed? Take a pill. Anxious? Book a trip. Kidnapped? Traumatized? Addicted to narcotics?

Yeah, that went well beyond our conflict-averse parents. It made lying to them so much easier. They didn’t even ask questions when I told them I’d booked an impromptu ‘spa retreat’ with some friends from college. As long as I was quiet and not breaking the law or besmirching the family name, I was given a free pass.

Boy, if only they knew…

After a few more minutes of painfully awkward small talk, I called it. “Hey, so, I have to go. But I love you.”

“I know,” she said, another quick, automatic response. I waited pointedly, and she sighed like I was pulling her teeth out. “I love you too, weirdo.”

I smiled and hung up.

A dark-haired girl suddenly collapsed into the chair beside me. I startled again, dropping my phone into my lap. The girl released a quiet sigh, one I recognized intimately—the sigh of the personally eviscerated.

“God, what a bitch,” she said, glaring at Lucille, who was still mid-rant. “She must be a hoot at the Christmas party.”

I instantly liked her. I turned in my chair, tucking my leg up beneath me. “I strongly suspect she irons her wrapping paper.”

The girl, whose name tag said 'Julie', grinned like I just handed her a loaded gun.

“I bet she never tips,” Julie said, mimicking my position. She moved gracefully, like a dancer. She had a perfect ponytail devoid of any flicks or bumps. Mine was held together by three cans of hairspray and way too many pins. I’d mourn my bald spot later.

“I bet she’s never eaten an empty carb in her entire life,” I said.

Julie’s eyes sparkled. “I bet she’s on every no-call list in America.”

“I bet she thinks those knock-off Louboutins are fooling everyone.”

Julie’s brows flew up. “How do you know they’re fake?”

I grinned like a Cheshire cat as I kicked my foot. “Mine are real.”

Julie burst into laughter, then quickly slapped a hand over her mouth. “Shit,” she murmured, her eyes widening. “Is she looking?”

I hazarded a glance. “Double shit.”

We waited, but when there was no approaching click of heels on the warpath, we relaxed and continued the game. By the time we were expected at the gate, Lucille was a chronic gambler with slightly racist tendencies who had a secret manifesto detailing her many sordid affairs.

“I like you,” Julie declared, bumping her hip into mine as we wheeled our suitcases down the crew terminal. “We’re going to be great friends.”