Page 12 of Out of Place

I sigh. “Fine.”

“After I do these dishes, I’m going to work on my puzzle in the living room for a bit before bed. You’re welcome to join me,” she offers. A puzzle? I don’t think I’ve done a puzzle since I was three years old, and I have no desire to do it now. Is that what her life is? Farming, cooking, and doing lame puzzles? Nope. Hard pass on that.

“No, I think I’ll just go to bed,” I tell her.

“Alright,” she says, unbothered by my rejection

“Night.”

“Olivia?” she says right before I walk out. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I give her a small smile. I can’t say the same.

CHAPTER 5

Olivia

There’s a loud pounding on my bedroom door the next morning. I’m getting really tired of these harsh wake-ups.

“Get up, Olivia. Time to get to work.”

I groan and throw the ancient floral blanket off me. “I’m up,” I call out groggily.

“You gotta be in the kitchen in ten minutes,” Aunt Dottie tells me through the door. At least she’s keeping some boundaries and not barging in my room.

Ten minutes? “I can’t be ready in ten minutes.”

“You don’t have a choice.” She knocks once more. “Let’s go.”

I crawl out of bed and head to the bathroom. My curls are still intact from yesterday, so I comb through them quickly and respray with hairspray. I brush my teeth and do as much makeup as I can in the time I’m given, which ends up only being eyeshadow, mascara, and eyeliner.

I run to my room and grab a pair of the Walmart jeans and one of the oversized T-shirts Aunt Dottie insisted I get. I tie the shirt up, leaving my stomach showing to be more flattering, and put on the terrible boots.

My reflection makes me want to cry.

This is so not me, and I can’t believe my parents are making me do this.

“Olivia!” Aunt Dottie calls. I guess my time is up.

I hurry downstairs and meet her in the kitchen, where she shoves a cup of coffee at me.

“Is there dairy-free creamer in here?” I ask, peeking into the coffee cup. It doesn’t look like there’s much creamer at all.

“No creamer. It’s fresh milk from the cows on the farm.”

Gross. “Oh.”

“Do you have an allergy to dairy?” she asks, even though I’m sure she already knows the answer since I ate the cheese-drenched food she put on my plate last night at dinner.

“No, but—”

“Then drink the coffee.” I’m taken aback by her harshness this morning. She must be in work mode or something. I should’ve just said I had an allergy, but it’s too late now.

I take a sip of the almost-black coffee and nearly gag. She doesn’t seem to notice or maybe doesn’t care.

“Here’s your breakfast.” She hands me a tortilla filled with stuff.

“What is it?” I question. I’m not used to being handed food and just expected to eat it. I usually follow a meal plan that my trainer emails to my chef each week and is brought to me cooked and plated.