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Ignoring her question because there is no way in fuck I’m getting into that right now, I arch a brow.
“Why does your possum have a baby bottle, Olive?”
She gasps, covering said possum's snout with her little hands. “This isn’t for Robert. How could you even suggest that?” I point toward the obvious signs.
“You have a baby bottle strapped to the infant carrier he’s snoozing in.” Because, of course, my best friend is wearing her pet possum like a baby. She hardly goes anywhere without the damn marsupial. “It’s a valid assumption. Has he gone off the solids or something?”
Oli releases her protective hold on the creature and snatches the whole-ass baby bottle from the corresponding compartment on the strappy contraption. Waving it in the air between us, she grins.
“It’s a mojito.”
I grin back. She’s such an adorable weirdo.
“Where’d you get the booze?”
Giving me an exasperated sigh, she tips her head back and waterfalls the drink into her mouth with a sloppy squirt like some kind of frat dude doing a kegger.
“I’m a nineteen-year-old orphan crouching in my grandmother's house. Where do you think I got it?”
“Grandma Helen’s liquor cabinet,” we say in unison. My head tilts to the side as the rest of her statement sinks in. “Wait. Crouching?” I ask, my brows furrowed. She nods rapidly and drops down in a crouch as if that explains everything.
“You know. Like staying somewhere when you’re not supposed to be.” She jumps up and shrugs. “Crouching.”
“You mean squatting?” I cackle, taking another drink of my wine. Her eyes narrow through the thin slits of her mask. Her mouth opens and closes for a second before she finally scoffs.
“Whatever. Same thing.” Nodding, I agree, leaning further over the sink to see her better. “Where’d you get yours?” Her fingers come up to pet the top of Robert’s head absently as she takes another swig from her bottle.
Clicking my tongue, I ignore the small flicker of guilt that swirls in my chest.
“It was left over from the 4th of July picnic.” She nods like she expected that answer.
“So the church cellar.”
“The church cellar,” I agree, grimacing.
I’d pilfered the bottle after Clover had left. In my defense, the church cellar is full of donations from various fundraisers. We usually bring them out at weddings or parties hosted on the premises. But the wine rarely gets chosen, the people of Divinity preferring beer and spiked punch over anything that can be deemed fancy. Therefore, I feel justified in my stolen contraband.
“So,” I drawl, crossing my arms over my chest as I lean against the counter. “What’s all this? And why didn’t you just use the front door? You know I’m home alone this week.”
“Didn’t fit the vibe.” She scoffs.
“And what vibe would that be?”
She throws me a massive smile that looks creepy as hell in the shadowy light. “A B&R.”
Sometimes, hanging out with Olive is like trying to decipher the dictionary in another language with your eyes closed and your head buried in sand.
“Try again,” I coax. “Use your words, Oli.” She gives me a judgmental look.
“It’s a B&R, Evie. Those are the words. God, do your research before the next brief. You’re embarrassing Robert.” She points at the possum with a huff.
I toss my hands up in apology, barely able to keep my laughter in as I speak. “I’m so sorry, Robbie. I’ll come prepared next time.” Oli nods, petting the still-slumbering animal.
“Since you’re new at this, I suppose I’ll fill in the gaps.” She glowers at me. “Just this once.”
“Thank you, oh magnanimous one.” I mock a bow.
She tosses the little tendrils of green hair poking out beneath her hat over her shoulder. They don’t move, but she doesn't notice or care.
