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LIVVY
“You shouldn’t be sopicky, Olive.”
My sister still talks to me like I’m the little brat she’s been pushing around since we were kids.
Why did I take her call? It’s never the best way to start my day.
Actually, her calls are to be avoided any time of the day. I know this.
And yet.
Worse still are the warning bells jabbing at my already-irritated nerves. I spot Mrs. Perkins one block away. Headed right towards me.
I dart across the street, dodging a cab and a confused tourist on a rental bike, causing both to hit their brakes hard. It’s worth risking my life though, because Mrs. Perkins thinks nothing of asking me to expel her dog’s anal glands every time she sees me.
Because of this, her dog hates me and growls his displeasure whenever I’m around. If it wasn’t weird, I’d growl right back at him because I hate him and his anal glands too. I can’t blame him, though. I’d hate the person who poked at my backside on a regular basis.
Thank god I don’t have anal glandsis all I can think every time I work on some dog’s.
“Olive? Are you listening?”
Is my sister actually calling meOlive? Like she forgot the nickname I’ve used exclusively since I was in middle school? “Really? Really, Krista? We are having this conversationagain? And please stop calling me Olive. You’re not Mom.”
She sighs at full volume, just like my mother does when she’s frustrated. Two peas in a pod they are, even wearing matching outfits from time to time. I’ve tried explaining that twinning with your mom is something most grow out of when they are… I don’t know? Twelve years old?
But she’s not deterred. I’m surprised she doesn’t let Mom crawl right into her marriage bed.
“Okay.Livvy,”she draws out, like my nickname feels dirty in her mouth, “it’s just that Carter and I were talking and well, you know, you don’t have a lot of options. We both agree you should give Deck another chance.”
Oh for god’s sake. First, what kind of horrible parents name their kid ‘Deck,’ and second, is shestilltrying to match me with him?
I draw a slow, steady breath.I will not fight with her. I will not. “So you guys think I don’t have a lot of options? That’s nice, Krista. Nice of Carter too. Didn’t know you guys thought I was such a bottom-dweller. Thanks for clueing me in.”
I want to be angry, to rage, to tell her that she and her douchebag ‘hubby’, who make an insufferable couple I call Kritter—Krista plus Carter—can go to hell. But the lump in my throat would give away my hurt and anger, and if there’s one thing I don’t want to do right now, it’s give my perfect sister more power over me.
I lean against an anemic tree, one of several the city of New York planted on my street a couple years ago at the insistence of my local neighborhood group. I’m careful not to put much weight on it because the poor thing hasn’t done very well for itself—a light touch causes a cascade of leaves to flutter to the ground. They land on me, getting stuck in my struggle bun topknot, a style my sister never hesitates to tell me is lazy and sloppy.
I will away my tears so I can defend myself, and while I do, I watch Mrs. Perkins, thankfully on the opposite side of the street, meander with her anally-challenged pooch. With her terrible eyesight, she’ll never see me, so I really don’t need to hide, but I do because that makes me feel like less of a total asshole.
While Krista is extolling—again—the virtues of my brother-in-law’s nose-picking buddy, I spot a man hoofing it down the sidewalk at full speed.
This person, I don’t need to hide from. He will not ask me about anal glands. But I don’t want to meet his gaze, either. So, I hold the phone up to my ear and knit my brow like I’m on a very important call and cannot possibly acknowledge anyone else in the world. Not even if they are bleeding out in front of me, about to meet their maker.
Nope, sorry. Much too busy doing Very Important Things.
I always avoid this man, even though he makes my knees weak with his dark-wash denim jeans, white-soled dress shoes (all the rage among New York’s snappy dressers), and fitted vest over a white oxford shirt. I’ll never say hello, even though his rolled-up sleeves show off a crazy kaleidoscope of tattoos on some nicely muscular forearms, and his bushy hipster beard is trimmed to perfection.
I won’t interact with him, even though I know his name is Owen Whitlocke and he is one of the owners of the trendy and massively successful restaurant EastSide, right next door to my own shop, Pawsh Pets. I call him and his partners the bistro boys. They don’t know this, of course.
I also happen to know he’s twenty-nine years old, his parents went through a divorce when he was a kid, and he has twinkling hazel eyes, even though I’ve never actually seen them up close. Arthur, my neighbor and gay BFF shared these gems after dinner at EastSide one night where his sole intention was to determine which team Owen played for.
Newsflash—notArthur’s team, much to his disappointment.
But that means hedoesplay for my team, Arthur informed me, as if he were giving me Owen as some sort of gift.
Problem is, guys like Owen don’t date girls like me.
