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laying all my life, and apparently, lost what I had left of my fucking mind while I was at it! What more do you want to know?!”
My yelling doesn’t faze her, which pisses me off, honestly. My brothers and I have always been able to intimidate people when we needed to, usually when concerning something with Lucy. Olivia doesn’t even seem to care that I raised my voice at her. She should be pissed. She doesn’t deserve to be yelled at, no girl does.
But she isn’t. She’s calm.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push too far. I just wanted you to talk about it because I have a feeling you haven’t. You hardly ever talk about anything meaningful. I mean, seriously, who do you call when you have a bad day? Who do you call when you need to complain or rant or share something amazing that happened that day? Who do you talk to, Corey?”
My answer is short and simple. “I don’t need to talk.”
“Everyone does, including you.”
“Are you a therapist now?”
She smirks for some reason. “Not today, but someday I will be. It’s the job I’m earning a degree for.” Son of a bitch. That’s why she smirked.
“Well, I don’t need to be your test subject.”
“Okay. I’ll leave you alone.” She pauses before adding, “for now. Grab the plates from that cabinet.”
I’m still pissed, but she’s moved on. How can she so easily move from one emotion to the next? I’m in a constant battle over mine, trying to rein them in and control them. It’s nearly impossible, but Olivia has no problem doing it herself.
Sighing, I retrieve the plates. She fills them with noodles and sauce before grabbing utensils and we sit down at the bar. Olivia infuriates me. She pushes and prods and makes it seem normal for her to do so. She does it all with few objections from me. Why? Because I can’t find it in myself to tell her to go away like I did before? Because maybe, just maybe, I want her to push.
As we eat, Olivia doesn’t say anything. At first, it doesn’t bother me, but the longer she’s quiet, the more it does. Probably because Lucy’s silence, her refusal to talk after my parents died, has always haunted me. Every time she gets upset now, she goes quiet. I can’t stand it. Is it possible that Olivia’s not talking because she’s upset I yelled at her and she’s going to stop trying? We can still have a conversation.
“You aren’t going to talk to me now?” My question is soft and gentle. It comes out almost apologetic, which wasn’t my intention.
“Every time I do, you get pissed. I’m sick of it, actually. All I’m trying to do is help you, to make you want to be helped.” She pokes at the pasta. “Maybe it’s time I learn I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”
I let her words stew in my mind for a bit before deciding to change topics completely. “You know, I don’t think my sister would classify this as fun.” Even though I’m only across the hall in an apartment laid out exactly like mine, I’m ready to go home. “Maybe we can take the racing game over to my side of the hall and play before I have to go to work?”
“Only if you don’t kick me out because you lose,” she smiles.
I really wish I had the same capability she does with controlling her emotions and moving on from one to the other. The exhaustion starts to settle in my bones, but I try to ignore it and focus on Olivia’s ridiculous competitiveness.
WHILE I’M AT work, absolutely ready to go home, I get a text.
Olivia: My heat stopped working. Repairman is taking FOREVER. Can I hang at your place? Brrrrrrrr. I’m freezing.
Me: Sure, but you’ll have to be a genius to find my hiding spot for the spare key.
Olivia: Ha! Found it! I must be a genius. ;) Remember that.
I laugh and work goes by a little faster. Before I can get home though, she texts again.
Olivia: Won’t be fixed until tomorrow…so…can I crash here again? :)
Me: You’re needy, you know. But yeah. You can have my bed.
Olivia: Oooh. I’m moving up in the world. Last time it was the couch. But, just kidding. You can have your bed. I’m already invading your space. Couch is good.
Me: Take the bed. I’m trying to be nice here. You aren’t helping.
Olivia: Okay, okay. Fine. Thank you.
I’m distracted by a fight and end up forgetting all about my houseguest until I walk into my room and see her lying in my bed on her stomach, asleep. Why does she even need her heat to work when she’s kicked off the covers and she’s only wearing a long-sleeved shirt, her panties hugging her ass. I stop short when I see her, swallowing hard at the sight of her.
For a few seconds longer, I let my eyes linger, traveling to memorize how she looks before quietly walking over and covering her back up. She should have pajama pants on. I push the images out of my head. Or, I attempt to do so while trying not to make any noise as I change and get ready to sleep on the couch.
