I’m avoiding Olivia like the plague. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want her around. But really I think I’m avoiding her because she has this annoying habit of drawing me out of my bad mood. That scares the crap out of me.
It’s a little before dawn, and normally we’d be meeting for our daily walk/run. Today, though, I’m letting her go alone. Today is one of those days when I don’t feel worthy to be alive, much less enjoying life with a beautiful girl. Not when my friends are dead. Not when Amanda Skinner spends half her nights sleeping upright in a chair in a hospital room while her daughter’s lying in the bed, hooked up to tubes.
I watch from the office window as Olivia looks around for me. I wait for her to start off on her run, but she doesn’t. She’s just standing there, waiting for me, and damned if I don’t ache a little to go out there with her. I want to let her cajole me into walking or, as she’s been doing more recently, challenge me to take a couple of steps without the cane.
Instead I turn away, flipping blindly through the pages of my book until I look up and see that she’s gone.
I intentionally go to the gym before she gets back. Most days we go together. We’ve fallen into a pattern. I let her coax me into stupid leg exercises in exchange for another piece of information about herself. Generally I enjoy it, although I’m starting to get pretty sick of all her responses being of the PR variety. So far she’s told me absolutely nothing about the real Olivia Middleton.
Today, however, I don’t want to be cajoled out of my bad mood. Lately there have been too many times when I forget who I am. I’ve been slipping into the old Paul, the one who could flirt and laugh with girls. I need a day to remind myself of the new Paul, the one who should have died with the rest of them in the fucking sandbox.
After the gym, avoiding Olivia for the rest of the day is easy enough, but when four o’clock rolls around, I hesitate. Of all the habits we’ve established, the routine of reading by the fire is the one I enjoy the most. And it’s for that reason that I force myself to lock the door, even turning up the music so I won’t have to listen to her knock or the rattling of the doorknob.
Eventually an hour passes, and then another, and I manage to lose myself in my book.
But when my stomach rumbles, I realize my mistake: I’m hungry.
I naively thought Olivia would leave a tray outside my bedroom door when I didn’t respond to her knock at lunch. I was wrong. And the absence of so much as a sandwich made Olivia’s message clear: if I want to sulk alone, I’ll do so without food.
That was fine at breakfast. And lunch. But now? Now I’m starving, and the smell of something meaty and spicy coming from the kitchen is too much for my stomach to ignore.
As expected, Olivia’s in the kitchen, only she’s not wearing a cute little apron or looking all frazzled from throwing together whatever’s bubbling on the stove. Instead, she’s wearing tight black pants, high-heeled boots, and a flowing, expensive-looking shirt that is clearly not meant for lounging around the house.
This is not domestic Olivia. It’s going-out Olivia.
“Going somewhere?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from her ass.
She spins around, opening her mouth as though to ask where the hell I’ve been all day, but she catches herself and fixes a vacant smile on her face.
“Hey. I hope you like chili,” she says. “It’s a little spicy, but enough cheddar cheese on top should tone it down.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say, noting that she’s spent more time on her makeup. She’s done that thing that girls do to make their eyes darker and more mysterious, and her mouth is pink and glossy.
“Hot date?” I ask, still fishing.
“Yeah,” she says with a snort. “I’ve met so many great guys since I’ve been holed up here in your house. The really hospitable and friendly type.”
I move toward her under the guise of inspecting the pot on the stove, but she sidles away before I can get close. Smart girl.
She grabs her purse.