Page 54 of All The Pretty Little Lies

“Take a seat. Want some coffee?”

“Sure?”

He retrieves a mug from the cabinet and pours me a cup. He hands it over to me and goes back to the stove. With practiced efficiency, Oscar slides a perfectly cooked omelet onto a plate, the edges golden and crisp, the center promising a creamy decadence. He sets it before me, the aroma of herbs and cheese wafting up tantalizingly. Our fingers brush as he passes me a fork, and I feel a jolt of electricity at the brief contact. His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment, a storm of unspoken words swirling in their depths, before he turns away.

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, disappearing down the hallway toward his room. The soft click of his door echoes in the quiet kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the steaming plate before me.

I stare at the omelet, my appetite warring with the knot of frustration in my stomach. The yellow of the eggs seems too bright, too cheerful for the melancholy that has settled over me. I push the food around with my fork, creating abstract patterns in the creamy surface as if I could divine answers from the swirls and valleys.

Oscar returns, now clad in a fitted black t-shirt that does little to diminish the effect of his presence. He moves with the grace of a predator, all controlled power and fluid motion, as he settles into the chair across from me. The table between us feels like an ocean, vast and impassable.

We eat in silence, the only sounds are the scrape of forks against plates and the distant crash of waves against the shore. I steal glances at him between bites, trying to decipher the puzzle of his expression. His jaw is set, a muscle ticking there betraying some inner tension. His eyes remain fixed on his plate as if the secrets of the universe are hidden in the folds of his omelet.

As I finish the last bite of my omelet, I find myself staring out the window at the sun-drenched beach beyond. The sand glitters like a carpet of diamonds, and the waves roll in with a hypnotic rhythm, their foam-tipped crests beckoning invitingly. A flock of seagulls wheel overhead, their cries carrying on the salt-laden breeze that rustles the curtains. Oscar clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. His eyes, usually so guarded, now hold a flicker of something I can't quite place. "Are you going down to the beach with Z today?" he asks, his tone deceptively casual.

There's something in the way he says it that sets my teeth on edge. Is it the slight emphasis on 'Z', or the barely perceptible tightening around his eyes? Whatever it is, it strikes a discordant note in the morning's fragile harmony.

I take a slow sip of my coffee, using the moment to study him over the rim of my mug. The tension in his shoulders, the wayhis fingers drum an erratic beat on the table, it all speaks of an agitation he's trying hard to conceal.

"I haven’t made any plans yet," I reply carefully, setting my mug down with deliberate gentleness. "Why do you ask?"

Oscar shrugs, the movement too studied to be natural. "Just curious. You two seem to have made it a habit."

There it is again, that undercurrent of something. Jealousy? Concern? I can't quite put my finger on it, but it makes me bristle.

"Well," I say, meeting his gaze squarely, "You could go with me."

The words hang in the air between us, a challenge and an invitation rolled into one. Oscar's eyes widen fractionally, surprise flitting across his features before he schools them back into neutrality.

For a moment, I think he might refuse. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring, filled with unspoken words and half-formed thoughts. Then, just as I'm about to retract my offer, a slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his features.

"I'd like that," he says softly, and suddenly the tension in the room dissipates like morning mist under the sun's warmth.

Oscar rises from his chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the tile floor. He gathers our plates with practiced ease, the porcelain clinking gently as he stacks them before depositing them in the sink.

"Give me a second to grab my shoes and a hoodie," Oscar says, his voice low and warm. "Then we can head out."

I nod, watching as he disappears down the hallway. In his absence, I find myself drawn to the window, gazing out at the beach beyond. The sand stretches out like a pale golden carpet, meeting the tumultuous blue-gray of the ocean. White-capped waves crash against the shore in a relentless rhythm, sending sprays of foam into the air.

Oscar returns, now wearing a pair of well-worn sneakers and carrying a dark blue hoodie. "Ready?" he asks, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

We step out onto the porch, the wooden boards creaking softly beneath our feet. The air is crisp and salty, carrying the plaintive cries of seagulls overhead. As we make our way down the weathered steps and sandy path through the tall weeds, I can't help but steal glances at Oscar.

I find myself comparing him to his twin. Where Zaire is all sharp edges, Oscar moves with a calm assurance that seems to still the very air around him. Z's presence fills a room, demanding attention, while Oscar's is more subtle – a quiet strength that you don't notice until it envelops you completely. The wind ruffles his dark hair, shorter than his twin's, emphasizing the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones.

The sand shifts beneath our feet as we reach the shoreline, the grains cool and damp in the morning air. I wrap my arms around myself, a shiver running through me as a particularly strong gust cuts through my thin shirt. Oscar glances over, concern etching lines around his eyes.

Without a word, he shrugs off his hoodie, revealing a sliver of toned abdomen as his shirt rides up. He holds it out to me, his expression softening. "Here," he says, his voice low and warm. "You look cold."

I hesitate for a moment before accepting the offered garment. As I slip it on, I'm enveloped in warmth that goes beyond mere physical comfort. Oscar's scent surrounds me – a heady mixture of sandalwood and sea salt. The hoodie is far too big, the sleeves falling past my fingertips, but I've never felt more secure.

"Thank you," I murmur, nestling deeper into the soft fabric. Oscar's eyes linger on me, a strange mix of emotions swirling intheir depths. For a moment, I think he might say something, but instead, he simply nods and turns back to the sea.

Oscar's presence beside me is steady and constant, his stride matching mine effortlessly. The wind has tousled his hair, giving him a boyish charm that softens his usually serious demeanor. I find my gaze drawn to the strong line of his jaw and the curve of his neck disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt.

After a while, Oscar breaks the silence. "So, what do you usually do out here with Z?" His tone is carefully neutral, but I catch the slight tensing of his shoulders as he mentions his brother's name.

"We talk, mostly," I reply, watching a seagull dive into the waves. "Usually about nonsense. Yesterday, we had a heated debate about whether a hot dog is a sandwich."

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