Page 109 of Over the Edge

I knock when I reach the door at the end of the hall. After a moment I hear the familiar sound of Oliver’s voice. “It’s probably just housekeeping. I’ll tell them we’ll be inside all day so they don’t come back if you’re sleeping or something.”

The door opens and Oliver fills the gap with his body. He’s in sweats and wearing blue light glasses that have that yellowish tint, so he must be doing work. There’s a second before he seems to register that it’s me and not housekeeping and he nearly shuts the door.

“Ev. Wow,” he stammers then pulls the door a little more closed. “Didn’t expect you to stop by.”

“Well, I still need to pick up the clothes you guys borrowed from the other night and I brought ginger tea. I forgot to tell you to get it while we were at the store,” I say and hold up the drink carrier. “Brought you something too, didn’t want you to be left out.”

“Thanks.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask. I rise up onto my toes to look over Oliver’s shoulder. A bolt of confusion courses through me when I spot two full beds. “What—”

“Oh, thank God.” Quinn joins us and forces the door open. She’s in an oversized shirt, and probably shorts, but the shirt is so long that it hovers at mid-thigh. A hand is propped on her lower back, a sign that her cramps are still giving her hell.

“Here.” I hold out the cup with her tea and she grabs it greedily.

“Hmm,” she hums with the first sip. “If you were to ask me to drink this medicinal tasting shit any other time I’d hate it, but while my uterus is actively out to kill me, it is my favorite thing in the world.”

“Can I stay for a bit? Watch TV or something?” I ask. Since dinner a few nights ago I’ve been hoping to spend more time with just the three of us, just to see how things are without Garrett as a buffer. If I do go back to Nashville, it’ll be the three of us. With Garrett’s work situation up in the air I know he could join me, but that would be too much to ask. Still, after the last few days of writing with him, I’m more conflicted than ever. It’s addictive. I want to write like this with him over and over again.

Quinn waves me in. “Sure.”

A low-budget Christmas rom-com is frozen on the screen, the female lead encountering a smalltown baker/carpenter/coffee shop owner. Quinn climbs on the bed then repositions the hot pad Oliver and I got her last night so it’s under her back. In the far corner, Oliver’s computer is set up on a massive oak writingdesk. Then there’s the second bed which has obviously been used. Did Quinn not want to sleep next to him last night? I know some people like to sleep alone, but I know that’s not the case for either of them.

“Can I?” I ask, pointing to the empty bed.

“Go for it,” Oliver says as he pulls the chair from his desk to face the TV.

“Did they have too many beds or something?” I ask, gesturing between where Quinn and I are reclining. Okay, so maybe bulldoze right into a conversation.

“It’s what they had available. A shame, but we’re making do. Isn’t that right, sweetpea?” Oliver maintains his usual playful lilt to the pet name he calls her, but there’s something unreadable in the shift of his eyes.

Quinn shakes her head. “That’s not what happened.”

“What?” I ask just as Oliver says, “Quinn…”

“No. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you calling me terrible food nicknames,” Quinn snaps.

Oliver frantically glances between Quinn and me, eyes wide and words flying out of him. “We should have talked about this.”

“I tried to. I didn’t want to do this in the first place, but you were the one who grabbed my hand. You were the one who said it would be best to make it less awkward. But I’ve been so stressed that my period came late. When were you planning on stopping anyway? A month? A year?” Quinn demands.

“I bet there’s a jewelry shop around here, who says we need to stop? I mean, it would cut down on rent to move in together.” Oliver shrugs.

“Should I go?” I look between them, feeling the need to bolt as tension boils over.

“No,” Quinn says to me before her attention returns to Oliver. “Be serious.”

“Fine. I was impulsive, but it worked, right?” he counters.

I hold my hands up to stop whatever's going on before I get even more lost. “Can we slow the hell down. What’s worked?”

“Us pretending to date,” Quinn says.

Pretending? That’s what this is? But…I scramble to restructure the last week around this new information. Quinn’s insistence on leaving the other night. The hushed discussions. All the moments of hesitancy and discomfort that I misread as them not knowing how to act around me, were them putting on an act.

“Great minds think alike.” The words slip out as my brain plays a game of connect-the-dots in the shape of our current reality.

“What?” Quinn and Oliver ask in near unison. Quinn’s face pinches with confusion while Oliver’s features brighten with excitement.

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