Page 120 of Oliver

It’s still quiet when I emerge and I pause at the threshold to Maeve’s room, glancing down the hall. There are two closed doors and one of them is Oliver’s. Dare I?

With a shrug, I try the door on the left and quickly shut it when I find what must be the master bedroom. I have zero desire to stand in Mr. and Mrs. G’s space although it probably would provide some information into their weird ass lives.

When I open the door beyond, Oliver’s unique scent assails my nostrils and I inhale deeply before exhaling on a sigh. Curiously, I close the door behind me and lean against it.

Truthfully, I wouldn’t know this is his room if it didn’t smell distinctly of him because there’s nothing here. Just a bed and a dresser. There are no mementos, dirty clothes, decorations, nothing.

Did he move out? No, I confirm when I open the drawers and stare at his clothes arranged neatly within. His closet contains jackets and shoes but strangely not a single freaking box.

It’s like, he comes home to change and leaves. Once again, I’m stymied by this enigmatic guy and shake my head. Is there anything normal about Oliver? Shit.

I’m tempted to sit down because despite the sterile environment, I feel closer to him here but I’m afraid Mrs. G will find me and I’m not about to go down that road.

Instead, I look both ways before going back down the hall. As I approach Maeve’s room though, I see the door to the master bedroom is now open.

My heart jumps into my throat and I slow before backtracking when I hear Mrs. G in the room. Shit.

Before I know it, I’m back in Oliver’s room. With a trickle of panic, I look around only to startle when a tap sounds on the door and Mrs. G says, “Dinner.”

Busted. I guess I was fooling no one when it came to my snooping. Oops.

Where the fuck is Oliver? Am I supposed to sit across the dining table from her alone?

Hysteria clogs my throat and I engage in a coughing fit before saying, “Um, okay.”

Get yourself together. Shit. You can do this. You’re the queen of fake bitches, or at least you used to be. Mrs. G doesn’t have shit on that.

She’s gone when I open the door and after looking both ways, I tiptoe down the hall. I don’t know why because she’s already found me out.

Curling my sticky palms into fists, I spy the dining table from the stairs and poke my head around the corner.

Mrs. G raises tired eyes to mine, and I avert my gaze. It shouldn’t be a surprise but clearly, she’s suffering too. Is it her husband behind bars? Maeve’s absence?

She nods at the table, and I pull out a chair, sitting down before the plate of food. I can’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal and my mouth waters.

As soon as she’s across from me, I take a tentative bite and moan my pleasure. Her lips curl into a humorless smile but I’m so hungry, I disregard it as I stuff my face.

That is until she speaks again, and I freeze, the fork halfway to my mouth. “Did you moan like that when you fucked my son?”

“Um,” I whisper, setting the utensil on the plate.

“Or maybe that was reserved for my husband?”

I knew this was a bad fucking idea, but I’m trapped and raising my chin, I say, “I’m so—“

“Don’t bother. I’m not interested in your sorry,” she says, and takes a bite of her food.

I’ve now lost whatever appetite I might have had but I sense that if I leave, she’ll have won, although I’m not sure it’s much of a prize. Still, I remain, woodenly shoving food in my mouth.

When her plate is clean, she sets the fork beside her napkin and says, “Let’s play a little game.”

“What?”

“It’s called, pretend my son didn’t bring a whore into my home. Have you ever played it before?”

I shake my head. I mean I have no good response. I’m fucking speechless.

“No? You’re in for a treat.” She pushes back her chair and stands. Shame spirals through me when her breath hitches and I avert my gaze which is why I’m not prepared for the water tossed in my face.

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