Page 85 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Lucian: I prefer “influencing her with charm and charisma.”
Olivia: You once gave her a slice of pizza because she looked “emotionally neglected.”
Lucian: She was emotionally neglected. You told her she couldn’t have your sandwich.
Olivia: Because she already ate half my lunch.
Lucian: A queen takes what she wants. She learned that from you.
Olivia: You’re not helping your case.
Lucian: I’m not trying to. I’m just trying to get joint custody of our overachieving, sass-filled, pizza-loving, genius pup.
Olivia: Fine. But you get her during finals week. I’m not dealing with her when she’s stressed and shedding everywhere.
Lucian: Deal. I’ll help her prep for her poetry exam. I’m very good at sonnets. Especially the ones that rhyme bark with dark.
Olivia: That’s . . . honestly your brand.
Lucian: Coming soon: Bark Side of the Moon, an original collection by Sarah Crawford, edited by Lucian “Shameless” Crawford.
Olivia: You’re exhausting.
Lucian: I might be, but it’s fun to make up stories about Sarah with you. You wouldn’t give her a pizza or sandwich, would you?
Olivia: Only if I prepared them specially for her.
Lucian: You need to stop cooking her food. That’s what kibble is for.
Olivia: This is why she’ll end up liking me better. Our cooking sessions are the best.
Lucian: Hey, as much as I would like to keep this conversation going, I have to get up and head to camp. Don’t forget moving day is today.
Olivia: Don’t remind me. I’m not ready. Jacob said I didn’t have to lift a finger, but I’m still overwhelmed.
Lucian: It’ll be okay. Text if you need me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Olivia
Between Boxes and Almosts
I’m not saying I’m on the verge of a breakdown, but I’m currently wearing a full-body wrap of bubble plastic and yelling at a dog with a cardboard box on her head.
So, yes. This is going well. Perfectly fine . . . I swear it’s like I moved into a different reality.
“Sarah,” I call out, swatting away a piece of packing tape that’s somehow attached itself to my elbow. “You can’t just—okay, no, not the shoe bin—ugh, that’s the good pair.”
She barrels past me, tail high, that ridiculous box still wedged over her head as if she’s about to lead a medieval siege. It’s Lucian’s box, of course, labeled in bold, aggressive Sharpie:L’s Stuff—DO NOT TOUCH.
Well. Oops.
She ricochets off the couch like a pinball with zero remorse, and propels herself into the hallway, leaving a trail of sock carnage and emotional debris in her wake.
I pause. Take a breath. Pop a piece of bubble wrap against my shoulder with more force than necessary.
Because if I don’t find a release soon, I will definitely start crying. Not the cute kind of crying either, but the kind where your voice cracks and your eye makeup runs, and everyone starts offering you water and asking if they should call someone.
