Page 90 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Not distressed. Not hurt. More like . . . riddled with guilt.
I round the corner and stop cold.
There she is.
Olivia.
Her hair’s in a bun that’s barely holding on, her shirt has a peanut butter smudge right on the collar, and she’s barefoot, perched on the island with her legs crossed and a box of cereal in hand, as if she’s hosting an emotional intervention.
And Sarah?
Sarah is sprawled belly-up on the floor, one paw draped over her snout like she’s trying to disappear into the floorboards. Not injured. Not even upset. Just . . . guilty.
Like she knows something I don’t.
Perhaps this whole “mourning me” routine is just her cover story—and I’m about to discover what really happened.
“Listen, girly,” Olivia’s saying. “It’s fine. You might be missing it, but it’s replaceable, you know? You are so much more than a pair of shoes or a fancy chair.” She pauses and glances toward the living room.
Or, more accurately, she stares at the crime scene where my expensive, custom-made leather armchair once stood.
Now?
Scraps. Scraps, shame, and stuffing.
“What. Happened. Here?” I ask, slowly.
Olivia looks up, entirely unbothered, as if she hasn’t been harboring a domestic criminal for a week.
“Oh,” she says. “You’re back early.”
I blink. “You’re there all chill like you didn’t just let Sarah commit furniture homicide.”
She shrugs. “Your chair started it.”
My eyes narrow. “Started what? Battle Upholstery? Wars Against the Leather?”
“Sarah thought it looked at her wrong.”
“Olivia.”
“She was probably stressed.”
I glare at her. Is she for real? “She gutted a chair.”
“She was working through her abandonment issues.”
I look down at Sarah, who rolls onto her side with a dramatic sigh, her belly on display as if she’s the victim here. A soft whine escapes her like she’s auditioning for a role in Les Misérables: Canine Edition.
“Oh, now she feels bad?”
“She’s been mourning you for days.” Olivia looks up, entirely unbothered, as if she hasn’t been harboring a domestic criminal for a week. “Don’t guilt her further. She waited by the door from six a.m. to noon every day like a rejected mail-order bride. It’s been almost twelve hours. I couldn’t even pee without her crying.”
I drag a hand over my face. “So she ate my chair.”
“No,” Olivia says, like I’m the dramatic one. “She didn’t eat it. I mean, it’s still there. She just . . . disassembled it while I went to check on the clinic. The new weight tables came in, and Mike needed to know how I wanted them installed. I couldn’t take her with me it’s too dangerous.”
I blink at the remains of the chair. “It was custom-made, Liv.”
