Page 91 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“She’s custom-made and a princess,” she fires back without hesitation. “And she’s very sorry, aren’t you, girl?”
Sarah whines like her life is a tragic love story.
Olivia kneels beside her, strokes her ears, and mutters, “He’s being reactive because it was an unexpected loss. Don’t let it get to you. This is something replaceable. Your feelings . . . they’re not. This is something we’ll work on with Noah, okay?”
I stare.
She’s defending my dog.
Against me, which I won’t admit is cute.
“I leave for one week,” I say slowly, dragging my gaze across the wreckage, “and you two form a codependent girl gang that eats furniture and blames it on emotions?”
“She’s sensitive.” Olivia shrugs, as if emotional fragility justifies the stuffing currently decorating my floor like avant-garde confetti.
“Is she?” I gesture to the armchair that once cost more than my first car. “Because this feels less ‘sensitive’ and more like a ‘feral raccoon with a vendetta.’”
“She’s grieving,” Olivia insists, even as Sarah dramatically flops onto her back and releases another high-pitched sigh, as if she’s the main character in a very tragic dog soap opera.
“She’s grounded.”
Olivia glares with her arms crossed, fully prepared to defend her four-legged partner in crime. “She missed you.”
Another whimper escapes Sarah. She shifts, belly up, eyes wide and glassy, her whole body radiating betrayal and guilt. It’s theatrical. Cinematic. Award-winning. If she had a SAG-AFTRA card, I’d report her for emotional manipulation. Is that even a thing? Maybe that card would provide her some insurance, insurance that would cover the vet bills after eating the stuffing.
“This isn’t how I imagined my return,” I mutter, my eyes still fixed on the stuffing explosion formerly known as my armchair. “I should’ve brought a priest instead of my gym bag. Clearly, this house is possessed now.”
Olivia smirks, unapologetically smug, as she leans against the island with her arms crossed, as if she’s exactly where she belongs. It’s as if this disaster is just . . . a regular Wednesday—even when it’s Monday evening. “Welcome home, Crawford.”
Yeah.
Welcome fucking home.
My pulse stutters.
Even though I want to pretend this is just banter—just another round in whatever the hell game we’re playing—there’s something about this moment that sinks its claws into me.
Maybe it’s the way her voice wraps around that word—home. It sounds natural, as if she’s said it a hundred times before and genuinely means it. Or perhaps it’s the way she looks at me, calm and slightly amused, the cereal box still on the counter, her hair in a bun that’s holding on for dear life. It’s not polished. It’s not perfect. But it’s real. And something about her standing here—comfortable in the chaos, unbothered by the destruction, defending my dog like it’s her own—feels dangerous.
Feels like something I could get addicted to.
Yeah. I’m so fucking screwed.
“I’m sorry about the chair,” she says softly, rising to her feet and brushing cereal crumbs off her shorts like it’s no big deal. Like she didn’t just crack my rib cage open and start rearranging the pieces inside. “I’ll pay for it.”
“No, you won’t.”
“It’s my fault?—”
“No,” I interrupt her, my tone firm but not cold. “It’s her fault. And mine, for giving her abandonment issues in the first place.”
Olivia pauses, her eyes softening in a way that stirs something in my chest. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you actually believe it.”
I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “She wouldn’t have gnawed through Italian leather if I hadn’t left. She hasn’t done this since she was a pup—not unless something’s really wrong.”
