Page 53 of Three Pucking Words
Damn him and that nickname. And damn my traitorous heart for reacting to it.
The rest of the drive to the steakhouse is quiet.
*
Olive is tallerthan my five-foot-three by a solid five inches, if not more, with bigger boobs, a prettier smile, and makeup skills I lack despite all the times my mother made me wear it and told me I could get a boyfriend if I put a little more effort into my looks. I was eleven. She spent more time helping me with eyeliner and mascara than she did with my spelling tests or math homework.
“You can either have brains or beauty,” Mom tells me, holding my eye open against my protests to apply the black liner pencil in the water line. “Hold still, Honor! You won’t look pretty if I accidently stab you. Do you want to be pretty or smart?”
I’d told her I wanted to be both, and she scoffed as if I told her it was my life mission to become a unicorn when I was older.
Olive Henderson is definitely both brainsandbeauty, with a captivating personality that could encapsulate anyone in a ten-mile radius. It’s no wonder Bodhi had it bad for her.
Our hair is around the same length, although hers is dirty blond to my copper red, and her eyes are a captivating color of mint green that I’m envious of because my caramel brown hues are boring by comparison. We’re both bigger women, with a healthy amount of curves that I find oddly…endearing.
Because Bodhi liked her—wantedher. He wanted her body and her time, and while that causes an unjustifiable amount of jealousy to settle into my gut, it also gives me hope that there are people out there who will want me too. People unlike Max, whoslowly fell out of love with me as my body and mind and soul changed, who will accept me for…me.
The damaged version.
The healed version.
And every version in-between.
I find myself enthralled by Olive and her addictive laugh as she hounds her brother over shared childhood memories, smiling along with the rest of the table. Except, Bodhi isn’t looking at her at all.
He’s looking atme.
He’s smiling atme.
And when I notice, I offer him a tiny smile in return that only makes his grow bigger as he drapes as arm over the back of my chair.
“Sebastian tried teaching me how to skate, but I looked like a baby giraffe learning how to walk for the first time,” Olive says. “I’m not much better now, even after Alex has given me some lessons, so I’m always impressed when people can do more than hold onto the wall.”
Sebastian, who seemed surprised but welcoming when I showed up beside Bodhi, snorts. “The ice was the one place you didn’t follow me onto. It was nice.”
Olive throws her balled up straw wrapper at his face. “Hey!Youinvited me to join you and your friends all the time.”
“Because Mom wanted me to,” he informs he, making her hand fly to her check in mock shock. “I was practically the 24/7 babysitter. Didn’t mean I loved it.”
“My whole life has been a lie,” she says dramatically, putting a hand on her chest.
He grabs her straw wrapper and tosses it back at her, but she catches it before it smacks her in the face. She sticks her tongue out at him, which he returns while lifting his middle finger up to wave at her at the same time.
I laugh at their antics. “This is how I’d be if I had siblings,” I say to no one in particular.
“Did you like being an only sibling?” Bodhi asks, not paying attention to the innocent insults that Sebastian and Olive toss back and forth.
My smile falters as I think about what life was like when I was younger. “Not really. I always thought it’d be nice to have someone else who understood what I was going through, but it was probably better that only one of us had to deal with my mom.”
It would have been less lonely if I’d gotten a sister or brother to share the misery of trying to clean up the bathroom after she’d drink herself sick. Or to figure out what to cook whenever she’d go MIA without getting groceries first. Misery loves company, after all.
But it also would have meant that someone else had to deal with her mess, and I wouldn’t have wanted that for them.
Not wanting to feel like a sob story and bring down the celebratory mood of their victory against Pittsburgh, I brush it off. “Mila, my best friend, is basically my sister. We’ve been nearly inseparable since we were four. Her family owns a restaurant in Brooklyn, not far from where I lived with my mom.”
Two lines appear between his brows. “Mila’s Bistro?”
He knows it? “Yeah. Have you been?”
