"You okay?" Oliver steps onto the main floor. His bare feet pad the hardwood. Slow, steady steps. The steps of a man who isn't hiding an awkward boner.
Did he finish in the shower? Did he think of me? Did he let out a groan so low it blended into the shitty grunge song emanating from his room?
Maybe grunge isn't so bad. Under that context.
Or maybe I'm imagining things. Maybe he was getting ready for a shower. Period. End of sentence.
His gym shoes are sitting by the door. And he does look clean and relaxed.
Like he finished.
Fuck. I need to stop thinking about his cock. For the next ten minutes at least.
"I need a favor." I smooth my high-waist jeans.
"Shoot." He nods hey like this is a normal day. Like he came downstairs for a snack while Daisy and I were watching TV on the couch. Like I didn't interrupt his… release. "You want coffee?"
"It's getting late."
"Is that a no?"
"Depends whether or not you'll make it right." I just manage to tease him. It feels strange on my lips. So light it's begging to escape.
He flips me off. Half-smiles. It's not quite there for him either. But then Oliver isn't really a happy-go-lucky guy.
Only when he's drinking. No. Even then, he's more… even. Not miserable, but certainly not the life of the party. He still hangs out on the sidelines, watching the action, enjoying the company of his favorite flask.
God, he looks good. Like he's spent the last few weeks working out.
Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Tattoos covering his strong arms.
Has he always been this hot? Or is it the war zone in my heart?
"Luna?" He moves into the kitchen. Sets the electric kettle to two hundred degrees. "Your favor?"
"Can I stay here tonight?"
He looks at me like I'm crazy. "Since when do you ask?"
It's true. For the last ten years, Daisy and I have been best friends. I've spent hundreds of nights here. I practically live on this couch.
But now she's at Berkeley. And I'm still in Venice. And it's weird spending the night at my best friend's house without her.
"You're usually really fucking rude." His voice is teasing. Until he catches my expression. It must be bad, because he shakes his head. "Fuck. Sorry. Is it serious?"
"Just my parents."
"They forbid you from dating some loser?"
"When have I dated losers?"
"That Sean guy." He rolls his eyes what a tool. Grabs a bag of dark roast coffee. Scoops beans into the grinder.
"Sean's at USC." And he's an incredibly handsome water polo player with rich parents. He's an asshole, sure, but he's not a loser.
"Maybe they're really into the rivalry."
"Neither of them went to UCLA."
"Still."
"Still?" I manage to look him in the eyes. For one second. Then my thoughts drop to the gutter. "He's going to be an investment banker or something." Part of his explanation for needing a supportive woman. And not a difficult one. Honestly, Luna, you're hot, but you're too much work.
"I don't like him." Oliver turns to the grinder. He almost looks jealous. Then he hits the button. The machine roars as it breaks the beans into tiny pieces.
"It has nothing to do with him." And why does Oliver care about my ex-boyfriend?
"Is it serious?" His voice softens. Just barely, but it does.
I don't know how to answer that, so I dodge the question. "Is it okay if I stay? For a few days?"
"Of course. I'll check with Dad, but he'll say yes."
"Thanks."
Again, he looks at me like I'm crazy for asking. Then he shrugs and turns his attention to the kettle.
I pretend as if there's something interesting on my phone. And not a message from Mom checking if I'm okay.
Allison Locke: I know you're upset, Luna. I know you hate me right now, but I'm still your mother. I need to know where you're staying.
She doesn't need to know.
I'm a college student. An adult. An adult who cannot afford Los Angeles rents, much less ones near school.
It's true. I need a place to stay. I can't support myself financially.
But, in all other ways, I can take care of myself. If someone dropped free rent in my lap, I'd have no problem living alone—or with a roommate. I can cook and clean and manage my schedule.
And keep my pants zipped.
She is the one who cheated.
She is the one tearing our family apart.
She is not treating me like the troublemaker.
Uh-uh.
No way.
I should make her sweat it. Make her nervous. Make her wonder what Divya felt when she came home late. Or took fake business trips.
An executive with her secretary.
A pathetic cliché of a mid-life crisis.
Fuck her and her bullshit excuses.
"You want cream or sugar?" Oliver interrupts my train of thought.
"I'm pretending you didn't say that."
"You don't always drink it black."
"I do too." I stare at the message on my cell. No apology. She is not apologizing for breaking up our family. She is simply reasserting her role as my mother. As if she owns the role more than Divya does because we share the same gene pool.