Chapter Twenty
______________________________
Gil
I COULDN’T SLEEP.
The ceiling offered no salvation from reliving the most awkward evening of my life.
I’d cooked in O’s tiny kitchen while Olive and her played scrabble at the coffee table.
We’d eaten in relative ease, both of us using Olive as the ice breaker. Talking to her instead of each other, overly attentive to her every need.
O’s smiles had been reserved and her voice measured whenever she’d had to speak to me directly. Her eyes hid so many things. She was angry with me. Annoyed. Pissed off. All of the above. So many painful things bubbled beneath the surface, and the longer we spent together, the more the tension increased.
I shook while doing the dishes.
I fought with ways of ending this nightmarish situation.
But then, O retired early with the excuse of a headache, and Olive and I stayed up a little longer watching TV on low.
By the time Olive passed out on her mattress and I slipped beneath the blankets on the couch, my entire system felt jacked up and on edge.
We needed to talk.
O and me.
Truly, really talk.
No sex.
No swearing.
Just frank conversation that might have some chance at clearing the air.
But O had made it obvious she wasn’t open to speaking.
That she’d pulled away from me—accepting my presence while waiting until I was out of her life for good. She didn’t need to tell me she’d locked her heart to me.
I felt it.
I felt the emptiness when she looked at me.
I tasted the sourness of obligation.
This was goodbye in a terribly drawn-out way.
Checking my phone, I cursed under my breath.
Two a.m. and I was fucking wired.
I couldn’t stay here.
I needed to expel some of my tension before I marched into O’s bedroom and demanded she listen to me. Listen to my apologies, explanations, and every dark, dirty confession I’d collected over the years.
Hauling my arse from the covers—ignoring the stiffness and new bruises from being beaten up a few days ago—I pulled on a pair of tatty jeans and t-shirt from my packed duffel. The one saving grace of having to sell off your possessions for blackmail meant when you got kicked out of home you didn’t have much to pack. Another blessing in disguise was being kicked out of the place where angry society knew you lived and planned an attack when you stepped out the damn door.
Even if we hadn’t been evicted, Olive wouldn’t have been safe to stay there.
Because of me.
It’s always because of fucking me.
At least thanks to the punishment I’d received, the police had approved my address change. Allowing me to travel and stay at O’s without revoking my bail.
Checking on Olive and finding her fast asleep, I slipped from the door and jogged down the communal stairs.
With the stars and crescent moon for company, I stood outside O’s building and watched night turn to dawn.
I couldn’t walk away because of my anklet.
I couldn’t prowl the alleyways and find salvation in graffiti.
I couldn’t head back inside and slip into O’s bed and delete this awfulness between us.
All I could do was watch the world wake up and count down the moments I had left.
Chapter Twenty-One
______________________________
Olin
“OH, WOW, I love that.”
I spun around, holding the towel tighter around myself. Olive stood in my doorway; her gaze transfixed on my tattoo-covered scars.
I’d just had a shower after being unable to sleep. Dawn crested ten minutes ago and I figured I’d get ready for work early, so I could sneak out and not have to deal with Gil this morning.
However, when I’d tiptoed to the bathroom, there’d been no sign of him sleeping on the couch. Olive had been tucked up in bed, but I guessed the creaky pipes and running water had woken her.
I shivered a little as my damp hair clung to my shoulders. I craved clothing for both protection and warmth, but Olive drifted into my room, her hand up as if to touch my back.
Turning to face her, I said gently, “You should still be sleeping.”
“I woke up and I’m not tired anymore.” She skirted around me, looking at my ink again. “That’s so cool. Is it a tattoo? It doesn’t look real.”
I caught a glimpse of what she saw in my wardrobe mirror. The huge geometric owl bleeding into realism. The many animals beginning with O hidden in its feathers. “Yes, it’s a tattoo. And no, you can’t have one.” I laughed. “I don’t think Gil would ever forgive me if I’m the reason you get ink before you’re eighteen.”
Her nose wrinkled. “It’s my body. I can draw on it if I want.”
“Your dad called it scribbling when he first saw it.”
“It’s not scribbling. It’s amazing!” Her tiny hand reached out, stroking the ridges and ugliness of my patched together wounds. “Did it hurt?”
I guessed she asked about the ink rather than the injury hidden beneath. Unless you knew what to look for, the tattoo did what I intended and camouflaged the mess.
Striding away, I turned my back on her and pulled on a sports bra and black blouse. “No, it wasn’t too bad.”
“Do you have any more?”
“No.” Feeling strange dressing in front of her, I stepped into a pair of knickers before dropping my towel and wriggling into a skirt. “That piece is enough.”
And you can’t tattoo over emotional wounds, so I’ll just have to cope.
Making my way to my small dressing table by the window, I grabbed my hairbrush. Olive followed me, her cute hummingbird pyjamas revealing Gil didn’t worry about masculinity when he obviously doted and bought his daughter the most girlish, prettiest things.
“Are you going somewhere?” Her happiness level dropped. “Can I come?”
Quickly taming my dark blonde hair, I smiled. “I have to go to work. Believe me, you don’t want to come. It’s boring being in an office all day.”
“But you didn’t work when I stayed here with you last time. It was so awesome spending the entire day with you.” She leapt onto my bed. “I wanted to go to that park again and the library and that place you took me to that sells those yummy muffins.”
Adding a lashing of mascara and some peach lip-gloss, I looked at her in the mirror. “I’d love that too, but I need to work to pay the bills. Being an adult sucks sometimes.” Placing my makeup down, I spun to face her. “But you don’t need to spend the day with me. You have your dad. You guys will have a great day together. Maybe paint or—”
“He won’t have time. He’s trying to get work too.” She pouted, plucking at my bedspread. “I want him to paint those women canvases again instead of being stressed about money. At least at the warehouse, I could watch him work. I helped him clean up when I wasn’t at school.”
“Do you miss school?”
She shrugged. “Kinda. But not really ’cause I missed my dad more and all my friends won’t care about me anymore.”