Dark Wild Night (Wild Seasons #3)(80)
Author: Christina Lauren

“I mean last night he was pretty mad,” Mia says with a little shrug. “He didn’t really want to talk about it much. We spent most of the night walking around the house while Ansel and Oliver planned what renovations they could do themselves.”

Normally, he would have called me afterward to share all of this. No, normally, I would have gone with him. I’ve been Oliver’s default plus-one for months, and he’s been mine. Now, not only do I not get sex with him, I don’t even get phone calls.

“Do people not do that?” I say, cupping my coffee mug. “Do people not ask to put relationships on hold even if things are good?”

“Lola, that is called breaking up,” Harlow says slowly.

“So it’s a stupid question?” I bite out, defensive at her tone.

She tilts her eyes quickly to the ceiling, exasperated with me. “I mean, why not just tell him you’re going to have an insane week and you’ll call him when you have a free night?”

“Because it’s like my creativity shuts off when it’s an option,” I say. “I don’t want to work when I’m with him. I’ve never not wanted to work. And, sorry, but this has to come first. I built this first. I can’t just drop it because I started seeing someone and juggling the workload got hard.”

And this, right here, is when I know Harlow wants to smack me again, but she doesn’t. She just nods, and reaches across the table for my hand.

* * *

I TEXT OLIVER a simple, Hey are you okay? after breakfast, but he doesn’t reply. By the next morning I just turn off my phone so I’ll stop looking. So I’ll stop wishing.

I stay holed up in the work cave until Wednesday evening before giving in and walking down to Downtown Graffick. The path between my apartment and the storefront has seen thousands of my footprints, and standing just outside it feels oddly nostalgic. Less than a week ago I was climbing out of a town car and hurling myself into Oliver’s arms. Now I feel queasy imagining walking in and acting like everything is normal.

Over the last two days, I’ve started to feel like maybe I am the biggest idiot on the planet.

Maybe it doesn’t help to remove temptation. Maybe it’s worse to slowly realize a pause means he’s not mine anymore.

The bell rings over the door and a few customers look up, smiling vaguely before returning to their browsing. Behind the counter, Not-Joe waves with a smile that slowly flattens.

“Hey,” he says, putting down the book he’s reading.

“Hey.”

And now what do I do? Pretend that I was just here to buy a couple of books?

“Is Oliver around?” I ask, immediately giving up on pretense.

Not-Joe’s expression grows uncomfortable, and he looks toward the door. “You just missed him.”

Shit.

“Okay, thanks.” I turn, walking down the manga aisle, trying to decide whether I call him, or just go to his house and tell him I’m an idiot and I don’t really want to break up, or even take a pause, and can we please just pretend that never happened?

I’m flipping absently through a book when I feel someone come up behind me.

“Okay,” Not-Joe says quietly. “What the fuck is going on?”

I put the book back on the shelf, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head, frowning. “Come on.”

“With me and Oliver?” I ask. I mean . . . it’s not really Not-Joe’s business, but when has that ever stopped him from wanting to know? He nods. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “We had a little fight, and I wanted to try to talk to him.”

“The reason I ask,” he says, brows furrowed, “the reason I am confused,” he clarifies, “is that he just left with Hard Rock Allison.”

I stare blankly at him.

“They went to get dinner.”

* * *

I ZOMBIE-WALK HOME, eat some Rice Krispies out of the box, and put on my headphones, working like a maniac until three in the morning. It’s like I’ve hit a switch where I can’t even think about what Not-Joe told me, or I will completely unravel.

When I wake around seven, I stumble to my computer and stare at the screen, squeezing my eyes closed and then open, trying to clear them.

Nothing. Nothing comes to me. I need food. I need fresh air.

London is making coffee in the kitchen, and pours me a cup when I walk in, wordlessly handing it to me.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I look down to a message from London in the group text box with me, Harlow, and Mia: She’s up.

I glance up at London. “It’s . . . seven thirteen. Have you guys been waiting for me to get out of bed?”