Chapter Twenty-Two
Olivia
Ilook at the time on my phone and see that it’s been two hours since Luke went to talk with Davis. I’ve had to fight with myself several times not to go find him and make sure that everything is okay. I’ve tried to distract myself by helping Luke’s grandmother clean the kitchen, wrapping a few gifts with Aunt Andy, and then I retreated into the bedroom.
I’ve called my mom, and then Raine, and I tried to call Zane, but he never answered. The suspense is starting to get to me. I’ve never been good at waiting. Luke is out there, facing the man who hurt him so deeply, and I’m stuck in here alone, not able to be there for him.
I want to be supportive and patient, but my stomach twists in anxious knots anyway. Every minute that passes only chips away at my composure, exposing something raw and tender. I press a palm to my chest, grounding myself by the steady beat of my own heart, before I reach for my phone again and move my thumb across its screen to hit the green button under Wren’s name.
It rings three times until she answers. The screen is blurry for a few seconds before her face comes into view.
“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously.
She crinkles her nose, a dead giveaway that she’s up to something, before she smiles at me. “Hey, little sister.” She presses the phone closer to her face.
I raise a brow and frown. “Wren, did you destroy my house?”
“What? No. How dare you think so little of me.”
“Did you forget that I saw the state of your room growing up? It always looked like you lost a game of Jumanji.”
She rolls her eyes and moves the phone away from her face so that I can see my kitchen behind her. “Calm down. Your house is fine.”
“Telling me to calm down works about as well as baptizing a cat.” I squint my eyes, seeing two other people in the room with her. “Why are Edna and Zane there?”
“Hey, Olivia.” Zane gives me a wave.
I wave back, my face contorting with suspicion. I inspect the house—what little I can see from the screen, anyway—and everything seems to be in place. I’m about to tell her to spin me around so I can inspect the other rooms when she interrupts me.
“So…don’t be upset.” Wren brings her face back into view.
My nostrils flare. “You saying that already has me upset. What did you do?”
“Nothing bad. There are three things. The first thing is that Zane, Edna, and I might have finished off the rest of your sourdough bread.”
“I hadfourloaves, and I’ve only been gone for a few days!” I exclaim, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking my head in disappointment. One of those loaves was supposed to be picked up by my mom, but it seems it never made it to her.
“I can’t help it that you bake the most delicious bread. It’slike cocaine to me.” Wren gives me an apologetic smile. “I mean, at least I’m not actually addicted to cocaine.”
“Who needs cocaine when human emotions mess you up just the same,” I hear Edna add in the background, earning a loud cackle from Zane.
I don’t think I have the mental capacity to deal with these three right now. I wanted a distraction to pull me away from my already stressful thoughts, not another reason to add to my stress. I make a mental note to get Wren to help me with a whole day of baking. Then she’ll understand all the work that goes into my job.
“Go ahead and tell me the other two things, please,” I demand.
“Well, I've been able to get Buttercream to love me.”
“And he likes me too,” Zane adds, squishing his face into the camera so I can see him holding up my fluffy orange-and-white cat, who’s wearing a little tiny Santa hat on his head.
“Don’t worry. He still hates me,” Edna adds as she walks by Zane, Buttercream giving her a hiss once he sees her. I press my lips together to hide a laugh.
“Why is it a bad thing that Buttercream likes you?” I ask.
“I thought you’d be jealous since he doesn’t like you.” Wren shrugs her shoulders and takes Buttercream—who, might I add, I can audibly hear purring—into her arms. I mean, I am a tiny bit jealous, but it also gives me hope that maybe he and I can make some progress too.
“He doesn’tnotlike me,” I add, wishing I could smack the smirk off Zane’s face. “Why is my cat wearing a Santa hat?”
“Oh, that’s the best part. We’re giving Buttercream a photoshoot,” Zane exclaims, lifting up a small gingerbread costume into view. “We started him his own Instagram. Or is it called Catagram?”
