2. Olivia

2

OLIVIA

November

Getting home at four in the morning after an inbound flight from JFK to ATL, followed by five stops on the red line and a miserable twenty-minute ride on a bus with broken air conditioning, is not the worst thing in the world for me.

I’m used to antisocial hours and late-night public transit, and my new commute in Atlanta isn’t half as bad as the two hours I used to spend on the hot, stuffy, overcrowded London Underground every time I got off the clock.

But at least in my previous flat share across the Atlantic, I didn’t have roommates who religiously insisted on practicing the bagpipes at six in the morning.

“Noooooo,” I groan aloud. It’s still pitch dark outside. I roll over onto my stomach, pulling my pillow over my head in a vain effort to drown out the horrific noise. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”

“Hey, keep it down!” A crotchety holler carries up through the vents, followed by a flurry of banging noises. That’ll be Mrs. Kibitzky, who lives in the apartment below us, tapping on her ceiling with her cane.

Not that I blame her. I completely support her position on the human alarm clock we are both enduring. Because being woken up after two hours of sleep by bagpipe music—more specifically, terrible bagpipe music where the player botches every second note— is the worst thing in the world.

There’s a moment of blissful silence. And for a shadow of a second, the optimist in me dares to believe that Gregory might’ve ceased and desisted.

My hope is short-lived.

My roommate has unwrapped his lips from his bagpipes long enough to call out cheerfully in his lilting Scottish accent. “Good morning, Mrs. K! I have a new one for you today. It’s called ‘Highland Laddie’ and I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

“No! Didn’t you hear me, numb-nuts? I said KEEP IT DOWN!” Mrs. Kibitzky’s protests are drowned out by a series of melodious-less blasts that shake the floorboards.

With a defeated sigh, I roll sideways and let my feet hit the ground. I’m awake now, so there’s no point lying here in a bed of pain. Literally, I think my ears might be bleeding.

As I stand and stretch, my bedroom door flies open.

“It’s over!” Romy, my other roommate, announces dramatically, her hand clenched over her heart. She’s wearing nothing but a bra, men’s boxer shorts, and (bizarrely) knee socks with heeled sandals. “It’s really over this time.”

“Again?” I ask dryly, reaching for my water cup and taking a long sip. My head feels thick from lack of sleep.

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” Romy demands, half-yelling over the bagpipes blaring from the next room.

I wasn’t, actually. Not because I’m callous or uncaring, but because this is the fourth time this month that she and Elliott have broken up “for real this time.” And we’re only sixteen days into November.

“He thinks my boobs are too big! Too big!” she continues, mistaking my silence for interest.

I stifle a yawn. “Did he say that?”

Romy pauses. “Well, not in as many words.”

It takes all of my self-control not to roll my eyes. This time, it’s boobs. Last time, it was because she asked him if he’d still be in love with her if she turned into an earthworm, and he said no.

Which I honestly thought was fair.

“But he said he thought Jessica Alba had a great body, and her boobs are way smaller than mine!” Romy sputters.

I stare at my roommate. “Don’t you have implants?”

“That’s not the point!”

My temples throb. It’s way too early for this.

“Romy, it’s six in the morning,” I say as nicely as I can. “I’m sorry you guys broke up again, but can we please talk about this later? I feel a migraine coming on.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “Can I borrow five bucks?”

“All right.” I don’t bother to remind her that she “borrowed” ten dollars not two days ago. And another five the day before that. Instead, I grab a wrinkled bill from my wallet and thrust it into her hand as I usher her out of my room and shut the door, willing the migraine to disappear.

My next flight isn’t until tomorrow, so today is my oyster. I usually like to start my mornings with a workout, but with so little sleep, all I want is to eat something that’s been deep-fried to oblivion.

And there’s one person who I know will be awake right now and would likely want to partake.

Breakfast?

I put my phone down, hoping I’ll get a response soon. And, as predicted, my brother texts back immediately.

Absolutely. Essy’s?

Hell, yes.

Essy’s, short for Esmerelda’s Cosmic Cafe, is a retro-style diner that doubles as a fortune teller’s den. I think. Esmerelda herself is the owner—a stocky, short woman in her sixties (I suspect her real name is something more along the lines of “Edith”). She’s often the one running the floor, clad in a purple kaftan and a lopsided turban as she delivers meals to the wrong tables along with words of “wisdom” she has been prophetically given from the powers that be.

Bizarrely, Essy’s is also top-rated for accommodating allergies and dietary restrictions.

It’s one of my favorite places in Atlanta so far.

Want me to pick you up?

That would be awesome, thanks Jake.

Sweet, see you in ten.

No time for makeup or a nice outfit, but I ain’t gonna complain about a free ride. I don’t have a car, and while I’d love to buy one, saving up to get out of this looney bin of an apartment is taking precedence right now.

Public transit and hitched rides, it is.

I pull on a vintage Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt over my sports bra and leggings and brush my teeth, all the while tuning out the racket in my apartment and concentrating on visions of the breakfast bowl I’m going to order—scrambled eggs, duck-fat hashbrowns, extra bacon, extra cheese. Hell, extra everything.

If I’m gonna make it through the morning on this little sleep, I’ll need calories. Lots of them.

And then a long nap.

Exactly ten minutes later, I’m rushing down the rickety metal stairs of my third-floor walkup and out to Jake’s SUV, tying my red waves into a topknot with a scrunchie.

“Morning!” I say as I duck into the backseat.

Jake’s girlfriend, Sofia, twists around in the passenger seat to smile at me. “Hi!”

Yes, I said girlfriend . Because Permanently Single Jake is now Loved-Up Relationship Jake. Sofia’s existence came as a total surprise when I made my permanent move to Atlanta a couple of months ago. But it did explain my brother’s surreptitious texting and his sudden interest in Mexican beer (she’s from Monterrey).

She’s also (indirectly) the reason for my current living situation.

Not that I hold it against her.

Sofia is the world’s nicest person and my brother’s polar opposite. She’s the best thing that ever happened to him, and while I was shocked when I turned up on Jake’s doorstep with a suitcase and Sofia was the one who answered the door with a warm smile of recognition, I’m really happy for him. Even if it meant that I had to move into the first apartment-share I could find on Craigslist.

My initial plan had been to stay with Jake for a week or two until I found an apartment with good transit links to Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport (or ATL for short). My brother did—regardless of Sofia—offer me his spacious guest room, but I didn’t want to cramp his space or third-wheel in his budding relationship in any way. Especially after seeing how cute the two of them are together and how happy Jake is.

Having your baby sister hanging around probably doesn’t pave the way for romance.

Which is how I ended up sharing a home with a serial break-up griever, an honest-to-goodness wannabe-professional bagpiper, and a suspected underwear thief.

Oh, yeah. I haven’t mentioned the underwear thief yet, have I?

Guess I’m saving the worst for last.

It’s crazy to think that when I moved in here initially, I was hoping it would be a place that felt like home, where I could share the space with people I fit with . Like living out my own episode of Friends .

Ridiculous, really.

“I can hear the bagpipes from here,” Jake says with a wince by way of greeting. “What in the hell is he even trying to play?”

“That one’s called ‘Highland Laddie,’ apparently.”

My brother rolls his eyes. “Should be illegal.”

I shrug. “Makes a nice change from ‘Danny Boy,’ which was Greg’s flavor of the month until this morning.”

“You need to get out of that hellhole. Are you sure you don’t want to crash at mine for a while? You know you’re always welcome.”

“It’s not that bad,” I assure him as I buckle my seatbelt. “The building security is great.” It isn’t. “And my roommates are just… quirky, that’s all.” One way of putting it. “And anyway, I’m on a red-eye to Frankfurt tomorrow night, so I might get some sleep during crew rest.”

Jake snorts. “That’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one—going to work to get some actual sleep.”

“Not if you test mattresses for a living,” I deadpan. Sofia chuckles but Jake, predictably, doesn’t laugh (not that I blame him, it wasn’t that funny). “You have practice this morning?”

My brother nods. “At nine.”

“What about you, Sof? Are you working today?” I ask my brother’s gorgeous girlfriend. I still can’t believe he landed her; he’s definitely punching above his weight.

Sofia is petite and fine-boned, sporting that pixie-like build on which all clothes seem to fall perfectly. She’s a fashion stylist with an impressive list of high-powered clients, and it shows. In comparison to my scrubby outfit this morning, she’s clad in a rose-pink silk camisole and linen pants, her chin-length dark hair elegantly slicked back off her face, and her minimal makeup flawless.

Meanwhile, I’m 5’9 with a solid frame that my father passed down to both Jake and me. Plus, my unruly red waves will not be tamed, no matter how many times I flat iron them.

I couldn’t look as put together as she does if I had literal hours to get ready—and she had mere minutes.

She grins back at me. “I have an appointment at eleven. Unruly politician’s wife. It’s gonna be a fun one.”

“What are you doing up so early, then?” I demand playfully.

“Wanted to hang out with this guy before he hits the road for his away games.” She and Jake share an intimate look, and I avert my eyes. She must really love him if she’s willing to leave her cozy bed this early in the morning to eat greasy fried food at a diner with her boyfriend’s little sister in tow.

I honestly can’t imagine feeling like that about anyone. I’ve dated over the years, but nobody’s ever looked at me the way they look at each other. Nobody’s ever changed their plans for me, or made me want to change my plans for them.

“It won’t be long this time, Sof. At least I’ll be home for Thanksgiving next week,” Jake reminds her, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

Seriously. Who is this guy and what has he done with my brother?

“You’re still coming, Liv?” Sofia asks.

“Sure am.” When I got my schedule for November, I was shocked to see that I’ll be flying in from LA bright and early on Thanksgiving morning, and then will have the next two days off.

When Jake heard that I’d be here, he invited me to watch his game that afternoon with Sofia and have dinner with them afterwards. I readily accepted. I’m enjoying spending time with my brother and his girlfriend.

Plus, this was the reason I chose to come to Atlanta in the first place: to spend more time with family and put down some roots.

Besides, being a flight attendant during the busy holiday season means I’ll surely be away for Christmas. It’s my first year with AmeriJet, so I’m super likely to get assigned a work trip over December 25th, especially since I managed to score Thanksgiving off. I get my schedule for December sometime next week, and I’m confident I’ll be spending Christmas pouring ginger ale at 30,000 feet with no bad roommates in sight.

As if reading my mind, Jake chuckles. “Just don’t expect her to come for Christmas.”

“Really?” Sofia peers at me. “You don’t like Christmas?”

“Ah, I’ll probably have to work,” I say avoidantly. It’s easier than explaining to Sofia that I don’t really do Christmas.

Might be an unpopular opinion, but to me, the whole “magic of the holiday season” thing is about as real as Santa Claus.

Christmas is simply not the most wonderful time of the year. All I remember from Christmases growing up is the distinct feeling of being let down and disappointed. The fighting and arguing. My parents eventually went through a messy and bitter divorce—over Christmas, of course—and forced Jake and me to pick who we’d spend the holidays with.

When each of my parents subsequently remarried, they began to create new Christmas traditions with their new families. Traditions that Jake and I never really fit into.

Jake didn’t seem to care one way or the other about the holidays, but I guess I became jaded.

And so, since becoming an adult and moving out on my own, I’ve always chosen to opt out of Christmas all together. Just like Zooey Deschanel’s character in Elf , my goal each year is simply to make it through the holiday season with as little fanfare as possible, preferably as far away as possible.

While I’m happy to be living in Atlanta and able to spend more time with Jake, that doesn’t change my feelings about Christmas.

And this year, I hope to be eating moo ping skewers at a Bangkok street market, or barbecued bonito on the beach in Bora Bora. Anywhere that I can blind my thoughts in sunshine and breathe in a brick wall of humid heat and pretend it isn’t Christmas at all…

“Yams,” I say suddenly, changing the subject away from my most hated time of year. “For Thanksgiving, I’ll bring yams. And pie.”

“Sounds perfect,” Sofia replies. She then proceeds to tell me that Jake has been YouTubing how to deep-fry a turkey, and that she thinks his apartment balcony is a terrible place to test this cooking method. You know, in case the whole building goes up in flames. Her concern earns a multitude of protesting grunts from my brother, who insists that he knows how to do it.

Which he obviously does not.

I laugh along with their teasing back-and-forth, and by the time we pull into Essy’s parking lot, the sun is coming up and I’m kinda looking forward to a lowkey, burnt-turkey Thanksgiving here in Atlanta with my brother and his girlfriend.

With a smile, I step out of the vehicle.

“That happy to see me, Lil Griz?”

The smile falls off my face when I notice Aaron Marino.

He’s lounging against his obnoxious sports car in the next parking stall, wearing a wolfish grin as he surveys me and my scrubby outfit with glee. He’s got those traditional Italian good looks—flawless olive skin, tousled black hair, and strong angles to his bone structure that are juxtaposed with long, sooty eyelashes and full lips that always seem to have a smirk playing on them.

You know, the type of good looks that makes you remember life really isn’t fair.

Why on earth does Aaron get those eyelashes and I get stuck with little stumpy ones?

“Who invited you ?” I demand. I cast an eye at Jake, but he’s still in the driver’s seat talking to Sofia. Why, oh why, would my brother do this to me so early in the morning?

“Good morning to you, too,” Aaron replies, his tone smooth as butter. “Although, looks like you’ve had a bit of a rough start to your day. Did you not get enough sleep?”

He’s doing this thing where he looks genuinely concerned about my well-being, but I know better than to fall for that. He’s clearly taking a dig at my disheveled appearance.

Passive-aggressive prick.

Since moving here and starting my new job a couple of months ago, I’ve managed to only see Aaron a handful of times (lucky for me). Unluckily, though, in those few interactions, we’ve pretty much fallen back into our old ways, bickering with one another like children. But we’re not children anymore.

I know I should rise above it all, but… ugh. The man makes me crazy.

“Had the best sleep of my life actually,” I lie cheerily. “And I was having a good morning up until, oh, thirty seconds ago.”

“When it became a great morning, because you saw me,” he finishes my sentence (not), green eyes flashing with mirth.

“Agree to disagree,” I huff as I turn on my heel and march towards the diner’s front door.

Maddeningly, instead of waiting for Jake and Sofia to get out of the car, he follows me.

“I’m having a great morning, too, thanks for asking,” he goes on. “Did a workout and got myself nice and stretched out. All while working up an appetite.”

He runs a big hand over his torso, smoothing his shirt against his impressive abs. I try not to look at him, I really do. But I inevitably fail.

This fine morning, Aaron’s wearing a black t-shirt that shows off every inch of his long, perfectly muscled, darkly tanned forearms, and a pair of black gym shorts that show off a lot of long, perfectly muscled, darkly tanned legs.

As if that wasn’t enough, he’s also sporting some annoyingly sexy stubble, alongside an even more annoyingly sexy backwards hat.

The devil has no business looking this good.

“I’ve officially lost my appetite after that stretching comment,” I retort tartly.

He laughs as Jake and Sofia finally catch up to us at the front door. Sofia greets Aaron with a warm hug—like she actually likes him or something—and Jake and Aaron do that bro-handshake-thingy all men do.

“Hey, man,” Jake says, looking way too pleased to see his apparent best friend, before turning to me. “Hope it’s okay I invited Marino.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Aaron says cheerfully before I can reply.

Honestly, I’d take tone-deaf bagpipers and pantie thieves over eating breakfast with this guy, any day.

“Nobody asked you,” I mutter.

Aaron ignores this very valid comment, giving Jake an elbow nudge. “Griz and I used to eat breakfast here together at least a couple of times a week before he went and fell head over heels for his lovely lady.” He shoots Sofia a little wink, which makes her giggle. “Guess I’ll allow it, though. I’ve never seen him happier.”

“Happiest I’ve ever been.” Jake puts an arm around Sofia and tugs her to his chest.

“See?” Aaron smiles at me smugly. “Aren’t you lucky I’m here to keep you company while the lovebirds stare into each others’ eyes over pancakes.”

I grit my teeth. “So lucky.”

Sofia claps her hands. “It’s like a double date.”

“Absolutely not!” I cry as Aaron holds his hands up and says, “It’s nothing like that.”

Well, there you go. We finally agree on something.