Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Amelia

Fifteen minutes early.

Typical. It's like I'm programmed to preemptively counter any possibility of being late.

Dr. Cockwomble isn't in today, which is a rare blessing and means I can breathe a little easier and take a few extra minutes to calm my jittery nerves before meeting Oliver.

I'm so anxiously excited to spend time alone with him that I could puke.

As I make my way down to the cafeteria, expecting to wait awkwardly by myself, I'm taken aback to find Oliver already there, lingering in the doorway like he's unsure if he should enter or flee.

"Hey," I call out, not quite managing to keep my voice steady.

He spins around, the surprise on his face morphing into something shy and adorably awkward. "H-hey," he stutters, his eyes darting away from mine. Glancing down, I catch a glimpse of his phone screen before he can hide it, a blog page glaring back with the headline, The Best Conversation Starters for a First Date .

I bite my cheek to suppress the grin threatening to break through. When I look up again, not only the tips but his entire ears are a dark shade of red.

His obvious insecurity makes me bolder than I feel. Smiling, I tilt my head and ask, "Should we?"

"Of course," he replies quickly, almost relieved, gesturing for me to lead the way. As we walk toward the coffee station, my mind whirls.

Does he think this is a date?

I mean, I asked him to go for a coffee. That could be a friend date or a date date.

I'm struggling to figure out if his hesitance toward me is because he doesn't like me as much as the others do or if it's just his shy nature. But it seems to be the latter if he thinks I asked him out on a date and still agreed to come.

Right?

At the coffee station, Oliver goes first. He works the machine with an ease that speaks of routine, adding two sugars and cream—just the way I like my coffee. I'm about to file this observation away as a curious coincidence when he turns and hands me the cup.

"Here," he says, his voice steady but his hands a telltale tremble.

He knows how I take my coffee.

"Thank you," I manage, surprise evident in my words as a rising warmth blooms in my chest, spreading fast. I take the cup, our fingers brushing briefly. He makes himself a coffee, black, not at all like the milky, slightly sugary concoction in my hands. Then we pick a table in the almost empty cafeteria, with just a scattering of other employees bustling in preparation for lunch and a few coworkers nestled at distant tables.

Sitting down, an awkward silence envelops us. We exchange tentative smiles and then quickly avert our gazes, his fixating on his dark brew and mine on a leftover crumb on the table surface.

I wanted to get to know him, not make everything awkward.

"Do you—" I start, breaking the silence, but he speaks at the same moment.

"How are—"

We halt, our words colliding in the air, and then both laugh awkwardly.

He gestures to me, saying, "Please," with a smile.

"No, you first," I insist, settling back in my seat.

"I wanted to ask how you are. How's the soreness… and everything?"

It's so embarrassing that he knows I'm crampy, but I try not to let it show. "Much better, thanks. The soreness is almost gone. Misha's ointment worked wonders," I admit, managing a grateful smile.

And it really did. I felt like a new person this morning.

Well, besides the endometrial shedding, of course.

"That's good to hear," he responds warmly. "Are you swearing off hikes now, or was that experience motivation to do more?"

I laugh, the sound more relaxed than I feel. "Well, it was worth the pain, so I'm probably crazy enough to do it again if Misha asks me."

"He will, for sure. He couldn't stop talking about how cool it was to have a hiking buddy. He always wants us to come along, but I'm more of an indoor kind of guy, and Grey just tells him fuck no every time he asks." Oliver chuckles, and I can easily picture Grey's scowl. "But I guess if you're brave enough to face the outdoors, I should try it too sometime."

Hiking with Misha and Oliver would be so much fun.

"You really should. You're fit, I mean, you look fit. You're always working out and have those muscled calves in shorts," I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Oliver looks at me, surprise etching his features. "You think I have muscled calves?"

Did I just admit to ogling him in the gym?

I'm such a nutter.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I just… I mean, my calves hurt because I don't have a lot of muscles, but you have many muscles, and you're working out, and—" My words tumble out in a nervous stream until Oliver reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Thank you. I guess my calves should withstand a hike with Misha, although I'm not sure my ears can handle his singing. Did he sing on your hike? He's always humming and yelling random lyrics when we're outside," he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

I chuckle, recalling the morning and Misha's version of "Midnight City." "Well, he did some yelling when the sun came up."

"Next time, tell him to shut up. It works when Grey does it," he advises with a grin.

I laugh out loud, covering my mouth with my hand. "God, no. That's so mean. I like him being happy and singing."

"Why do you keep doing that?" Oliver asks, his tone light but curious.

"Doing what?" I'm genuinely puzzled for a moment, glancing around as if the answer might be strewn somewhere on the tabletop.

"You muffle your laugh with your hand." His eyes narrow, not accusingly, but as if he's peering into a small, curious detail of my character.

"Oh," I say, a blush creeping up my cheeks as I let my hand sink into my lap. It's a silly yet deeply ingrained habit. "Because my laugh sounds like a rubber duck."

"Who told you that?" He frowns, the concern in his voice sounding as if I'd announced a minor injury.

"My mother," I admit, her voice echoes in my head, her tone icy.

"The Lord help us, Amelia Charlotte. You sound like a dying rubber duck with that laugh. We smile gracefully. We don't laugh like clowns in a circus."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"At least cover your mouth. I don't want to hear it."

"Well, that's awkward then," Oliver says after a moment, his expression unreadable.

"What is?" I whisper, half-dreading his answer.

"That my favorite sound is a rubber duck."

My heart skips a beat or maybe two.

Is he flirting with me?

The thought sends a flutter through my chest, mixing with a swirl of old shame. It's a strange cocktail of emotions, making me both want to hide and lean closer.

His gaze lingers on my face as if he's trying to read my reaction, to gauge whether he's stepped over a line or perhaps encouraged one to be crossed, and I nervously tuck a stray hair behind my ear.

"Sounds like your family is lovely," he comments dryly, letting me off the hook when I don't say anything to his comment.

I should have told him that his laugh is my favorite too.

"They never claimed to be lovely," I say, the words heavier than I intend, laden with more truth than I usually allow. "But maybe I just wasn't a good enough kid."

"Well, that sounds even worse and wrong," he replies, his voice softening.

I shrug in an attempt to brush off the gravity of our conversation. "Let's just say I'm glad I'm not there anymore."

"Same. For you," he adds quickly, and there's a warmth in his eyes that makes me feel seen.

He looks like he wants me to continue, but something holds me back. This isn't the right place to have this conversation, not here, not now. I want to get to know him, yes, but not lay down all my problems on him—although, looking into his eyes, it feels like I could.

A stretch of silence falls between us, filled only by the quiet clinks of our coffee cups and the distant hum of the cafeteria. Finally, Oliver breaks the silence, leaning forward as if deciding on his words carefully. "I was the good kid, and it got me nothing," he admits, his gaze fixed on his hands wrapped around the coffee mug. "I guess you had too high of expectations on you. I never had any. Because my mother never cared. She was too caught up in her self-loathing. Morgan's dad died soon after her birth, and a few years later, Mom met my dad, who was the love of her life, as she always told us. But he left us when I was four. We weren't worth staying for him." His voice falters, and the pain behind his words is palpable. "And my mom, she just fell apart and into a deep, dark hole of depression. Most days, she didn't even leave her bed, and Morgan and I had to fend for ourselves. Morgan was so good at keeping the house together, telling people lies, explaining her absence away, and making her go to the important stuff so she wouldn't lose custody of us."

He pauses, his eyes distant. "I guess it would have been better if she hadn't done that. It stole her childhood, and maybe we would have been better off in a new family. But back then, it felt like the right thing to do."

I can practically see the small boy in him, hiding behind his glasses, his big green eyes only asking for someone to care. "Is your mom better now?" I ask gently.

He smiles sadly. "I like to believe so. She took her own life on my twentieth birthday."

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Oliver," I whisper, wanting nothing more than to stand up and pull him into a hug, but it sounds like he has more to share, so I stay where I am.

"It's fine," he continues, his voice steady but hollow. "She tried a couple of times after I left for college when I was sixteen, and every time I flew back, I visited her in the hospital. She never noticed me being there. It just proved that she really didn't care about me. And I didn't care much either. What I did care about was that Morgan stayed home with her, kept her alive basically, and ruined her own life for her."

I need to know when that happened so I can comfort him on the day he should celebrate, but he probably doesn't anymore. "What day is your birthday?"

He huffs a sad laugh. "February twenty-ninth. At least I only have to be reminded by the date on my calendar every four years."

"We should choose a new birthday for you."

He smiles genuinely this time. "That's what Misha does. He comes up with a random birthday for me every year. Last year, it was Halloween."

"I love that," I exclaim, and I really do. Especially the fact he has such amazing friends in his life. He really deserves them. "When are their birthdays?"

"Misha's is May twenty-first, and Grey's is November twenty-second. When is yours? "

I bite my lip, sheepishly looking up at him, ready for him to question why I hadn't mentioned it sooner. "September sixth."

"Seems like I owe you a birthday present," he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a heart-stopping grin.

He's so good-looking.

I glance at the watch on my wrist, a small jolt of reality snapping me back. "Fuck," I murmur. "We should probably get back to work."

Oliver checks his own watch, his expression mirroring my disappointment. "Probably," he agrees, but his tone is laden with reluctance.

As we make our way back to my office, each step is slow and hesitant like neither of us is ready for this to end. When we reach my office door, there's a pause, a moment suspended in the space between wanting to stay and needing to leave. Oliver takes a step closer. He seems to hesitate, his eyes searching mine for a moment, and I can almost see the hope flickering there. It's a sweet, vulnerable hope that makes my heart clench.

He leans in, and for a wild heartbeat, I wonder if he'll kiss me. But instead, he presses a gentle kiss to my cheek, his lips warm against my skin. "I really enjoyed having coffee with you," he whispers.

"Me, too," I reply, my words barely audible. My skin tingles where his lips touched, a sweet echo that lingers pleasantly.

He steps back, his smile shy but with a hint of satisfaction, and then turns toward the elevator. I touch my cheek, the warmth of his kiss still imprinted there, and grin to myself as I turn to enter my office.

Hendricks is gone, and I'm alone in here, so I allow myself to sink into my chair, leaning back as a sigh escapes at the memory of Oliver's gaze and the warmth of his kiss on my cheek. I've got this ridiculous crush on them—Oliver, Misha, Grey.

It's absurd, really, how my heart manages to beat faster for all of them, and it should probably worry me more.

But it doesn't.

Instead, I revel in its foolishness, in the secret thrill it brings to my former lonely and boring life.

It's just a one-sided crush.

Nothing will come from it anyway. But then, there was the way Oliver looked at me. A small voice in my head whispers that I might be wrong about the one-sidedness of these feelings. And I don't know if that possibility makes me happy or terrifies me.

The vibration of my phone on my thigh startles me back to reality. The caller ID alone is enough to spike my heartbeat—not with excitement, but with dread.

He never calls. He always writes.

Something must be wrong.

I answer with a tentative, "August?"

His voice comes through, shaky and almost crying. "Meelie, I-I've really messed up."

"What's happened?"

"I think… Abigail wants a divorce. She took the girls and left. I don't know what to do. I feel so… lost. I fucked up big time," he confesses, his voice breaking.

"What did you do? Did you cheat on her?" I ask, horror lacing my tone.

They were so in love.

"No, nothing like that. I just… fuck, Meelie, I need you." He breaks out into sobs, and my blood freezes.

I've never heard my brother cry.

Stanleys don't cry.

My heart clenches for him. "I'm here, Auggie. I just need to finish up a project at work, but that's wrapping up in two weeks. I can put in for my vacation then and fly out to you. Can you hold on until then?"

"You would do that?" His voice is thick with gratitude and something like relief.

"Of course. I'll come earlier if it's somehow possible. And you can call me whenever you need to. Why didn't you before?"

"I was ashamed," he admits, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I let Father push me around too much. I think that's a big reason why this is happening."

Before I can respond, the door opens, and Hendricks steps back into the office, his presence slicing through our conversation. "I can't talk right now. But can we talk some more later? I can call you tonight, 11 p.m., that should be your 7 a.m."

"I can't. I have to get to work early. But it's fine, just come in two weeks, please? Just knowing you'll come will help a lot."

"There's nothing that could keep me from it," I assure him.

August has always been there for me. It's time to return the favor, even if the thought of potentially encountering my parents through this visit twists my stomach into knots.

We say our goodbyes, and I hang up, my mind racing. There has to be a way to support him without the inevitable confrontation with them. As I turn back to my computer, the screen's glow doesn't hold the answers I seek, but I know I'll find a way.

For August, I'd navigate any storm—even if it means steering close to the rocks I've tried so hard to avoid.

Olive r

The Rubik's cube in my hand is just sitting there, forgotten.

I'm lounging with Misha and Grey in our home office, watching Amelia through the monitors, which increasingly feels like a guilty pleasure, especially after what happened earlier today.

My lips had brushed her perfect skin, and I can't seem to get her lavender scent out of my nostrils—not that I want to.

Misha and Grey have been ribbing me for hours after they saw how I kissed Amelia on the cheek through Elysium's security feeds. They're curious about everything we talked about, visibly irked that they couldn't catch the conversation. I already suspected they were watching us in the cafeteria too.

It feels shitty to be watched like that, and the guilt of watching her now weighs more heavily on me. But not enough to curb my, or rather our obsession.

"You're such a gentleman, Ollie," Misha teases, his voice dripping with mock admiration. "I don't think I would have gone for the cheek."

"You know I've never kissed anyone before," I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I want our first kiss to be special, at the right moment, not in a hallway at Elysium."

Funnily enough, her asking me out and our date somehow gave me the confidence to truly believe she would be my first kiss. The question now is only when and where.

Misha's grin broadens as he leans over to pinch my cheek. "God, look at you being cute."

"Shut up," I murmur, pushing him, and he almost topples back in his chair, laughing.

Grey, however, seems less amused. He smiles, but it's a tight, forced expression. "Just make sure your right moment isn't too late," he says, his voice tinged with something I can't quite place.

An unease stirs in me at his tone.

What is he implying?

We turn our attention back to the feed. Amelia is sitting on her couch, a bowl of ice cream in hand. Grey frowns at the screen. "Ice cream for dinner? Really, Princess?"

I don't like that he has a nickname for her, but she seems to enjoy it, so I have to deal with it and maybe think of my own nickname for her.

Amelia puts the bowl aside and speaks to Jamie, "Can you keep a secret for me?"

"Of course, Amelia. What secret?"

Fuck, should we really listen to this?

"I'm working on a project no one knows about, and I'd love for it to stay that way, so I'd be glad if you didn't share this with anyone."

"For you, I can be the void, Amelia," Jamie agrees.

We exchange glances, Grey's brows deeply furrowed. "What project? Did she say anything about it today?"

"No," I shake my head. "Haven't talked with her about her own work yet."

Why didn't we do that?

Amelia starts typing on her laptop, and a new underlying tab catches my eye on my second screen that mirrors what is on hers—a tab that had been hidden from me before. My heart races as I lean in closer, squinting at the vast algorithm.

"What is that?" Misha murmurs next to me.

"I have no idea, but it's… wow," I whisper, my eyes darting across the complex code.

Amelia stands and puts her laptop away before she pushes a button on the side of her glasses I hadn't noticed before, and the atmosphere in the room shifts. The ultra-red sensors in her apartment go crazy on my screen as she flips her hand and sits back down. She moves like she's controlling a panel as if she's using AR, but there's no lens whatsoever, just her glasses.

"Is she doing what I think she is?" Grey asks, his voice laced with astonishment.

Amelia starts typing on air, and I can't help but laugh, a mix of amazement and pride swelling inside me. "Oh my God, she's a fucking genius."

I knew she was smart, but this is… outstanding.

"She has AR at home that works with her glasses? How? And why isn't that breaking news at Elysium?" Misha's voice is full of awe.

"Because she's hiding it," Grey says, his voice low and serious.

"But why?" I murmur, more to myself than to them.

We watch in silence as Amelia continues her work, her fingers moving through the air with practiced ease and a grace that reminds me of her playing the piano.

The implications of her invention, the fact that she's keeping it a secret—it all whirls through my mind.

Why would you hide such brilliance, Amelia?