CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Olive

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Olive

It's been a little over a week since the diary-leak debacle, and things are slowly starting to get back to normal. I've showered every day.

Okay, fine, every other day, but still.

I've been eating. I've been journaling—the old-fashioned pen-and-paper way, thank you very much.

And I've even been working. Kind of.

I've not had the guts to go on social media myself, but Annie's been keeping track of things for me, and today is the first day I have fewer than two hundred notifications when she opens Instagram for me.

"Good news! Your follower count is down!"

I've never been happier to hear those words.

Annie bumps her shoulder against mine. "Look at you, Little Miss Trending Downward."

"What?"

We look over to Mrs. Hammish, who has made herself at home in our apartment over the last week. If Annie is at the hospital, then it's Remi sitting with me, and whenever he gets too swamped with whatever coding thing he does, Mrs. Hammish comes over to sit with me.

I tried telling Annie I was fine alone, but she wasn't having any of it.

I'd never admit it to her, but she was right. I did need the company.

"Nothing!" Annie hollers back at her, logging out of my Instagram so I can't get back in. She's now the only one who knows the password. Not that I want to right now, anyway, but still.

"You don't have to yell. I'm right here," Mrs. Hammish grumbles, going back to the scarf she's been knitting for the last year. I have no idea who it's for or why it's taking her so long, but she's committed to the project.

I can't help but laugh at the entire exchange. Half the time, the old woman hears things we don't want her to, and the other half, she doesn't listen to shit. It's a no-win situation.

"All right." Annie hands my phone back to me. "I've done my best-friend duties. Now it's time to go play nurse." She steeples her hands together. "Please don't let the ER be busy tonight," she says like a prayer.

She's been busy the last few days but has still somehow found the time to sit up with me and make sure I'm okay.

How I got so lucky in the best-friend lottery, I'll never know, but I am so, so grateful to have her.

This week has been hard. The gossip flying around me has been brutal, sure, but thanks to a few extra sessions with Ingrid, I've been working through that okay.

No, the hardest part has been missing Jude.

And I do miss him. So damn much it hurts.

I miss his corny jokes, his smile, his deep chuckle, those green eyes I could get lost in for days. I miss everything about him and then some.

I keep telling myself that no matter how much I miss him, breaking things off is for the best, but with each passing day, I lose more and more certainty about my decision.

I know it's just my heart battling with my head, but damn, the battle is getting ugly.

Annie gets up from the couch—my new home—then grabs her water bottle from the coffee table and heads to the kitchen for a refill. "Do you need anything? I can have Remi stop by the store on his way back from the coffee shop."

"I'm good, Mom, but thanks for asking."

Annie flips me off, and I laugh lightly.

I haven't done that often over the last week, so it comes out sounding off, but it feels good to get some sense of normalcy back, especially since I'm still hiding away in my apartment.

That all changes tomorrow, though.

Uma, who has been a rock during all this, called earlier to remind me of a small shoot I had on my calendar for tomorrow afternoon. As much as I wanted to cancel it because people-ing is not high on my to-do list right now, I can't. My career is already in turmoil. I'm not about to pile "bailing on commitments" onto the dumpster fire.

Annie finishes getting her stuff together, then heads for the door, grabbing her trusty cardigan before turning to me with a soft smile. "You look better today."

"Thanks. I feel better."

Her smile grows, and she blows me a kiss. "See you tonight. BYE, MRS. HAMMISH!" she shouts, just to be a brat.

The old lady either ignores her or doesn't hear her. Who knows.

Annie pulls the door shut, laughing quietly to herself and leaving me alone with our eccentric neighbor.

We sit in silence for a long time. So long that I think maybe she's fallen asleep, if her closed eyes are any indication.

When I run out of the tea I've been sipping on, I rise from the couch, in search of something else to drink and to maybe step out on the fire escape for some much-needed sunlight.

"You lied," Mrs. Hammish says, scaring the crap out of me as I'm pouring water from the pitcher into a glass. It misses my glass by a mile, spilling all over the counter.

"Pardon?" I ask, trying to get my heart to stop racing.

"You lied to her." She nods toward the door. "The dark-haired one," she says, like she doesn't know Annie's name. "You don't feel better. You feel like shit."

I sputter out a laugh, completely caught off guard by her accusation.

"I ... I don't know what you mean."

But even as I say it, Mrs. Hammish's brows go up. She knows I'm lying again.

She's right. I did lie to Annie. I don't feel better. Not even a little bit.

"You miss him."

It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "I do."

"Then go to him."

"I ... I can't. It's not that easy."

"Sure it is. You love him, so go to him."

I laugh lightly, shaking my head as I reach for a towel to clean up the mess I've made. "I don't love him, Mrs. Hammish."

"Hmm. Maybe not yet, but you were falling for him."

The words hit me right in the spot that's been hurting more than anything else—my heart.

Is that why this is so painful? Being away from him? Because there was a real chance I could love him? That I could be falling for him?

That I was already in love with him?

"Is that why you're running from him?"

"I'm not running," I argue. "I'm putting my career first."

"Bah." She clucks her tongue. "That's a crock and you know it. You're running because you're scared of how you feel about him. Scared to face it head-on."

Is that ... is that why I pushed him away? Because I'm terrified of the way he makes me feel?

No. I broke things off to protect my career. That's what happened. That's all that happened.

"My diary was posted all over the internet."

"So? Isn't that the whole point of your little job? To post to the internet and share your life? Is that really any different?"

I scoff. "It's different. Trust me."

But the more I think about what she's said, the more I realize ... is it that different? Sure, I shared stuff in my diary I wouldn't dream of sharing with my followers, but was it really such a departure? I post about my father all the time. I post about my aspirations—and about my insecurities.

Was it truly so different and scary that I had to walk away from Jude?

I swallow back the realization that maybe it's not so different, because that would mean that I lost him for no reason other than my own fear of losing something that means so much to me.

"Well, trust me, dear. When a guy like that comes along, you don't push him away. You hold him tight and keep him close. Those men are few and far between. And the chance to love that kind of man—truly love him—doesn't come along more than once in a lifetime either. If you love him even a little, don't let him slip away yet. And especially not because you're scared. I've watched you parade around this damn city for years now. Sometimes wearing some of the most ludicrous things I've ever seen, I might add. So I know you're brave. Don't chicken out now."

She turns her sharp eyes back to her project, immersing herself in it like she didn't just drop some hard truths I wasn't expecting to face today.

Hard truths I still don't want to face.

So I give myself a shake and return to my task.

I refill the water pitcher, then grab my glass and a fresh box of cheese crackers.

"Want to join me on the fire escape?" I ask, shaking the box at Mrs. Hammish.

"You want my old ass to climb out the dang window? As if."

I press my lips together, smothering a laugh. "I'll be out there, then."

"Good. Get out there. You're so pale I should have brought my sunglasses."

I lift my eyes skyward as I push open the window and climb outside.

"Don't forget sunblock!" she yells to me as I sit down.

Which is it: Get a tan or wear sunblock?

The old bird is confusing, always spouting off random stuff, like all the mumbo jumbo about me being brave and running from Jude.

She's wrong. About all of it.

But if she's so wrong ... why do her words feel so right? Why does what she's saying make so much sense?

Why is my heart beating so much faster at the idea of loving Jude? Because it's such a crazy idea? Or ... because maybe it's not so crazy after all?

I like Jude. But do I love him? No way.

Yes, I miss him when he's not around. And sure, he's the first person I think of whenever I wake up—and possibly the last before I go to bed. He's the one I want to call with all my good news and even all the bad too. Or, heck, even when I'm bored, with nothing to do. He's annoying as hell, but he also makes me laugh and smile and feel so damn good about myself that it feels as if I'm walking on sunshine. And he—oh my god.

"I'm totally in love with Jude," I say to myself.

Then, two seconds later, I hear, "I told you so!"