CHAPTER SIX Olive

CHAPTER SIX

Olive

My day got worse.

It got majorly worse.

The shoot was long and exhausting. Mitch is an incredible photographer, but damn, he's demanding. I discovered this little trait of his when he went through the images on one of his smoke breaks, hated every single one, and insisted I switch outfits for the umpteenth time and get my hair pulled into a dreadful high ponytail. It lasted two hours longer than I was scheduled for, which made me late for a meeting with a plus-size shop interested in partnering with me. They were kind enough to be understanding, but it still made me feel like crap, being late for the second time today.

Then, thanks to a group of high schoolers thinking the subway was a fun place to party, my train home was shut down for more than an hour. It was hot and muggy and awful being trapped in the car, so not one or two or even three fights broke out—it was four.

Not even my noise-canceling headphones could drown out all the madness.

I deserved some damn pizza after all that, which is why I'm just now getting home at nearly nine o'clock, with a fresh and steaming-hot pie.

"I come bearing pizza!" I yell to Annie as I walk through the door, letting it slam behind me.

"Coming!" she calls back, which I know is Annie speak for I need at least five more minutes.

I drop my things at the door and toe off my shoes before padding across the small apartment to the kitchen counter. My phone vibrates against my ass as I peel open the box of cheesy goodness, and I pluck it free.

The screen blazes to life, a photo of my smiling father looking back at me, and I give him a wink before pulling down my notifications bar. There's a whole mess of new messages flooding in, probably due to my latest post about my shit day. I don't typically post about my bad moments, as I try to keep my profile positive, but sometimes they get the best of me, and I feel like I have to say something for the sake of authenticity. Today's post about being kind to strangers and taking into account the fact you never know what someone else is going through felt warranted, especially after the whole coffee incident this morning.

I swipe them all away as I grab a slice of pizza, skipping the plate—saving water by not doing dishes, right?—and taking a bite as I settle onto my favorite stool. I shimmy my shoulders back and forth, my own little happy food dance, before I take another nibble, my phone still vibrating with new notifications. I click on my Instagram app and am met with at least thirty messages waiting for me.

I want to ignore them so badly, but I don't have that luxury. I am full-blown into this social media game, which I know means that the first hour of posting is the most crucial. The faster I respond to messages, the better my stats are.

So that's what I do. I start going through them one by one, sometimes sending generic responses, sometimes more thoughtful ones. I'm moving through them robotically, picking up another slice of pizza, when one catches my eye.

I pause.

Dragging my phone closer to my face, I squint, carefully reading the bolded name.

Jasper Rafferty.

No. It's a joke. A total ha ha, got you joke.

But the profile picture is the same—I message him often enough that I would know.

With a thick swallow, I click on the unread message.

The loudest, most high-pitched sound hits my ears, and it takes me only a second to realize it's me making that noise.

I slap my hands over my mouth, but it's too late.

Annie barrels down the hall. "What? What happened? What's wrong?" She charges at me, her eyes wide with panic and worry.

I have no clue what she's worried about. It's me who is having a complete meltdown right now.

"What happened, Olive?"

I open my mouth to tell her, but no sounds come out. I can't speak. I'm in shock.

"Olive, what's wrong? You're scaring me." She steps in front of me and begins running her hands over my arms, taking my wrist, and checking my pulse. "Are you hurt? Where is it? What happened?"

Leave it to Annie to go into full nurse mode.

But it's enough to snap me out of my stupor. I swat at her, trying to get her to stop feeling me up.

"Knock it off," I demand. "I'm fine."

"That was not an I'm fine kind of scream." She narrows her eyes. "I swear, if you did all that screaming over another damn spider, I'm going to tit punch you."

Even though there was no spider, I cover my chest anyway. Her tit punches hurt.

"It wasn't a spider," I tell her, noting how she also covers her tits.

"Then ..." She looks around the kitchen. Her eyes land on the pizza, then the greasy mess on the countertop, then down, down, down, all the way to the floor, where the slice of goodness has slid off my lap and is now lying face down, creating a nasty mess I am not looking forward to cleaning up.

"Did you just throw perfectly good pizza on the floor?"

"Yes."

"Why? Was there something on it?" More eye narrowing. "Was it a pineapple again?"

"I'll have you know that finding a chunk of pineapple on my pizza is a perfectly good reason to scream."

"It's delicious, and you're delusional if you think otherwise."

"I'm starting to think otherwise about our friendship," I tell her.

She crosses her arms over her chest, ignoring my threat. "What happened?"

I blow out a steadying breath, finally releasing my tits, feeling safe from any punches.

I slide off the stool, careful not to step in the pizza mess, and grab my phone.

I let out a relieved sigh when I see the screen isn't cracked, but that might be the least of my worries. Something is still definitely wrong with it. The whole thing is just shaking back and forth, like a mini earthquake only the phone can feel.

Annie closes her hand around mine, and I realize it's not my phone shaking. It's me.

"Olive ... I need you to tell me what happened."

How do I tell her what happened when even I don't understand it myself?

Because how?

How is it possible that the Jasper Rafferty messaged me?

Does that mean he . . .

I shake my head.

"No?" Annie questions. "You're not going to tell me?"

"No. Wait. Yes. I'm going to tell you. I'm shaking my head because ..." I trail off, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. "He messaged me."

"Who?"

"Jasper."

Annie tips her head to the side. Her midnight-black hair, which is usually pulled into a high bun, hangs loose, and I watch as it falls over her shoulder with the movement. "What about Jasper?"

I pull my gaze from her hair and back to her stare. There's a crinkle between her brows, and her lips are pulled together tightly. She looks mildly annoyed with me, and I don't blame her. I'd be annoyed too. I'm not giving her any details. Hell, I'm barely speaking in complete sentences.

But how can I?

Jasper Rafferty messaged me. Which likely means he's read my messages. All of them. Hundreds of them. All the ones I've sent over the last year.

I'm stupid. So, so, so incredibly stupid. Why? Why did I think it was a good idea to turn his inbox into my very own digital diary?

Ah, right. Because I thought what I was doing was harmless since my messages were going to his Requests folder, where all the other messages from people he doesn't follow go. Safety in numbers, right?

Wrong.

"I'm firing my therapist."

Annie jerks her head back. "What? Why? You love Ingrid."

"Yes, but I'm in this predicament because of her."

"What predicament?" Annie throws her hands in the air, completely over my shit.

I sigh, press my thumb against my phone's screen, then hand it over to her.

She takes the phone hesitantly, her eyes not leaving me as she pulls it from my fingers.

"What am I doing with this?" she asks.

"Look."

Her brows pull together, but she heeds my directions, dropping her eyes to the screen.

"What am I looking at here? It's your inbox. It's ..." Her mouth drops open, and now her hands are trembling. "That's ... That's ..." She shakes her head, still staring in complete disbelief.

I don't blame her. I'm not sure I even believe it myself.

Why would he message me back? Out of all the people who are undoubtedly sliding into his DMs, why me? It doesn't make sense.

"Are you going to open it?"

"No! Absolutely not. I don't—"

I don't even have the chance to finish my protest before she presses her thumb to the screen.

It's a done deal.

I've seen it. He'll see that I've seen it.

This just opened a whole new assortment of problems.

"Oops?" She scrunches her nose as she pulls up her shoulders. "My bad."

But she doesn't sound sorry at all.

I love Annie, but never have I ever wanted to strangle her so badly before.

"Uh-oh." She winces. "You look mad. Why do you look mad? This is a good thing. Right?"

"No. No. It's not a good thing at all, Annie," I tell her through gritted teeth, shaking my head. "In fact, this is the worst thing ever."

"But ... how? This is your in! Look at you, making friends with the celebrities, Little Miss Badass Model." She winks at me, her grin wide and happy.

But I'm not smiling back. There's no way Jasper has any clue who I am. He doesn't know me or my modeling. This is just a fluke. Some random, awful, and embarrassing fluke. Emphasis on embarrassing.

"Earth to Olive ..." Annie waves a hand in front of my face. "Why is this a bad thing?"

"My messages!" I snap.

I regret it immediately. I shouldn't be mad at her. It's not her fault. It's Ingrid's. She's the one who suggested I start a journal. When I told her I hated writing with pen and paper, she suggested I do a digital one.

Sure, Ingrid might not have meant this style of journaling, but still. It's all her fault.

Or at least, that's what I'm telling myself to feel better about this whole situation.

Annie tips her head, silently mouthing, "Messages?" as she stares at me with confusion in her eyes.

That's when I see it—the second she realizes what she's just done.

"Oh no." She covers her mouth with her hand. "No. No, no, no, no," she chants, the words muffled, but I can still hear them. "Your messages."

"My messages."

After a night of too much wine—something that happens rarely, because I usually handle myself just fine, thank you very much—I confided in Annie about my online diary. She thought it was a horrible idea, naturally, but encouraged me to keep writing to him if it made me feel better.

Now I'm betting she regrets those words as much as I regret following her advice.

She drops her hand, shaking her head. "I didn't ... I'm so sorry, Olive. I didn't think about those. Not at all."

"I didn't either. Not at first. But now ..."

She squeezes her eyes closed, then takes a steadying breath before looking at me again. "Maybe he didn't read them?"

I laugh derisively as I bend to pick up the fallen slice of pizza. I carry it to the trash can, then move to the sink to clean the grease off my hands. "Right. He only read this latest one, and that's it."

"Maybe?" She grimaces and hops up onto the stool I abandoned, grabbing a slice of pizza for herself. "Can't you just delete the thread or something?"

"Deleting it will only delete the messages from my inbox, not his," I explain to her as she takes a big bite of the pie that I want nothing to do with. It's tainted now. Or maybe I've just completely lost my appetite.

"Block him, then." She shrugs like it's the most obvious answer, and maybe it is. I mean, I don't have to follow him. Right?

But that would mean I would lose all my messages to him. And some of those contain memories I want to keep.

Not going to lie, the old-fashioned pen-and-paper method is looking really nice right about now.

"Or ..." She draws the word out, and I glance over at her. "Just respond to him."

"That's not happening." Shaking my head, I push past her to grab a few paper towels from the roll on the counter and a bottle of cleaning spray before making my way back to my mess. I wipe everything up, the kitchen now smelling like fresh orange rather than pizza grease, then discard the paper towels, leaving no evidence of my faux pas. If only every mess were that easy to clean.

"Come on," Annie says as I grab a bottle of wine from the fridge and twist it open. I wasn't planning on drinking tonight since I had a bit too much last night, but after this, it's safe to say I could really use something to calm my nerves. Thank god Annie restocked us or I'd be bumming right now. "It's not the most awful idea ever. What's the worst that could happen?"

I grab a glass from the cabinet and set it on the counter. "Well, for starters, he could respond again."

"So?" She shrugs once more. "We're operating on the belief he's already read everything you've sent him. Which means whatever you sent him didn't scare him away. Would it really be so terrible if he responded?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, a bit of wine splashing from the cup with my outburst.

"Why?"

"What if this is all just some elaborate She's All That type of prank? I am not cut out for that shit."

I can tell she wants to roll her eyes at me, but she refrains. "That's not what this is. This is just two people in adjacent industries befriending one another."

"Adjacent? Adjacent?" I set the wine bottle down, then hold my hands out flat, my fingertips pointing toward one another. "You're assuming we're both here, on this level. But the truth is, I'm here"—I move my right hand down—"and Jasper is here." I raise my left hand up as high as I can possibly reach. "We aren't adjacent. We're on two different planets, Annie."

She waves this away. "You're not, but keep telling yourself that."

"You don't follow celebrity gossip. Hell, you don't even watch movies. You're not caught up in this world. I'm telling you, we're not even in the same atmosphere. Jasper Rafferty is a god, and I'm a peon. End of story."

She huffs. "You're selling yourself short again, Liv."

"I'm being realistic, Bananie," I say, using the nickname I know she hates. It earns me a glare, and I don't even care. She deserved that one after opening the message. "There is not a single place in this entire universe where Jasper and I are in the same circles. This is a prank. It has to be."

"One, I'm getting super confused about the solar system. Planets, atmospheres, and universes. I'm going to need a fourth-grade science refresher. And two, what if it's not a prank? What if this is real?"

"It's not real," I promise her, recapping the wine because we're a very fancy screw-top-wine-bottle household. "Which is why I am not going to message him again. I'm going to block him, and I'm going to pretend this never, ever happened. Hopefully, he'll do the same. I'm sure he's already forgotten all about the weirdo who spilled all her secrets to him like a psychopath."

Annie opens her mouth but snaps it shut again the second I look at her with hard eyes, silently telling her that if she tries to argue with me again, I might just go to prison for murder tonight.

So she says nothing—at least, nothing about Jasper.

Jasper, the man I am desperately trying to forget exists.

Jasper, the man I am going to pretend didn't see those messages.

Jasper, the man who is ... so, so handsome and so far out of my league.

Damn you, Ingrid.

And damn me too. Because really? Did I honestly think I could get away with this?

Yes.

Because, come on, what are the chances? He has to get thousands of messages a day. How is it that out of all the ones he receives, he looks at mine?

I shake away the thought, bringing my wineglass to my lips and emptying half of it in one go.

"How was the shoot?" Annie asks.

"Mixed bag," I tell her, taking another drink. "Started rocky because I was late."

"Late? Why?"

When I tell her about my extra-shitty morning, she laughs, completely unsurprised. "But after that, it was good?"

I shrug. "Mostly. Mitch—who I am so thankful to work with again—is great. But also exhausting, you know? I'm hoping it'll all be worth it, though."

"It will," she says, sounding confident. "You're so going to get new deals out of this. I just know it. Once people see those shots, they're going to want you in their clothes. And who knows? Maybe something good will come out of you popping into that boutique."

"Hmm. Maybe. How was your day?"

"A lot less eventful than yours, that's for sure."

We spend the next two hours catching up and eating pizza. Annie's not usually one to drink more than one glass of wine, but even she has by the time we're both ready to turn in.

It's not until I'm snuggled up comfortably in my bed, warm and cozy beneath my sheets, that I allow myself to think about Jasper again.

"Why me?" I mutter, grabbing my phone off the bedside table.

The screen illuminates my face as I navigate to Instagram, ignoring the new messages in my inbox in favor of Jasper's.

He hasn't sent anything else. And why would he? It was just a fluke.

But it doesn't stop me from repeatedly reading the four words he sent me.

@JasperRafferty: How'd the shoot go?

I need to block him so I can block this whole messy, awful thing out of my mind.

I click on his name to do that, but it jumps on the screen.

Why did it jump? What's ...

"Oh no," I gasp, sitting up in one easy motion like all those overly fit hot guys do in the movies. "He's typing."

Three dots dance along the bottom of the screen, and I watch them like they're the most exciting thing I've ever seen. And right now, they are.

What in the world is he saying? What could he say?

Whatever it is, he must have changed his mind, because suddenly, the dots stop.

"Thank fuck," I whisper, exhaling heavily.

My relief is short lived, because those damn dots appear once more.

"Crap, crap, crap," I chant as the dots bounce.

They disappear, only to reappear.

I watch the screen for five minutes—I time it and everything—until finally, the dots stop for a full minute, the longest yet.

"It's over," I murmur, still talking to myself. "See? Just a fluke, Olive. Nothing to worry about."

I click off my screen and put my phone away. Resting my eyes, I settle back into my bed, ready to fall into the slumber I desperately need.

Buzz.

My eyes spring open as my phone rattles against my table. I reach for the device.

@JasperRafferty has sent you a message.