Or why I threw that vase in a rage that could only be classified as classic Pops. I never want to act like that again. Never want to see the fear in anyone’s eyes the way I saw it in Lydia’s. Even though I fucking hate her now, but I’m not a monster. And I don’t know if I actually believe that I hate her, it’s just what I’ve told myself, so I’m trying to stick with it.
After my explosion and leaving the mansion for the night, I took the only car I had keys to, to go back home. I was set on giving up modeling altogether if it meant I never had to see Lydia again. But when I got home, I saw the light in Olive’s room lit. This could have either meant she was reading or, in a horrible off-chance, she could have been with a boy.
You only need to walk in on your sister once with the biggest asshole in school to know rage and shame all tied up into one gift you want to throw out the window and never think about again. Speaking from personal experience, anyway.
I knocked on her door, despite my better judgment, and she immediately called for me to come in. I opened the door to see her on the windowsill, book in her lap, knees pulled to her chest as she tilted her head to me with a grin.
“Well, well, well, look who finally decided to step foot in my room again. You know, after—”
“Don’t remind me.” I shuddered, and she laughed, patting the other end of the cushion she was sitting on. I obliged and sat across from her as she wordlessly studied me.
“I’m regretting coming in here,” I grumbled when she hadn’t said anything after a minute.
“Why did you come here?”
“Not important.”
“You’re mad.” She tilted her head and blinked her eyes innocently. That’s a tactic that works for most people. They’ll divulge their deepest secrets to a face like Olive’s. I rolled my eyes to show her I was annoyed by her prodding and that she wasn’t going to win me over so easily.
“If it’s girl stuff, I can help.” I knew then that the conversation had to happen. Olive’s always been far too intuitive for her age, and I wouldn’t be able to lie my way out of concocting a story to shut her up.
“Olive—”
“I mean, I can go back to just reading my book if you’re going to sit here and pout.”
“I caught Lydia going through my phone.”
“Who’s Lydia?” She put her book down, fully engaged, chin resting in her hands.
“She’s just— we’ve been— she’s opening a show with me, and we’ve been hanging out every weekend—”
“Oh! Okay, well, that's totally normal.”
“… Us hanging out?”
“No, dummy. Her searching through your phone is completely normal girlfriend behavior.” She rolls her eyes like I’m an idiot.
“Not my girlfriend. We’re not labeling it. It’s mostly sex. Anyway, I blew up on her, and she wouldn’t explain herself.”
“Okay, ew, didn’t need to know that.”
“May I remind you, I had to walk in on you—”
“Nope. We’re good.” She threw her hands up for me to stop. “Anyway, I don’t care what you guys are calling yourselves. I just want you to think about this a bit more. If Lydia was skeptical of you— which is probably why she took your phone in the first place— then she’s likely feeling more skeptical now.”
“What? Why?”
“Did you blow up?”
“Well…” I retraced my steps mentally, reliving the rage I was in.
“I think you should suck up your pride about who’s right and wrong and just apologize if you actually like her.”
“Who said I actually like her?”
“Well, you’re in my room, aren’t you? Asking for girl advice?” I narrowed my eyes at her because I didn’t have a good answer for her valid point— and I definitely wasn’t going to acknowledge that.
“Alright. You’re too smart for me.” I sarcastically chided, standing to my feet and heading out her door as she sing-singed a goodnight that made my skin crawl.