Page 106 of Not Made to Last

I don’t know what I expected to happen after I made my stupid declaration to “win Rhys back”—whatever that means—but it seems to have had the opposite effect. He didn’t return to school for the rest of the week, nor did he reply to the two text messages I sent him over the weekend. He also didn’t answer the one time I tried to call.

There’s only so much a girl can do before her desperation turns to humiliation, and I think I passed that point when Miss Turner caught me trying to break into his office early Monday morning. To be fair, I was there to water the plant I’d given him. Or, at least, that was my excuse. It’s Thursday now—an entire week since I’d seen him—and I’m losing my mind. And a little self-esteem, if I’m being honest. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if he’d just communicate with me, even if it’s to tell me he wants nothing to do with me. I’d accept that over whatever is happening because it doesn’t make sense.

It’s not like Rhys to shy away from facing things head on.

Something is off.

I can feel it deep in my gut.

And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

There are two people in this world who would know where he is, and they’re both sitting in the same room right now. I wait until the door to Miss Turner’s office opens and Oscar appears before pressing my hands to his chest and forcing him back inside. I shut the door behind me, determined, and turn to them.

Their eyes shift from me to each other, silently communicating something I have no perception of.

“Where is he?” I ask, and I sound deranged. No sleep and no answers can do that to someone.

Miss Turner sighs, while Oscar shrugs, says, “What are you talking about?”

Yeah, something is definitely wrong.

“Olivia,” Miss Turner says. “You can’t come barging in here like that. It’s not?—”

“What?” I huff. “Not appropriate? You know what else isn’t appropriate? Leaving me in the dark like this. I know you know where he is, and I just wish someone would tell me, because?—”

“He’s out of town,” Oscar cuts in.

“Oscar,” Miss Turner scolds.

Oscar shrugs again. “It’s a family thing.”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “If that’s all it was, he’d tell me.” I look between them, but their pitiful stares have me pulling back an inch. My anger ebbs, turns to confusion. “Right?” I ask. “He’d tell me…”

They don’t respond, just look at each other before facing me again. There’s an ache in my chest, a tightness I can’t ignore. I lower my gaze, the veil of denial suddenly lifting from my eyes. “Well…” Heat burns behind my eyes, but I blink it away. I ask, only so I know when to prepare for the inevitable. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No, Olivia. We don’t,” Miss Turner says, her eyes downcast.

“Oscar?” I ask, looking right at him, but he refuses to meet my eyes.

I take a step back, my heart heavy. “You guys are horrible liars, you know that, right?” I don’t wait for a response because I know it won’t come. I just turn for the door, put my hand on the knob.

“Olivia,” says Miss Turner. I pause, but I don’t turn around. “There are a lot of things in this life that you have every right to take personally. Please don’t let this be one of them.”

60

Olivia

My grandpa always kept his tools in pristine condition, and everything had its place. I… do not. I remember him telling me once that your workspace is an extension of your mind, and I didn’t quite grasp what that meant… until now, apparently. Because my mind is a mess and so is my workspace. And my room. And the entire house, if I’m being honest. And since I can’t do much about my mental state, I may as well do something about my physical one. Who knows? Maybe it will help. It better. Or else I don’t know why I’m out here at midnight, on a Saturday night, sorting out sandpaper by grit.

Dom sets down my water bottle on the bench beside a stack of sandpaper, and I should really put a bell around his neck, because I had no idea he was even in here. I remove my headphones to glare at him.

“You’re not drinking enough water,” he tells me. “You’ll get sick.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks,Dad.” I expect him to leave, but he just stands there, his hip on the workbench, watching me. “Was there something else?”

“Are you okay?”

I focus on the sandpaper, start sorting again. “I’m fine.”

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