Page 50 of Not Made to Last

“You.”

PART III

23

Olivia

Three years earlier

My grandparents used to tell me that hate was a bad word—equivalent to shit, fuck, and… wait for it… hell.

At barely sixteen, I still can’t say the words out loud, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think them.

I fucking hate the hell out of this shitty life that’s been handed to me.

I hate the coldness of the water soaking through my sneakers, making my toes numb.

I hate the weight of the rain as it pounds down on me.

I hate each and every one of the cars that drives by, splashing dirty water on us, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m already drowning.

“Ohana,” Max whimpers.

I hate the pain in my hips from having to carry a three-year-old.

“Why running?”

I hate the tears that hide so comfortably amongst the raindrops. “Because I’m late, Max.” By a whole twenty minutes. It’ll be a miracle if the woman conducting the job interview is still there. She said it was fine when I’d called earlier—that she was in no rush. Still, this isn’t the first impression I’d hoped for, and Ineedthis job. Any job.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and my soaked feet falter on the pavement beneath me. I shut my eyes and take a breath. And then another.I can’t hate Max, I remind myself. None of this is his fault.

But, I can hate the world… hate that it continues to spin when there are two fewer souls on this earth who once made up my universe.

24

Olivia

“I hate it,” Dom deadpans, his gaze landing on the crest embroidered on my shirt’s pocket. I’d literally just stepped out of my bathroom and into my bedroom, and that’s the first thing he has to say?Asshole. He quickly looks away, feigning disgust, and I try not to roll my eyes at him. Instead, I focus on my reflection in my full-length mirror and grasp the blazer’s lapels, tugging gently to get used to my new school uniform.

Fortunately, my scholarship to St. Luke’s included a clothing budget because there’s no way I’d be willing to spend—I check the tag that’s still on the sleeve and almost dry heave at the price. Dom moves closer, shifting the tag so he can see, then scoffs. “Thank fuck Philips isn’t run by a bunch of rich pricks with sticks up their asses.”

“Swear jar!” Max shouts, glancing up from his iPad just long enough to glare at Dominic. Max has set himself up in the middle of my bed—headphones on, iPad, books, and snacks all around him.

“How the hell can you hear me with your headphones on?” Dom asks him.

Max taps the piece covering his ears. “Superhuman hearing.”

Dom rolls his eyes, his lips curled as he spots some loose change on my dresser. He collects a handful and throws it over to Max. “What I meant to say was…” he starts, glaring at Max playfully, “I’m glad our school doesn’t make us dress like this.” He motions to me via the mirror, and I follow his gaze. “You look like your own worst nightmare, Ollie.”

I don’t retort because he’s right. I do. And it has nothing to do with socioeconomics and everything to do with jealousy. At one point, not too long ago, I wanted so badly to be part of the elite, and now…

Now, it just feels pointless.

I agree with him about Philips Academy, though. I’m grateful they don’t have a uniform like this, or we’d be broke—especially since Dom’s grown the equivalent of two heads in the same number of years. He’s about to enter his senior year at Phillips, and since it’s a K-12 school, Max started there last year. Their uniform is simple—gray slacks, white button-up shirt, and a black tie. No logos. No brands.

Unlike St. Luke’s Academy—a prestigious religious institution with a history that goes back generations—Philips is a private prep school funded by alums who like to feel good about giving chances to “at-risk” kids. Or, in Dom’s case, a middle-class kid bound to make a name for himself in the NBA. They also have a killer STEM program, so it suits Max perfectly.

“You’re mean,” Max says, speaking to Dom, who flops down on my bed. Max makes a show of glaring at Dom before offering me a cheesy grin. “I think you look good, Ollie.” Sweet, sweet Maxy—always my protector. “What do you think?”

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