Page 111 of Twisted Violet

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I glance toward the alley. The sidewalk. The street.

No sign of Dallas.

There’s a note tucked into the pocket on Ollie’s vest, perfectly folded.

Ollie missed you. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

I snort. “Your papa’s a manipulative bastard.”

Ollie tilts his head like he agrees.

Then I scratch under his chin and whisper, “He knows I can’t resist this face.”

Every day after that,Ollie shows up.

Same time. Same little vest. Same look on his face like,“Ma’am, your special delivery has arrived.”

It’s criminally effective.

Sometimes it’s a gift card to my favorite milk tea place across town. The one I once joked was my “emotional support sugar.”

Sometimes it’s a dumb little note in Dallas’ handwriting:

I’ve thought about it and San is my bias. Dimple gang!

Or:

Ollie thinks you like him better than me now. The little shit won’t stop bragging about getting to hang out with you all the time.

He never waits around.

Never tries to talk, just sends Ollie to hang out with me during my lunch break and then vanishes like some emotionally intelligent ghost of situationship’s past.

Until one day, I open the little pocket and concert tickets slip out.

Three of them.

Front row. Center stage. To the Stray Kids concert I once told him I’d trade a kidney to go to.

I stare at them for a full minute like they’re going to self-destruct.

Three tickets.

Of course.

Not two.

Not four.

Three.

The subtlety would be infuriating if it wasn’t so… him.

A quiet ‘maybe’, a gentle ‘if you want’tucked between card stock.

I sit with it for a while.

Then I text Stevie.

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