Page 60 of Ink Me Three Times
And now Timothy…
Urgh, what a mess.
Penny climbs onto the couch next to me and boops my nose with her finger. "Tag! You a cow now!"
"…Excuse me?"
"You go moo," she says seriously. "Cows go moo. You moo now."
"Hard pass."
She blinks. "You won’t moo?"
"I really don’t want to moo."
She considers this like it’s a moral failing. "Okay. You baby cow. Baby cows go 'mewmewmew.’"
I fake amewmewmewand she beams like I’ve just aced a performance review.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I swipe it up with the desperation of someone hoping for a distraction from both emotional confusion and barnyard roleplay.
Olivia: Can you clear your schedule Friday? I’m passing through Coyote Glen. I require cocktails and best friend time. Urgently.
YES.
YES YES YES.
She said she’d visit, but she’s always so busy with work I didn’t know it’d actually happen.
And this couldnothave come at a better time.
Ivy: YES. I would clear the whole county if necessary. You, me, alcohol, judgment. Let’s go.
Olivia: I’ll be there around 3. Prepare the emotional trenches and the good snacks.
She sends a gif of Leslie Knope saying "Buckle up, buttercup" and I laugh harder than I have in days. Like, real laughter. Not the weird nasal exhale I’ve been doing to pretend I’m coping.
I miss her.
Olivia’s always been the person who can look at me and see everything. The good, the wrecked, the deeply repressed… and somehow not run screaming.
I need her brand of brutal honesty and color coded emotional charts. I need someone who isn’t tied to this town and this mess, who can tell me whether I’ve lost my mind… or just finally cracked it open.
I need Olivia like a woman needs dry shampoo and plausible deniability.
I toss my phone aside and sigh. Penny climbs halfway into my lap and pokes my cheek. "You sad?"
"No," I lie. "Just tired."
She considers me, eyes wide and a little sticky from some dried applesauce incident I didn’t fully clock earlier. Then she pats my boob with all the solemnity of a tiny priest offering a benediction. "You need a walk."
She’s not wrong.
Ten minutes later, she’s bundled into her unicorn hoodie, clinging to her sippy cup like it holds state secrets, and we’re walking down Main Street. She keeps up a nonstop commentary about birds, clouds, and a rock that "looks like a sandwich." I nod like I’m taking detailed notes.
The air smells like pine and spring and the faint ghost of someone grilling something two streets over. It should be calming. It should help. It doesn’t.
