Julie Olivia

she wasn’t Quinn. She didn’t scowl enough, banter enough, or hate me enough.
Yes, I can hear myself.
Yes, I realize I might have problems.

Somehow, her looking like a gargoyle makes her even more attractive.

I take my script out of my tote bag, sliding it across the counter.
“Are we practicing lines?” he asks, washing his hands in the sink.
“Why else would I be here?” I ask. “Friendship?”
He smiles. “Of course not.”