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.”

I still smell his vanilla and cedar scent on my pillow that night. It’s in my hair. On my skin. Around my soul. Like a freaking wizard casting his silly little spell.

Landon: If you had a choice between me and Fred, who would you kiss?
Me: Fred. It’s the mustache.
Landon: I knew it.
Me: You?
Landon: Always Fred.
Me: I’m screenshotting this conversation to show Fred later.
Landon: Is it blackmail if I want it to happen?

“Oh, hey, you!” Theo says, upside down. “What are you doing?”
“Hating myself,” I say.

“Making spaghetti and meatballs tonight,” he says. “That cool?”
I wonder if I’ll be having his meatballs too.
Wait. No. Stop. Gross, Quinn.

“What if I said I like pissing you off?” he asks. “That I like the little line between your eyebrows. Your glares. Your crossed arms. Your combat boots that could probably kick my ass.”
“Masochist.”
He chuckles. “When it comes to you? Yes, I just might be.”

“You …” His mouth lowers until it’s hovering over mine. “If only you knew how much you drive me insane.”
“So dramatic.”

He whispers into my ear, strained and gritty, “I would do anything for you, if you’d let me.”