Page 41 of The Hardest Hit

She stared at her phone, unsure of what to do next.

“That didn’t go well,” said Evan.

“I actually did forget the date,” she said, a tear dripping down her face. “It’s the first time I ever forgot it.”

“What’s the date?” he asked.

“My mom committed suicide twelve years ago today.”

He got up and came over to her chair, scooping her up so she was sitting in his lap, wrapping his arms around her. Olivia pressed her face into his shoulder, trying to not give in to the terrible pressure of tears in her chest.

“My dad died when I was fifteen,” he said. “I hated him,” said Evan. “He used to hit me. So it’s not the same. But I know how the date sort of… clouds things. I used to get high every year on the anniversary. I kind of miss that. Damn you therapy for pointing out my unhealthy coping mechanisms.”

Olivia laughed a little hysterically. “I hated her after she died,” she said the laughter dying out of her voice. “I was so angry at her. I’m still angry. But mostly now I’m mad at my grandparents. They pick at it. Every year. Pulling out her photos, her clothes. There’s a vigil of sorts. They make a thing of it. They can’t just let her be buried. She wanted to escape this life and it’s like they won’t leave her alone, even in death. And the truth is that it’s not about her, it’s about them and I hate that.”

“Yeah,” he said, tucking his face into the curve of her neck, his breath was warm and his stubble tickled. “My grandmother… it’s always going to be her first, the rest of us second. I know that. I accept that. But sometimes, it’s like she sucks the air out of the room. I wish I had space to breathe my own air once and awhile.”

“That’s why I moved,” said Olivia.

“Glad you did,” he said, smiling at her.

“I want you to buy me dresses and go to your fancy parties,” she said. “And I want to be happy and naked on Tuesdays.”

“We don’t have to stick to Tuesdays.”

“I’m fine with other days, but specifically, I want Naked Tuesdays.”

He grinned. “My Tuesdays are all yours.”

16

Jackson – Marnie

Aiden looked around the grubby lobby of The Intelligencer and sneered at it. He straightened his face before turning back to the secretary.

“We are not waiting for an appointment,” said Aiden, sounding so authoritative that even Jackson felt like this was going on his permanent record.

“I think she’s on a call,” the secretary squeaked. The Intelligencer secretary had been painting her nails when they arrived and Jackson was pretty sure she was going to have to re-do at least one.

“I don’t care if she’s on a weeble-wobble,” Aiden said. “I want to see her now.”

“Um… one moment,” said the secretary, hitting the numbers on the phone again.

“It’s down here at the end of the row on the right,” said Jackson.

“Great,” said Aiden, detouring around the front desk. “Do I want to know how you know that?” murmured Aiden as they ventured into the back area.

“No,” Jackson muttered back.

Aiden nodded and proceeded along the row of cubicles as Jackson tried not to grin like an idiot. Having been told about the situation with the Intelligencer, Aiden had gone from his usual athletic wear to his full lawyer costume. He was dressed to an Evan-like level of perfection, and his every step managed to imply that he was a golden god striding through an imperfect universe of some lesser being’s creation.

“Um,” said a reporter stepping in front of them. He looked like he was in his sixties and had a mustard stain on his shirt. Aiden looked the man over, focusing on the stain, and then raised an eyebrow. “OK,” said the reporter and slunk away. “The power of a good tie cannot be underestimated,” said Aiden, before proceeding. “I learned that from Evan.” Jackson nodded and tried not to laugh. He just hoped that he wasn’t letting the Deveraux team down with his peacoat and jeans.

Aiden walked into Marnie Perrault’s office without knocking and stood staring down at the editor who turned out to be a thirty-something woman with dark hair and fringe bangs.

“Is there something you would like to ask us?” asked Aiden.

“Wha?” she asked around a mouthful of sandwich.