Chapter Four
Well, at least I had the foresight to bring a decent pillow.
I mean, thirteen hours. Good thing it’s comfier than I remember, because my fake-sleeping shifts deep into a real dream about a kidnapping gone wrong—too many crime podcasts—when I’m jerked awake by the sound of the flight attendant’s overly chipper voice.
“Drinks, anyone?”
I crack one eye open, adjusting to the dim lighting of the plane and the hum of the engines.
And it’s in that moment I notice the pillow I’m smushed up against isn’t a pillow at all, my own pillow forgotten in my lap.
Rather, my head is resting on the broad shoulder of a boy who I’ve nestled against many times before—but definitely don’t have permission to do that with now.
“I…shit…sorry.” I rocket away from Tyler as if his skin is on fire, while it’s actually my cheeks that are burning.
In doing so, I accidentally bump into Cranky Lady, who gives me the side-eye and sticks her nose further into her magazine.
I’m not entirely sure, but I think she’s still on the same page that she was when I tried to barter for her window seat.
Either she’s the slowest reader of all time or she’s just unsociable as hell.
To his credit, Tyler doesn’t look annoyed but is rather mildly amused as I flounder. “Was I snoring?” I ask through a yawn, feeling the dried drool in the corners of my mouth and immediately wishing I could evaporate into the air the plane is coasting through.
“Not at all.” He’s trying so hard to keep a straight face that he has to be lying. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve snored horrendously on his shoulder.
My gaze narrows. “Like a cow, huh?”
His quiet laugh seeps into my skin, warm and comfortable, like it’s belonged there the whole time. “Nah.”
“A bear?”
“Definitely not a bear.”
“How about a—”
Tyler reaches over and gives my wrist a gentle, calming squeeze before letting go, searing me with his touch in a way that feels both shockingly new and achingly familiar. “Ol, it was fine. Nothing I haven’t heard before. If you really want to know, it was like a white noise machine at most.”
The flight attendant standing in the aisle next to us clears her throat, pointedly looking at the drink cart and dragging us back to the matter at hand.
“Two Cokes, please,” Tyler says primly, adhering to the Law of Air Travel, which is that soda or alcohol is acceptable any time of day because time doesn’t exist in airports or on planes.
My throat is too fuzzy and dry to thank him, and I instead focus on the dark spot on his shoulder while the attendant fixes us our drinks.
Tyler glances my way, probably wondering why the hell my eyes are burning a hole into his hoodie, before his gaze flickers down and a quiet snort escapes his lips. There’s no denying where the giant wet mark on his shoulder came from.
“Olive Austin.” His voice is playful. “Did you just…drool on me?”
It takes superhuman strength not to pull the hoodie strings tight over my head again—that type of disappearing act is only effective three times maximum, and I’ve already used it twice.
May as well save it for when things inevitably go even further south.
I force myself to scoff, weakly playing it off as unperturbed. “Did not.”
“Oh yeah?” He gestures to his sleeve as he passes over one of the cups. “What’s this, then? Phantom drool?”
“I think the air-conditioning is leaking.”
Another deep laugh, this time stirring Cranky Lady from her stupor as she glances at us curiously. “Definitely not.”
I still can’t tear my eyes away from the drool stain, shame heating my face. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay to have your hoodie cleaned when we get back.”
He chuckles gently and jerks his chin toward my bag peeking out from underneath the seat, the corner of my planner poking out with its million tiny sticky note flags, a riot of colors. “You’re gonna jot that down in your to-do list? I remember how much you were obsessed with that planner of yours.”
I want to curl up and die—is there anything more embarrassing than being perceived by an ex who really, truly knows you even though you really, truly wish they didn’t? “Really, Tyler. I’ll get the hoodie cleaned, I promise.”
Tyler looks at me, not saying anything. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am, causing my cheeks to heat uncomfortably: We’ve swapped spit before.
What’s a little drool on a hoodie? Eventually, he clears his throat and takes a sip of his soda.
“That’s not necessary, but thanks.” An odd formality has creeped into his voice, back to being strangers who don’t banter about the decibels of my snoring.
It’s like cold water over my head, a reminder of why I’m on this plane in the first place. Jack.
I’m on my way to see Jack.
My boyfriend.
Tyler doesn’t hold that title anymore.
I glance down at my tiny plastic cup for a distraction, bubbles fizzing toward the surface. “You remembered my drink?”
Now it’s Tyler’s turn to scoff. “Of course I remembered, Ol. You practically waxed poetic about how a cold Coke was the best cure for nerves. And it’s not like it’s a particularly obscure soda to remember.
It was the only thing you’d ever drink when we had shifts together at the pizzeria.
” Just the mere mention of the greasy, sweltering kitchen of Suburban Slices has me cringing.
I still remember the nervous tingle I felt all the way down to my toes when I walked into that bustling restaurant and saw him for the first time.
The embarrassment I felt when I realized he knew me and I couldn’t even place him.
Imagine it, not recognizing the boy who would ultimately become the failed love of your life just a short year and a half down the road.
My first day at Suburban Slices wasn’t what I expected—Nunzio, who for all intents and purposes was my boss, was nowhere to be found. He was busy puttering around town picking up ingredients and ensuring deliveries, so it was just me and Tyler, and the surly chef who I found out was named Bono.
“Don’t even,” he’d grumbled when Tyler opened his mouth to point out the U2 resemblance. “You guys need to start coming up with something more original.”
“I was going to pivot to a more Sonny-and-Cher-style joke, but something tells me you won’t find that funny, either,” I deadpanned, and he cracked the smallest of grins.
“Ignore him,” Tyler chirped good-naturedly as he waved me to another side of the counter, piled high with stacks of flat cardboard.
“He skipped his espresso today and has been cranky ever since.” He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially to me, and I caught a whiff of his spicy cologne.
“But between you and me, I can’t tell the difference between when he’s had it and he hasn’t.
” The quip caught me off guard and I tried to stifle a snicker, but to no avail.
Bono waved his hand in our direction and muttered something in Italian at Tyler, who took it in stride with a grin and told me that he had absolutely no idea what he said.
“All right, boss.” Tyler’s joking and good nature were warming me up toward him, and I was ready to get down to business.
The place smelled less like pizza grease and desperation and more like warm, comfortable tomato sauce and bubbling cheese, and things felt like they were looking up. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
Tyler schooled his expression into mock seriousness. “Before you can learn the sacred art of putting toppings on a pizza, you have to learn the crucial base skill of working at Suburban Slices.” He lowered his voice to a hushed, awed whisper. “Folding pizza boxes.”
I blinked at him as my eyes traveled to the flat pile of cardboard on the counter. “You mean they don’t just come pre-folded? I never would’ve guessed.”
When Tyler threw back his head and laughed, a hot rush of pride surged through my chest, pleased that I was the one to elicit such a reaction out of him. He was still wiping the tears from his eyes when the front door to the restaurant opened, the little bell chiming to signal a new arrival.
“What’s got you in stitches, Ty? Anything good?
” a purple-haired girl asked as she strode up to the counter, ears glinting with an array of piercings.
Her lips were painted a dark berry red, so deep it was almost the color of her hair.
Her gaze hesitated over me for a few seconds before turning back to Tyler. “New hire?”
Tyler nodded between the two of us. “Yep, this is Olive. Nunzio hired her yesterday, so we’re going over the ancient art of pizza box folding as her first training exercise.”
“Nice.” She nodded appreciatively, but her stoic expression didn’t change. She didn’t seem mean per se, but she definitely seemed prickly.
Tyler gestured in her direction. “Olive, this is Delia Franklin, my best friend and resident pain in my ass at all times.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said primly, arranging my face into a warm smile. “I’m Olive Austin.”
Delia simply looked at me coolly, expression unreadable. “I know who you are, Olive. We go to school together.”
I felt my smile slip a little bit, concerned. How come I don’t remember any of these people? “Right.”
Delia heaved a sigh like the world was on her shoulders and leaned against the counter, rapping her knuckles on it lightly, silver rings and indigo nail polish glinting in the fluorescent lights.
“Well, I’ll let you guys get back to your riveting task.
I’m just here to pick up my check.” She gave us a wave and disappeared into Nunzio’s back office, and all I could do was stare at the spot she’d been standing, taken aback by the entire exchange.
“She works here?” I’d asked, perplexed.