Chapter 25
Skyla
The Oliver house wraps around us like a warm hug with that familiar scent of home-cooked meals and that particular smell that comes from years of teenage boys living under one roof—part athletic equipment, part aftershave, and part the indefinable essence of controlled chaos.
The hardwood floors creak in all the same places they will many years from now, and the family photos lining the hallway show the same crooked smiles that I know by heart.
“It’s weird how exactly the same everything feels,” I murmur to Logan as we pause by the front door.
“Light driving will mess with your head like that,” he agrees, hanging his jacket on the same hook he’ll use in the future. “Some things are just constants.”
“Skyla! Logan!” Emma’s voice drifts from the kitchen with that particular brand of false sweetness that makes my teeth ache.
Like the constant fact that Emma basically hates me—or at least hates me with Gage.
She and Candace have that in common—that and the need to sleep with a wily Fem.
“Perfect timing! We were just waiting for you to get home for dinner. Skyla, you’re always welcome.
” Her smile falters and lets me know everything I need to about that so-called permanent invite.
Dinner with Emma.
I shoot Logan a look that says, I’d rather eat a cursed rose, but family obligations are family obligations. We make our way toward the kitchen, where the scent of baked macaroni mingles with roasted vegetables and whatever Martha Stewart fantasy Emma has been living out for the past three hours.
Dr. Oliver stands near the stove, his graying hair slightly mussed and his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been helping with dinner preparations.
We exchange a quick greeting. He’s got that same gentle smile that never fails to make me feel like I’m exactly where I belong, even when everything else is falling apart—or Emma is in the room.
Emma, on the other hand, is bustling around the kitchen with the kind of manic precision that suggests she’s been rehearsing this ambush since dawn.
Her honey blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail so perfect it could be used in a geometry lesson, and she’s wearing an apron that probably costs more than my mother’s entire wardrobe—monogrammed, naturally, because heaven forbid, we forget whose kitchen we’re in.
“How nice to see you, Skyla,” Emma says, turning to me with a smile that’s nothing but knife-sharp edges disguised as friendliness.
“I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses and decided to stick with Logan.
Gage told us he’ll be seeing other people now.
It’s for the best, really. He even mentioned that Bishop girl. ”
The way she says it makes it clear she thinks this development is the best news she’s heard all year. Most likely in her lifetime.
“Emma,” Dr. Oliver chides gently, shaking his head with the kind of paternal disappointment that could make hardened criminals reconsider their next move.
He turns my way with a forlorn smile. “And here I thought you two kids were such a nice couple.” He sneaks Logan a quick wink.
“Not that I don’t think you and Logan are a good fit.
Of course, you can’t go wrong with either Oliver boy. ”
And there it is—the Oliver family motto: Why choose when you can collect them all?
Logan grins at his uncle with genuine affection. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Always happy to support my nephew’s romantic endeavors,” Dr. O replies. “But I do wish you’d all figure out this whole situation before I need a spreadsheet to keep track of who’s dating whom.”
“A spreadsheet might not be a bad idea,” I mutter, earning a snort of laughter from Logan.
“Oh, I think things are much clearer now.” Emma’s smile turns even more predatory as she pulls a casserole dish from the oven, the cheese on top perfectly golden and bubbling. “Sometimes it takes a little drama to help people see what’s really important. Don’t you think so, Skyla?”
“I think some people enjoy drama more than others,” I don’t miss a bitchy beat. Case in point, Emma herself. Why in the world didn’t she just open with, I’m so thrilled you’re not dating my son! On second thought, I’m shocked she didn’t bake a cake for the occasion.
“Well, of course, some people do enjoy drama.” Her lips curve at the tips. “But you have to admit, all that back-and-forth couldn’t have been good for anyone involved. Logan has always been the more sensible choice, haven’t you, sweetie?”
Logan looks like he’s calculating how many windows he’d have to dive through to escape this conversation. “Maybe we should just—”
“I’m just saying,” Emma continues, spooning macaroni onto plates with the kind of aggressive fervor that suggests she’s imagining each scoop is removing another one of my bad decisions, “that some people need a little chaos to realize what they really want. And I’m so happy you’ve all finally figured it out. ”
Before I can formulate a response that won’t get me banned from family dinners, the sound of footsteps on the stairs announces Gage’s arrival.
He appears in the kitchen doorway looking as if he, too, would rather be anywhere else on the planet with his dark hair still damp from a shower, and his expression—well, he’s decidedly pissed but trying to play it off as neutral.
“Evening,” he says to the room in general, pointedly not making eye contact with either Logan or me.
“Perfect timing,” Emma chirps, immediately brightening at the sight of her son. “I was just about to serve dinner. I made your favorite—with extra cheese on the macaroni.”
Her worship of him is unchanging.
“Thanks, Mom,” Gage says, and I can hear the genuine affection in his voice. Whatever else is going on, he really does love this family—and well, Emma continues her unhealthy obsession with him.
If Gage announced he was joining a cult, Emma would start researching how to be the best cult mom ever—so long as I had nothing to do with it.
At this point, Gage could date a serial killer and Emma would start planning the wedding.
She’d even go as far as helping the bride hide the bodies as long as I was somewhere near the top of the hit list.
“I was about to bake a cake,” she announces, “but I ran out of time. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Knew it.
“So,” Dr. Oliver says as we all settle around the kitchen table, some of us working hard to steer the conversation toward safer waters. “How was everyone’s day? Logan, how are things at the bowling alley?”
“Good,” Logan replies, shooting me a quick glance. “Busy night. Lots of birthday parties. Michelle had to leave early, though. She wasn’t feeling well.”
Emma perks up like a hunting dog catching a scent. “Poor Michelle. I hope it wasn’t anything serious. She seemed perfectly fine this morning when I ran into her. She was getting a lift to school with Mr. Dudley.”
Figures. Right after he lifted her skirt.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, not wanting to get into that whole arranging herself for Marshall situation.
“And Skyla, how was cheerleading practice?” Dr. Oliver continues, throwing himself on the conversational grenade Emma just lobbed at the table.
“Educational,” I say carefully. “We’re all very... spirited about the upcoming ski trip.”
“Oh, how exciting!” Emma cries out as if I had just extended an invite for her to hit the slopes with us. “Will you be going on that trip?” She hikes a brow my way, suddenly fearing for her son’s baseball bat. “It sounds like such a wonderful opportunity to bond with the other cheerleaders.”
The way she says bond makes it clear she’s picturing me in a full body cast.
“Actually, I’m not going,” I say. “I have a dark feeling about it.”
Gage looks up from his plate for the first time. “You’re not going?”
Wow, he speaks. And here I thought he’d taken a vow of silence along with his vow to date Satan’s teenage intern.
“Nope. Staying home,” I say. “It feels much safer that way.” For all involved.
“Safer?” Emma laughs, the sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. “Skyla, it’s a school-supervised trip to a resort. What could possibly be dangerous about that?”
“You’d be surprised,” I mutter. One razor sharp ski comes to mind.
Gage is still staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Since when do you turn down opportunities for adventure?”
Since adventure started involving Chloe Bishop’s tongue down your throat, I want to say but don’t.
“Since I developed common sense,” I say instead, letting my eyes linger on his lips a beat too long, then immediately regret it. Nothing says, I’m being mature about this, like mentally undressing him at the dinner table while his parents and my husband watch from the sidelines.
“Common sense is so underrated,” Emma says with a touch too much satisfaction. “I’m sure Logan appreciates having someone who thinks things through instead of just rushing headfirst into every situation like they did with some people.”
“Emma,” Logan says, shaking his head her way.
Like I’ve ever thought anything through.
“What?” she balks, feigning shock. “I’m just saying that maturity is attractive. Some people take longer to develop it than others.”
Gage’s jaw clenches. “Are we talking about anyone in particular?”
“Oh, not at all,” Emma says with fake innocence. “Just making general observations about personal growth.”
“Right,” Gage says with a frown. “General observations.”
I’m so lost, I’m not sure if I’m being insulted or praised at this point. Or maybe she was talking about Gage? No wonder he’s so incensed.
Dr. Oliver clears his throat. “So, Gage, how is school going? Any interesting classes this semester?”
He casts a side glance my way. “Mr. Dudley’s Algebra 2 class has been enlightening,” he’s quick to say, and I nearly choke on my macaroni.
“Oh,” Emma muses. “Mr. Dudley does seem to have quite the effect on his students. Especially the female ones.”
“He’s a very engaging teacher,” I manage to say the words with a straight face.