8. Olivia #3
Loved, I guess, is the operative word in this equation. Past tense. No more. No matter how JJ looked at me a few hours ago.
My chest heaves when the pink fabric comes back into view.
The wind pushes it, and my mind is forced to remember that they let me put my own touches on this place.
Mack eventually got over the pinkness and “girliness” of the trinkets I found, as well as the curtains I put up.
Even the pink pillows I brought so we could lie here and just be.
“You think we’ll grow up and get away?” I whisper to Mack one night, clasping his hand in mine as we lie back on the new pillows I found earlier today.
He sighs, adjusting his head on the fluffy pink pillow.
“One day, baby. One day, we’ll take you away from here. It’ll be the four of us. Always,” he whispers.
“And a family?” I ask, swallowing hard when he turns to look at me, grinning wide.
“Definitely a big family,” he says, kissing my cheek. “We’ll have it all, Buttercup: horses, land, new names, jobs, and so much more. I’ll build you the best house money can buy.”
“And what kind of house would it be?” My gaze examines him as he smirks.
“The biggest mansion you can imagine with the best security to keep us safe. With a wrap-around porch, a swing fit for four people, and rocking chairs for when we get old. I’ll even build a sex room in the basement with a door only I can unlock.
” He wiggles his brows and laughs when I punch him in the chest.
I swallow my emotions when the very pink pillows I picked out so many years before rest in the corner of the treehouse. In fact, everything I ever put into this place hangs like a shrine to the girl they once loved.
Once. Loved.
“Fuck it,” I growl, swiping a hand over the small porcelain trinkets I found at garage sales over the years. Cat, dog, horse, and pig figurines with tutus and baseball caps.
“Look at this one,” I giggle, holding a small pig figurine in the air.
“Looks like something my grandma would have had,” JJ says softly, as his eyes trace the small figurine with sadness radiating back.
“I think it’s cute. How mad would Mack be if I put this in the treehouse?
” I wiggle my brows playfully, setting it back on the table and moving on without giving JJ a chance to answer.
I was joking anyway. Although I did think it was cute—something I would never be allowed to have at home in my prison.
Just bare walls and an empty closet. No personality.
Maybe that’s why I put it all into the treehouse and force the guys to go along with it.
“Here,” JJ says, handing me a small box as we walk away from the garage sale and down the street toward our homes.
My brows furrow. “Did you buy something there? I saw they had baseball cards.” More for him than me. This is our usual, though. Shopping the garage sales happening around town, looking for small treasures we can barely afford.
JJ stops us, pulling me to the side of the road and grins, uncovering the small figurine wrapped in brown paper. “When you really want something, there’s an undeniable spark in your eye, Spitfire,” he murmurs, twisting the small figurine so I can see all the angles.
“Jasper,” I murmur his first name, biting my lip. “You got it for me?”
He doesn’t answer; he kisses my cheek, lingering for longer than necessary. It makes butterflies swoop in my belly. It’s the first time one of them has ever laid their lips on my cheek.
My old trinkets, filled with terrible memories, lie on the floor. Their jagged, broken pieces scatter everywhere, making it impossible to move without getting cut.
“How fitting,” I murmur, brushing my finger over the broken face of the first trinket I ever fell in love with. “You’re jagged and broken. Me, too.”
This entire place is a time capsule. A piece of us that shouldn’t have survived. None of this should have survived. Fuck. I grunt, grabbing the pink pillows and pulling them apart.
“Fuck this,” I grunt to myself.
The fluff comes out easily. The fabric tears, too. And by the time I’m done, everything I ever loved or owned is in a pile on the ground.
Heavy breaths linger in my lungs. Sweat trickles down my temple, despite the breeze coming through the windows.
I never meant to come back here. I never meant to see the memories in vivid colors. I shake my head, slumping against the wall. More tears pour from my eyes, lining my cheeks and dripping onto the floor as I silently grieve what was.
Them.
This place.
My trinkets and touches.
I suck in a breath. I need out of this space.
Out of this fucking treehouse and away from all the ghosts attempting to haunt me and drive me fucking insane.
My eyes glide over the mess I made. Everything is strewn over the floor.
Do they come up here anymore? Do they delight in my absence while looking at my things and mocking my stupid existence?
Whatever.
Everything inside me numbs. No feelings chase after me when I climb down from the treehouse and make it past the tree line.
“Come on, boy! Keep up!” a breathy voice grunts behind me.
Fuck.