“Do you know?” I ask again, this time louder. “Do you know that Levi roofies girls and then takes them to hotel rooms and waits for them to be unconscious before he assaults them? Do you know that he also pays them off and makes them sign NDAs? Do you know that your father covers it up?”

He doesn’t have to say anything.

The way his eyes drop to the floor tells me everything.

“You knew.”

When the elevator doors close, I start to cry.

13

“Hey, Olivia! It’s Francesca! I wanted to see if you were free tomorrow to go thrifting. I’m running into a rehearsal now, but shoot me a message so we can set up a time and place! Bye!”

I listen to her message between hefty bites of mushroom risotto and gulps of Red Bull. I only have a five minute break. I don’t have time to chew. Or even comprehend that my ex-fake-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend wants to go shopping with me. A week ago, I would have jumped at the opportunity. Today, I’d rather jump in front of a train.

Not a moving one.

One that’s idling.

Something to traumatize me—and probably a platform full of people—into realizing that these are outrageous and irrational thoughts to be having over the actions of a man.

Men have been disappointing women for centuries.

And if I’m going to throw myself in front of a train, it’s not going to be because of a man.

It’ll be because the government found my blog about the extraterrestrials.

“Liv, Ivan’s looking for you.” Celeste takes my risotto and places it in the sink behind me before Ivan sees that I’ve taken an extra seven seconds to swallow.

I’m exhausted and have been since before I got here. I’ve already waited on two tables of twelve. Christmas parties are fun when you’re at them, but when I’m not the one drinking on my boss’s dime, I don’t find them merry and bright, especially when they send four plates back that they insisted were wrong.

They weren’t.

I want to crawl into a cabinet and sleep for seventeen years.

“Olivia.” Ivan’s voice brings the kitchen to silence, which isn’t easy when, at any given moment, someone is cursing at an inanimate object. But Ivan’s voice is enough to wake the dead and make them want to die all over again. It also makes my skin crawl.

And makes me vomit a little in my mouth.

“I just sat you another party,” he tells me.

“I already have two.”

“And now you have three,” he says tightly. “And you’ll cover tables thirty-two and thirty-three while Oscar takes his lunch.”

He’s still punishing me for being late and will continue into the new year. I’m used to it. I shouldn’t be, but I am.