Cassie
I knew something was wrong with Ollie because he didn’t make fun of my clothes.
That probably sounded ridiculous, but Ollie had an opinion about everything. My shoes, Brett’s hair, Marco’s inability to match socks. Once, he’d spent an entire lunch explaining why my yellow sweater made me look like “an aggressively cheerful kindergarten teacher.”
So when I walked into Old Lady House Saturday night wearing leggings and one of Brett’s old hockey sweatshirts and Ollie barely looked up from the couch, I stopped.
“Okay. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
Anthony, standing at the kitchen island arranging chips into bowls because apparently eating them from bags was beneath him, snorted.
I looked at him.
He mouthed, woman.
Interesting.
Brett came downstairs.
His eyes immediately
