“Do you want something to drink?” he asked as soon as we were inside. “I’m good. Thank you.” “I’ll get something for myself then.” He poured himself…I didn’t even care what it was at that point. I just stood in the middle of his living room, hugging myself and generally feeling like crap. “Maybe you should’ve dropped me at home, Jason,” I said when he kept his back turned to me. “I don’t think this night out was a good idea. If this is about you taking me to the set, or, hell, I don’t know, to tell me that you think my book is crap…or maybe it’s about the photos, that would make more sense, bu—” “Stop, Olive. Just stop,” he interrupted me. He finally left the bottle of alcohol alone and walked to my side. Cupping my cheeks, he looked into my eyes. “Your book was amazing. You’re amazing. Stop thinking badly about yourself. I have to…no, I need to tell you something, or ask you something. Hell…” He let my face go and turned his back to me, again.
