Leah
Olivia’s apartment was quiet when we walked in, the familiar creak of the floorboards grounding me in a way the hospital never could. I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the couch, exhaustion crashing over me now that I no longer had to hold myself together.
Olivia disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“I know you’re not a big drinker,” she said, pouring anyway, “but tonight doesn’t count.”
I took the glass with a weak nod. “Tonight definitely doesn’t count.”
We sat in silence for a moment. It felt heavy.
Finally, Olivia spoke. “How bad is it. With your dad.”
I swallowed. “They don’t know yet. The next forty eight hours are critical.” My fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. “I don’t even know how I feel. We were never close.
