Everything We Never Said

Everything We Never SaidA NOVEL SARAH BANKS Contents PrologueChapter 1—OliviaChapter 2—DanielChapter 3—OliviaChapter 4—OliviaChapter 5—DanielChapter 6—OliviaChapter 7—DanielChapter 8—OliviaChapter 9—OliviaChapter 10—DanielChapter 11–OliviaChapter 12—OliviaChapter 13—DanielChapter 14—OliviaChapter 15—OliviaChapter 16—DanielChapter 17—OliviaChapter 18—OliviaChapter 19—DanielChapter 20—OliviaChapter 21—OliviaChapter 22—DanielChapter 23—OliviaChapter 24—OliviaChapter 25—DanielChapter 26—OliviaChapter 27—OliviaChapter 28—DanielChapter 29—OliviaChapter 30—OliviaChapter 31—DanielChapter 32—OliviaChapter 33—OliviaChapter 34—DanielChapter 35—OliviaChapter 36—OliviaChapter 37—DanielChapter 38—OliviaChapter 39—OliviaChapter 40—DanielChapter 41—OliviaChapter 42—OliviaChapter 43—DanielChapter 44—OliviaChapter 45—OliviaChapter 46—DanielChapter 47—OliviaChapter 48—OliviaChapter 49—DanielChapter 50—OliviaChapter 51—OliviaChapter 52—DanielChapter 53—OliviaChapter 54—OliviaChapter 55—DanielChapter 56—OliviaChapter 57—DanielChapter 58—OliviaChapter 59—DanielChapter 60—OliviaChapter 61—DanielChapter 62—OliviaChapter 63—DanielChapter 64—OliviaChapter 65—DanielChapter 66—OliviaChapter 67—DanielChapter 68—OliviaChapter 69—DanielChapter 70—OliviaChapter 71—DanielChapter 72—OliviaChapter 73—DanielChapter 74—OliviaChapter 75—OliviaEpilogueAcknowledgmentsAbout the Author This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to locations, events, or people (living or dead) is purely coincidental or fictitious. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only. No implied endorsement thereof exists. Everything We Never Said Copyright © 2023 Sarah Banks All rights reserved. Cover design by Publishing in the Pines For Julie and Robbie Prologue Olivia, look at me. My mother tore me from the polished coffin where I’d draped myself, screaming rage at my dad. His skin pasty and waxen and his lips too red, his body was tucked woodenly in a bed of tufted silk. People were watching me. Crying for me. Whispering about me. Mom’s plain features locked into hardness. Her mouth stretched tight, and her words were brittle. Enough of this, she hissed. Softness flickered in her eyes. Olivia, honey. Death is part of life. I was eighteen and brokenhearted. I left the funeral and stumbled into a bar where I found someone to fuck in the bathroom. I’d been a partial virgin before that, but what did purity matter when you were faced with death? The stranger-fucking, together with my mother’s words, lifted a weight from my shoulders, from my heart. Mom had been right. Everybody dies, and anyway, I always knew that I would likely live to see my parents die. I could live with death. I had to. But death one thing. How do you live with secrets? The shameful ones that twist your stomach up so much you stop sleeping and start losing weight and suddenly, you’re thirty with the baggage of an old woman who’s got a smoker’s cough and saggy tits? Suddenly, your bones hurt, and your eyes are so dark and tired that you wish you could go to sleep and never wake up. What then? Chapter 1—Olivia I rub my burning eyes and hit submit. My stomach lurches at the confirmation message. Thank you for your interest in joining our team! But, like. Am I interested? Or am I desperate? Are the two the same? Whatever. It’s a job. A teaching job at a college, a position I’m barely qualified for. Yet, no one is going to ask for a side of Shakespeare with that milkshake. The limbo of qualification is thick. Even so, my mother tells me to lower my expectations. To recognize I’ll have to punt, whatever that means. That no school in its right mind will hire me, and so why don’t I look into Target? You love shopping at Target, Olivia. Or what about that library clerk position? You love books, Olivia. None of it is the same. I slam my laptop shut and imagine the email I’ll get tomorrow. Dear Dr. Andrews, Unfortunately, we feel you are not a great fit at this time. We wish you luck! And I don’t blame them. Any of them. I drag myself from the sofa to the kitchen and dig around for a snack when my phone buzzes. Julie. My best friend. My only friend other than my mother, who told me early and often that she was not my friend. She was my parent. I stare at my phone screen for a long beat. Finally, I give in and accept Julie’s call. “Hey.” I tear open a sleeve of Thin Mints, procured in the before times. I sit at my kitchen table where I keep my crossword puzzles and pen—a cheap purple rollerball, of which I have just one left. I don’t subscribe to the notion one should use a pencil for crosswords. If you have to guess about something, then there’s no use in committing. I use a pen because I don’t take chances. I either know a thing or I don’t. And when it comes to words, I usually know. That’s less the case, however, with life decisions. Julie garbles into the phone, “Get ready. You’re coming out with me.” I groan and consider disconnecting my number. “No, thanks.” “You don’t have a choice. I’m in your parking lot right now.” I go to the window and peer out from between plastic blind slats at the ice-encrusted parking lot of my complex. Sure enough, a white Ford T-150 idles outside my building. Julie’s boyfriend, who doubles as her caregiver, is behind the wheel. Julie is hidden in the back, her wheelchair locked down with chunky canvas straps and metal buckles. I know that because for a short spell, I was one of her caregivers too. I say into the phone, “I hate you.” I have no choice. I swipe on mascara, tug on a pair of jeans, grab a hoodie, then head out the door, the Thin Mints left open on the counter. I trail behind Julie into The Still, a craggy bar near my complex. The front entrance isn’t handicap accessible, which means Antonio and I have to get creative in hoisting her over the threshold and into the dimly lit drinking hall. But we do, because going in through the back is even more of a hassle. Immediately, Antonio peels away from us and heads to the bar, our drink orders firmly seated in his brain from back when the three of us used to go out every weekend. I point to a table near the dance floor, if it can be called