Chapter 12 #2
His eyes darken instantly. A subtle heat that flares there, sharp and unmistakable, like the word landed somewhere low and dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, and my breath catches before I can stop it. There’s a jolt that goes straight through me, awareness humming loud under my skin.
Then he leans back, easy and infuriating, like he didn’t just do that to me. “Where’s the fun in that, wife?”
I snort and take a sip of my water, trying to steady my nerves. “At least they’re going along with it.”
“Yeah,” he says, easy confidence in his voice. “I knew they would.”
My gaze drifts across the bar and lands on Ollie’s mom. Theresa Kendrick sits stiff-backed with her friends, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp as they cut in our direction while she murmurs something under her breath. Whatever she’s saying, it doesn’t look kind.
My stomach tightens. I glance back at Ollie. “Your mom is here. What are you going to say to her?”
“As little as possible,” he says.
“Well, you should probably tell her that you’re getting married. That way she doesn’t hear it from someone else.”
Ollie sighs and stands. I don’t envy the conversation he’s about to have with her. It never seems to go well with Theresa.
I watch them talk and I can’t hear much, but I see her shake her head, her mouth tight.
She looks really mad. Ollie stays calm. When he comes back, I already know how it went.
It makes me sad to think about how my own mom would have reacted to the news.
She was always my biggest cheerleader. Even if it wasn’t something she necessarily wanted for me, she always supported me.
And if I told her I was getting married, I’d like to think she would have hugged me and been happy for us.
Watching Theresa’s reaction makes me sad.
She has her kids right in front of her, yet she can’t do life with them, and she doesn’t even appreciate them.
My mom would have given anything to be here.
“You okay?” I ask, searching his eyes as he sits next to me.
He nods. “She’s not happy. But she’ll have to get over it.”
He always guards his heart around his mom.
Something I do to him. And that stings because Ollie doesn’t deserve that.
He deserves to have real support and love.
I love Ollie and support him. It makes me second-guess everything we’re doing.
Could we be real? Could I let him love me and love him the way that both of us, broken people, deserve to be loved?
I squeeze his hand. “I’m proud of you.”
He smiles at me like that means more than anything. “I’m proud of you right back, future wife.”
And sitting there with him with the bar with his hand in mine, I realize something terrifying and wonderful.
I don’t feel like I’m pretending. It feels scary real.
Moving day is quieter than I expected. I thought it would be hard to leave our home.
The only home either of us has ever lived in.
But even though I lived there the first sixteen years of my life with my mom and we have memories, the last twelve have been hard.
Because they are filled with grief and unpleasant memories of our dad, wiping away any of the good ones that we had with her.
Owen has no memories of her because he was just a baby when she died, but I do.
I remember everything about her. She was my best friend, and we were very close.
It turns out, I just wanted her things. Her clothes that I kept, her recipe cards, and her books.
Those are what I need, not the house. The house is just a house.
It’s not our home. Our home is wherever we are, together. That’s what matters.
It was all very anti-climactic. There were no dramatic goodbyes. Just boxes, the creak of the worn floorboards, and the strange relief of locking the front door of a house that has felt like it was slipping through my fingers for months.
The apartment above the shop smells clean and new, like fresh paint. Ollie did a good job. Of course he did. He always does.
Owen drops his backpack by the door and spins in a slow circle. “This is kinda cool.”
“Kinda?” Ollie says as he deposits a stack of boxes in the living room. “It’s extremely cool.”
Owen grins, still in awe. “Okay, yeah. Extremely cool.”
This is definitely an upgrade from our worn and weathered home. It feels fresh and new. I set my box down and take it all in. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A small kitchen. A couch that looks really comfortable.
The business is in both my dad’s name and mine.
Which means the apartment upstairs is tied to it too.
Not a separate lease. Not a safety net. If the shop goes under, if something happens legally, or if the bank decides it wants its pound of flesh, we don’t just lose the business, we lose the apartment.
That’s the part that sits heavy in my chest every time a bill comes in late, or a repair takes longer than expected.
I can’t afford to make mistakes. I can’t afford slow weeks.
I can’t afford to breathe too easy. If Murphy’s Auto fails, everything fails with it.
So no, this place isn’t stable. It’s conditional and temporary.
Always one bad month away from unraveling.
And that’s why I never fully unpack the tension in my shoulders, why sleep never comes easy, why I keep going even when I’m exhausted.
Because survival isn’t just about keeping the doors open.
It’s about keeping a roof over Owen’s head.
Moving here doesn’t feel as foreign as I thought it might.
It’s the shop, and Owen and I both grew up here, so it’s like a second home to us.
I wish we’d have moved here sooner to be honest. It might have been easier on all of us.
But I was doing my best to keep us afloat and keep the house.
Now...none of that seems to matter. I’m not worried about losing a home. I’m afraid of losing Owen.
For the first time in a long time, my shoulders unclench, and I shake them out. I look over, and Ollie smiles at me as if he knows how I’m feeling right now, and I smile back. No words needed. Because that’s just how it is with us, sometimes, we just know.
Dinner is The Black Dog takeout, eaten straight from containers on the counter—burgers and fries with cheddar sauce.
I’m living the dream. Walker and Violet sent over a ton of food as a housewarming welcome from our meal train sign up Maggie organized.
Owen is setting up the smaller bedroom and immediately starts planning where his posters will go.
He’s buzzing with excitement. I love seeing him so happy.
Neither of us has ever lived in a nice place like this.
Our house was deteriorating and needed so much work.
There are only so many patches you can put on a sinking ship.
Sully never made any repairs, and I could barely keep up with the shop and the house basic needs. Let alone cosmetic fixes.
I pretend right along with him. I’m so nervous every time I see Ollie’s arms flex with more boxes. We get everything out of the house and give it a quick vacuum, clean, and wipe down. I can’t leave it trashy for whoever gets it next. My mom wouldn’t have wanted that.
By ten, Owen’s in bed, door cracked, the sound of music playing softly that he listens to when he goes to sleep. I knock softly and peek my head in. “How’s the new room?”
“I love it here, Poppy,” he says sleepily.
I lean in and kiss his head that smells like Ollie’s soap from the shower and grin. “Me, too. Night buddy. Love you.”
“Love you, Pops,” he murmurs.
I shut his door and head down to Ollie’s room to see how strange it looks with my things in the room. I didn’t have much, but it’s all here.
Ollie finishes locking up downstairs and comes back up, stretching his arms over his head like today didn’t take everything out of him.
“I’ll take the couch,” he says easily, like it’s a settled thing.
I look at him. Then at the couch. Then the bedroom.
He’s not exactly a small man. He barely fits on that thing sitting up, let alone trying to sleep on it. And more than that, this isn’t some favor he’s crashing for. This is his home. He lives here. He’s lived here long before all of this blew up.
The thought settles heavy in my chest.
I can’t kick him out onto a couch like he’s a guest or an inconvenience. Not when he’s doing all of this for me. For Owen. Not when he spent the entire day hauling boxes, lifting furniture, sweating and grunting and never complaining.
He didn’t hesitate. He just stepped in and made space for us.
The least I can do is not pretend he doesn’t belong in his own bed.
And that realization hits harder than I expect, because it’s not just about where he sleeps tonight.
It’s about the fact that he’s already given us more than I know how to repay.
“It’s a big bed,” I say. “Just don’t try to cuddle me, Ollie.”
He grins like he’s been waiting for that. “You can cuddle me if you want.”
“I don’t cuddle,” I say with a smirk.
Ollie laughs, shakes his head, and goes to the dresser, grabbing clothes. “I’m going to take a normal shower. Because I know you’re going to take longer than me.”
I snort, because honestly, he’s not wrong. I love my long hot showers, and today I earned one. “Okay.”
Then I hear the shower turn on. The sound of running water carries down the hall, and my brain immediately conjures images I do not need. Strong and broad shoulders. That sexy, unfair body that is rippled with muscles that he wears proudly.
I grab my clothes and lay them out, trying to stay busy and keep my brain from drifting to places it shouldn’t. Pretend fiancées shouldn’t think of their pretend fiancés naked and wet. Nope. I’m going to hell.
When he finally comes in wearing gray sweatpants and a Bridger Falls Fire Department t-shirt that fits him criminally well, hair damp, I refuse to look directly at him because I value my sanity.