Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
OLIVE
I keep telling myself—it’s for the business. It’s for Jo. It’s for the farm.
But then I look over and still see Travis standing there and I think— I want to punch him .
After I show him most of the farm, including the exterior of the house, he asks to see the shop and the café. I managed to mostly keep him focused on the property, but I did catch him trying to take a photo of me at one point.
Oddly, the more time I spend around him, the less hurt I feel by everything that happened. I see him now for who he is—and it’s clear that he is not the guy for me.
“Let’s get some coffee,” he says, walking toward the café counter.
“I’m supposed to head back,” I say.
He stops and faces me. “You’re only working here, like, three more weeks. What are they going to do, fire you?”
“I’m not getting coffee with you, Travis,” I say simply, because Brené Brown says, “Clear is kind,” and while I don’t care much about being kind, I do want to be very clear.
“But I feel really awful about the guy I used to be.” He takes a step toward me. “I was stupid and selfish. I’d like to hear what you’ve been up to, you know, as friends.”
Even if I wanted to be friends with Travis, I wouldn’t talk about what I’ve been up to. It’s not exactly impressive.
At my hesitation, Travis leans a little closer. “We can stick to impersonal topics. You can tell me about the farm. What should I say to convince my buyer it’s a good investment? I could argue that’s part of your job.”
“You could argue it, but you’d be wrong.” I cross my arms over my chest as he takes a couple of steps backwards, moving toward the counter.
I sigh. Because should I tell him how amazing this place is? I don’t want anyone else to buy Pine Creek, but ultimately, that’s what Liam and his parents want. Which is why my sense of duty gets the best of me.
Still, as I order a latte and move to the end of the counter, I feel like sharing my thoughts about what makes it more appealing for a buyer is a betrayal of sorts. This place is semi-sacred to me, and even considering selling it feels wrong.
“Who’s this buyer anyway?” I ask. “Do you just happen to know bored, rich people who are in the habit of purchasing and running Christmas tree farms?”
An amused expression skitters across his face. “Olive, they won’t keep the farm. They want the land.”
I frown. Of course.
At some level I knew this was an option, but I didn’t think it would be the first option. I assumed Jo hired Travis because he’d be sympathetic to the generational aspect of this whole thing.
Shouldn’t they at least try and find someone who will keep it going?
“What will they do with the land?” I ask, a sick feeling rolling through my stomach.
He shrugs. “Well, it’s a development company, so they’ll come out, take a look, and if they like what they see, they’ll run some numbers to see what the best thing would be. Residential or maybe vacation homes. It’s a nice property, secluded and?—”
“The best thing is to keep Pine Creek as it is,” I say. “Didn’t Jo tell you that?”
His smile is condescending. “Olive, the goal here is to sell Pine Creek. What they do with it after doesn’t matter.”
As the girl behind the counter hands us our drinks, she shoots me a look that tells me she heard everything he said. Which means the rest of the staff will soon know that nobody buying this place will be fighting to keep the tree farm—or their jobs.
I give her an “I’m so sorry” look and turn away.
“So,” he oozes, as we take our drinks over to a table in the corner. “You’re an event planner? That’s a surprise. I thought you were going to do something, you know, artsy.” He says this like the idea is ludicrous, like I was foolish to ever think I could make it.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
Or maybe he’s exactly who I think he is.
“A lot of what I’ve done so far has been artistic ,” I say, leaning on the word that’s more appropriate, in my opinion. I tell him about the branding I’ve done, the logos, the hand-drawn maps. I pull my iPad out of my bag to show him, as if I need to prove that I am doing what I said I would do, just not in the way I thought.
That idea stops me. I hadn’t thought of it exactly in that way before. I’m using every creative bone in my body right now, but I couldn’t have predicted the joy this kind of work would bring me.
I pause, my Apple Pencil hovering above my iPad, ruminating on this thought when Travis slides the tablet toward him. “Okay, okay, yeah. I get it now,” he says, scrolling down the list I’d brainstormed earlier. “You’re the . . . idea person.” He says it like it’s a made-up job title .
I reach over and snatch my iPad away. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay . . .” He pauses. “Are you seeing anyone?”
I’m mid-drink when he says this, but I manage to laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
He smirks. “I’m captivated by your eyes, what can I say?”
I gently set my cup down. I’m waiting for anger and belligerence to rise, but what rises instead is amusement. Watching him do this act is the equivalent of Will Farrell and Chris Kattan neck bobbing at a bar while What is Love blares in the background.
I smile, surprisingly at ease. “Does this actually work for you? It does, doesn’t it? Women actually buy this.” I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”
He shrugs, as if to say I can’t help it if they love me .
I give him a pitying look. “I should’ve seen it sooner. What a terrible match we were.” And what a horrible person you still are , I think but don’t say.
“Opposites attract?” He says this like it’s a question.
“No, Travis. Opposites repel.” But at the mention of opposites, my mind conjures an image of Liam. He and I are definitely opposites. Do we repel each other too, or is my argument faulty?
The thought is derailed when I glance up and find Travis watching me.
Apart from his painfully obvious receding hairline, he’s handsome. And he thinks he is too.
“So, Liam never made a move, huh?” he asks, setting his cup back down.
I frown. “I already told you?—”
He waves me off. “Friends, yeah, yeah, I know. I just always assumed you two would get together after you and I broke up.”
“Why would you assume that?” My frown deepens, but my interest is piqued. “We knew each other when we were kids. The night you and I met was the first time I’d had a real conversation with him in years. And another thing, we didn’t break up. You left. Plus, you didn’t even have the common courtesy to tell me to my face.” I lean in. “ You sent a text , Travis. A text.”
“I was young and stupid, but I’m different now,” he tries to play it off.
“Yeah,” I quip. “You’re not young.”
His gaze settles, and his lips twitch. “And you’re still beautiful, Olive.”
I scoff, and don’t acknowledge the comment.
“Come on,” he croons. “One dinner. Would it kill you to have one meal with me?”
“You honestly think I’d do this—” I flick my hand between us— “at all? Ever?”
He shrugs. “We’re adults now. Plus, when we were good, we were really good.”
I lean back in my chair and study him. “If I look at your phone, how many dating apps am I going to find?”
His eyes flick over to his phone, turned upside down on the table.
“If I scroll through your text messages, how many girls did you cut and paste the same, ‘Hey babe, you up?’ message to in the past week?”
He slumps back in his chair, folds his arms, and looks a bit annoyed.
Good.
I speak slowly. “Let me be crystal clear. You and I do not want the same things.”
He starts to speak but I hold up a hand before he can say anything.
“Actually, no. I’m done saying what I need to say.” I pause. “But I’m thankful for the apology.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I think you’re making a mistake. ”
I try to pull away, but he holds it tighter.
“Let go of my hand.”
“I think we owe it to ourselves to get to know each other, as adults,” he says this so earnestly, putting his other hand over mine.
I owe him nothing, and I’m about to say so when the door to the shop opens and Liam walks in. His eyes zero in on me, then drift to the table where Travis is still holding my hand.
The “chewing glass” look returns to his face, and he looks away for a second before making a beeline toward our table.
I tug on my hand and Travis doesn’t let go, so I yank it away.
Liam’s expression is grave, and he looks genuinely pained to be standing here. I glance at Travis, who’s smirking up at him. “Hey Fisher! Olive and I were just making dinner plans. Wanna join?”
I whip my head at Travis in disbelief, starting to say, “What are you talking about?” but I get as far as the “Wha—” when I look back and see Liam’s face.
It looks . . . enraged? Hurt? I’m not sure. But he’s glaring at Travis.
Something unspoken passes between them, and after a pause, Liam looks at me. “My mom asked me to find you and let you know she’s back. I guess she texted?—”
“Oh, right.” I pull my phone out of my bag. “Totally missed that.” I sling the bag over my shoulder and stand. Liam steps out of my way, and I expect him to come with me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he slowly sits, eyes locked on Travis.
I glance at him, then at Travis, then back to Liam, but neither of them is looking at me now. “Does one of you want to tell me what this is about?”
“No,” they say in unison, without glancing in my direction.
I shake my head and turn to go. “Fine. I’m leaving.”
“I’ll be in touch about dinner, Liv ,” Travis says.
I stop, spin around on my heel and glare at him .
Liam’s eyes flick to mine, and for the first time since I pulled up and saw Travis standing near the office, I start to wonder if this thing between them—whatever it is—is about me. Because Liam is the only person I know who’s ever called me “Liv.” And given the emphasis Travis put on it, I think he knows that.
Travis leans back nonchalantly, in his chair and smiles at me. “It really was nice catching up.”
Liam glares at him, but his face gives nothing away.
I will him to look at me, to tell me what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t.
Finally, I walk away, thinking that maybe it’s more foolish of me to hope to reconnect to Liam than it would be to consider Travis’s offer.
LIAM
“ What. Do you think . You are doing ?” I say this through clenched teeth, wondering if Travis has the guts to respond to a question I already know the answer to.
He takes a drink of his coffee, a smug expression on his face. Then, he smiles. “All these years and you still haven’t done anything about that—” he glances toward the door just as Olive walks out.
“ Liv ?” I spit the nickname as an accusation.
His expression is faux innocent even though he and I both know better. Travis knew how I felt about Olive. He saw the way I reacted when she showed up at the party. If she was single, I reasoned, this could be my shot with her.
Years before, I’d gone to see a play at her high school for extra credit in English class. I had no idea she was starring in it until she walked out onto the stage.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her that night. The childhood crush was back, like it never went away, and this time around, it had intensified .
But the timing was off. She was with her friends afterward, I didn’t get a chance to talk to her.
Then a year later, our two high schools played each other in football, and I went to the game with my friends, Travis included. She was there, three rows in front of me, laughing and talking and cheering, and I was hardly paying attention to the game.
The timing wasn’t right then either. I didn’t say anything to her.
I told myself if I saw her again, I’d at least ask her to go out for coffee or something, to see if these really were stupid feelings just residually left over from childhood.
Or if maybe they were real.
Or could be real.
Flash forward to summer before our senior year in college and the party.
I found her by the bonfire with her friend Phoebe, and I swear there was a spark from the second she met my eyes. She threw her arms around me and hugged me, almost like she needed the comfort of familiarity as much as I did.
We picked up right where we left off, thick as thieves, finishing each other’s stories—treehouse friends.
We were talking. Reconnecting. Reminiscing. She was laughing at my jokes. Her eyes were sparkling in the firelight.
And for the first time ever, the timing felt right.
It wasn’t awkward to see this girl I’d grown up with but didn’t really know anymore.
We’d outgrown that stage and had moved into pleasant adult conversation, the kind that might be nice to have in my life since I’d just changed my major and nobody knew yet. Somehow, it seemed like she’d get it. Might even support it. We’d skipped straight over the small talk, and it was the easiest, most laid-back conversation I’d ever had, maybe with anyone.
I was working up to the next step, asking her to go to coffee, when Travis walked up. He had a way of commanding attention. Almost like he could snap his fingers, and everyone’s eyes would be on him.
Olive wasn’t immune. I read the room. So I stepped aside.
I’d missed my chance again.
Travis always had a knack for zeroing in on what other people wanted and taking it for himself. To him, getting Olive to like him was winning the game. I just didn’t realize it until it was too late.
I can tell by his posture that the game hasn’t changed. “I know what you’re doing,” I say.
Travis laughs. “You’re being dramatic.”
You’re being dramatic . The words hit like a punch to the gut. It’s what he’d said that night, when I asked him, “What the heck, man?”
He figured out how I felt by my reaction to Olive, and he didn’t care.
“Stay away from her,” I say. “Pretty sure you had your chance.”
He smirks, and I want to rearrange his face with my fist. “Pretty sure you had your chance, too, buddy.”
“Yeah, and we both know who screwed that up,” I say.
He shakes his head. “You’re still not over that? Geez, man.” He says it like I’m pathetic, and I have to look away.
Because there is truth in his accusation. It was a long time ago.
And yet, the fact remains that I’ll always care about Olive. I’ll always want the best for her.
And Travis Richmond is not it.
“Just stay away from her,” I warn him again as I stand. “She’s too good for you.”
“I’ll tell you what—if you stand there and tell me you’re going to go for it, I’ll back off,” he says, like he’s confident I won’t .
He might be right.
I never say what I want. Especially, it seems, when it comes to Olive.
I don’t look at him. I don’t say anything. Instead, I just walk away.
My last thought as I shut the door to the café is, she’s too good for me, too.