Chapter Thirty-Five
I woke to sunlight slashing through Rachel’s battered blinds and my lips so parched I could taste nothing but last night’s mistakes.
My first sensation was regret, heavy and inevitable and close as a second skin.
Regret for that tequila shot, for the club dress now bunched beneath my jaw like a crumpled napkin, regret for thinking I could dance the ache out of my bones.
When I tried to sit up, my brain pounded, throbbing with the memory of the way I’d bobbed and spun until the club closed down, leaving me not exhilarated but wrecked, caught in the undertow of another morning after.
Of course, the next thing I did was grab my phone. I wasn’t sure what I hoped for, but I knew what I’d find.
Nate had called four times.
The next was worse, tumbling over itself: It’s just you’re my only person and I’m scared and I need you Livi, I need you more than I can explain, please please talk to me.
I shut off the screen. There was nothing I could say—not yet. At that moment I wanted only simple things: water, aspirin, maybe a way to rewind time an hour or two.
Rachel’s apartment felt empty but not asleep; through the thin walls I could hear Jackson in the kitchen, humming aimlessly, the coffeemaker starting up its morning chorus. I found Rachel curled on her couch, the glow of her phone painting her pale and intent as she scrolled Instagram.
“You’re alive,” she said, eyes never leaving her screen.
“Barely.”
She tossed the phone aside and lifted the blanket, inviting me in. “Come here. You look like you got dragged behind a city bus.”
I dropped onto the couch and let her tuck the blanket over my legs.
We sat with our hangovers and smeared mascara, tangled hair and the quiet comfort of being seen.
Rachel didn’t speak, not at first. She’d watched Nate flip from gentle to possessive the night before, and she gave me time to find my words.
“Did he call?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
I nodded. The silence stretched.
“You going to call him back?”
I shrugged. “Eventually.”
She turned to look at me directly. “He was a jerk. He knows it. But also… he’s Nate. Emotional tornado. He’s got so many feelings, sometimes I’m surprised his heart doesn’t just explode.”
I tried to laugh, but the sound sent a crack of pain through my skull.
“Coffee or first aid kit?” Rachel deadpanned.
“Both,” I grumbled, and while she headed to the kitchen I couldn’t help checking my phone again, scrolling through the messages even though I already knew exactly what they said. I couldn’t not look.
I missed you as soon as you left the club. I don’t even remember what I said, but it was shitty, I know. Please don’t give up on me.
I need to see you. I’ll do anything. I’ll quit drinking if you want.
Livi. Please. I’m scared.
That last one—it got me. Not just because he said it, but because I understood it. I set the phone down. For a long moment I stared at the wall, letting that word echo through me: scared.
Jackson strode in, sweatpants loose, carrying a mug with a cartoon squirrel that announced “World’s Best Nut.” He handed it to me, careful, like he wasn’t sure whether I’d accept or break down. I knew he was trying to be supportive without making things awkward.
Rachel came back too, dropping beside me and slapping two aspirin into my palm. “Want to talk?”
“Not really,” I said automatically. But then it came out anyway: “I don’t get it. Why does Nate have to lose it anytime Cam comes up? He says he’s fine, but the second Cam shows up, it’s like he thinks I’m just going to ditch him.”
Rachel snorted. “That’s because Nate’s never been anyone’s number one. Daddy issues and probably last-pick-in-gym-class trauma.”
Jackson, pretending not to watch our drama unfold, said, “He does love you, though. That’s the problem.”
“Love isn’t supposed to make you feel like this,” I said. I gestured at myself—a disaster in leggings and a borrowed tank, both my heart and my dignity in shreds.
Rachel took my hand. “You know what needs to happen, don’t you?”
“Call him back,” I said, even though I didn’t want to.
“Or don’t,” Rachel said, voice soft. “But you can’t leave yourself stuck in the middle. Either forgive him, or let go. You deserve better than limbo.”
The coffee was black and harsh but I drank it down, letting the warmth put some bones back into me. When the shakes faded, I picked up my phone, read Nate’s last message one more time, and pressed “Call.”
He answered before the first ring died.
“Livi?” His voice was rough, almost broken.
I didn’t speak right away. I listened to his breathing. Then I said, “Are you sober?”
“Yeah. I am now.”
“Good.”
He waited, and that was something.
“We can talk,” I said, “but not if you’re going to blow up and turn this into another fight about Cam.”
“I know,” he said. “I swear, I’m sorry. I went way overboard. I don’t know why I get like that. Actually, I do, but still—that’s not on you.”
“It is if I’m with you.” I glanced at Rachel. She gave me a little thumbs-up, then took Jackson out of the room to give me space.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, voice dropping. “I get why you’re anxious about Cam. But I am not ever going back to him, and I wish you’d believe me. What else do I have to do?”
Nate breathed out, slow. “I know. I do. But sometimes, when I see you with him, I think, ‘She still loves him. I’m never going to measure up.’ And then I just… panic, I guess. It makes me act like an idiot.”
I let the silence stretch between us, then said, “You don’t need to be Cam. I chose you because you’re you. Not because you remind me of him.”
He went quiet, like he was holding his breath. Then, almost shy: “You did pick me?”
It felt like turning myself inside-out, but I said it. “Yeah. I did. Don’t try to win a contest that’s over. Just be you.”
He gave this shaky half-laugh. “I can do that.”
“And maybe don’t hit the whiskey every time you’re upset?”
He groaned. “Bad idea. I know. I’ll work on it, promise.”
“I believe you,” I said. It was only partly a lie—I believed he wanted to try. And maybe that was enough for now.
We both grew quiet again.
He said, “Could I see you today? Or…?”
“Give me a couple hours. Divorce lawyer meeting,” I admitted, and the words sat heavy in the air, more final than I’d expected.
“Okay. Call me after. I’ll be here.”
I hung up and lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the stillness work in deeper than caffeine or painkillers. Then I climbed off the couch, pulled on clean leggings, and got ready to carve out something new for myself—even if I didn’t know exactly what shape it would take.
∞∞∞
The divorce lawyer’s office was in a strip mall, sandwiched between a vape store and a place advertising “fast cash” pawn loans.
The sign outside read “No-Fault Legal Solutions” in fading blue vinyl, and the inside was exactly as depressing as I’d imagined: brown carpet from another century, dusty plastic ficus in the corner, and a receptionist who could have easily been the owner’s mother.
It’s what I deserved for ignoring Jake’s suggestions for hire but…
money. She wore a sweatshirt with a grinning raccoon holding a coffee cup and didn’t look up when I entered and pointed me toward the back hallway without a word.
I’d dressed up for the occasion—blazer over a black t-shirt, hair in a severe ponytail—thinking it might make the whole thing feel less surreal. It didn’t. If anything, it made me feel like a child playing at adulthood.
“Olivia James?” the lawyer called out, pronouncing it “Jims” for some reason.
I followed his voice into a cluttered office.
There were cardboard boxes everywhere, filled with manila folders and dog-eared legal pads.
The desk was buried in loose papers and coffee rings, but behind it sat a man who looked remarkably like a discount version of my general practitioner: balding, mid-fifties, beard stubble grown out more in neglect than style.
He wore a threadbare suit jacket with a misshapen elbow patch and a tie that might have been a joke, or just a relic.
“Have a seat,” he said, waving at a stained upholstered chair.
“Thanks,” I said, perching on the edge.
He shuffled some papers, then fixed me with a gaze that was sharper than I expected. “I read your intake form and the email attachments. You said you wanted this done quick, no-fuss, but there’s nothing no-fuss about your situation.”
I blinked. “What’s so unusual about it?”
He gave a little snort. “Honey, if I had a nickel for every woman who walked in here with a cheating husband, I’d own a real office.
But you’ve got receipts—text threads, witnesses, even his verbal signature on an open marriage agreement with severely broken rules.
” He shook his head, impressed. “It’s open and shut, pardon the pun. He’s got no leverage.”
I flushed. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You wrote, and I quote, ‘I just want to be free.’ No mention of cash, property, nothing. You realize that with this much proof of infidelity, you could take him to the cleaners, right? The house, his 401(k), probably spousal support too.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want any of that. It’s his money, his house. I just want my own stuff and a fresh start.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied me, trying to decide whether I was a sucker or a saint. “You sure about that? Sometimes people say that, but when the numbers come out—”
“I’m sure,” I interrupted. “I already know what I want. I need this to be as quick as possible.”
He made a mark on his legal pad, then sat forward. “You want him to pay the filing fees?”
I hesitated. “If he wants to. But I’ll cover them if it’s easier.”
He gave a little grunt and began scribbling. “You’re a unicorn, you know that? Most people who walk through my door want to burn the other side to the ground. I’ve seen women get so mad they try to get the dog just out of spite.”
I almost smiled. “He hates dogs.”