Chapter Thirty-Six
Rachel’s kitchen was always brightest in the late afternoon, like the sun made a point of visiting only after it had checked in with the rest of the world.
I sat at the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of lemon tea, watching the slant of golden light as it crept across the countertop.
The air smelled faintly of fabric softener and burnt toast, with an undercurrent of last night’s curry radiating from the fridge.
Rachel padded in, barefoot, her hair still damp from the shower and a new, faint mark along her collarbone—a souvenir from fun times with Jackson, if I had to guess.
She pulled down her favorite mug from the shelf, the one that said “Mornings are for Quitters,” and filled it with coffee, two sugars and a slosh of half-and-half.
Then she planted herself across from me, resting her elbows on the Formica, and waited.
It was her version of a hug, more effective than anything physical.
“You look like shit, Livi,” she said, but she meant it like a compliment. “Talk.”
I swallowed a mouthful of tea, felt the scald all the way down. “I met with Cam.”
Rachel’s eyebrows went up, but she didn’t say anything, just sipped her coffee and kept her eyes locked on mine.
“At the coffee shop,” I clarified, even though it didn’t matter. “I needed to tell him in person. About the papers.”
She nodded once, slow, like I was describing a crime scene she’d already read about but wanted to make sure I got the details right.
“It was… civil.” I tried not to fidget. “He didn’t yell. He didn’t try to win me back. He just… took it.”
Rachel blew on her coffee, stared at the surface. “You wanted him to put up a fight.”
“Maybe,” I admitted. The word was small, tinny. “I thought it’d be easier if he was a bastard. But he was just… sad. I hate that it makes me feel sorry for him.”
“You don’t owe him your sympathy,” Rachel said. Her voice was rough but not unkind. “You owe him nothing. He cashed out his chips the day he started sleeping with other people I don’t care if you gave your permission—he knew you didn’t want it. Don’t you dare feel bad for that man.”
I wanted to argue, but I was tired, and she was right, and I’d spent so many years learning to apologize for my own feelings that it didn’t seem worth the effort anymore.
There was a silence, not the awkward kind, but the kind you get with old friends—thick, sturdy, and built to hold whatever might come next.
I took a deep breath, felt my shoulders tighten. “The thing is, seeing him like that…” I couldn’t finish the sentence, so I let it hang.
Rachel set down her mug. “You still love him.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer.
She leaned forward, bracing her chin on her palm. “So what? Loving someone doesn’t mean you owe them another round on the merry-go-round. You can love him from a distance, send him a Christmas card, hell, even grieve him if you want. But you don’t have to fix him, Livi.”
The urge to cry was immediate, humiliating. I pinched the bridge of my nose and focused on the warmth radiating from the mug.
“I don’t want to fix him,” I said. “I just… I don’t know who I am if I’m not trying to. I’ve spent so long patching up other people’s leaks that I forgot how to swim on my own.”
Rachel’s smile was soft this time, almost maternal. “That’s a weird metaphor, but I get it.”
“I almost forgot the weirdest part,” I blurted, just to change the subject. “Cam’s not going to be a dad after all. The baby isn’t his.”
Rachel’s mouth fell open, her coffee halfway to her lips. “Wait—what?”
“Lacey got a paternity test. It’s some other guy, apparently one of her exes, I don’t even know if he knows Cam exists.” My hands shook a little as I set down my mug. “She told him at the coffee shop. He looked absolutely gutted, Rach. Like someone knocked the air out of him.”
Rachel just stared, then shook her head. “Karma has a mean way about her sometimes.”
We sat for a while, listening to the hum of the fridge and the occasional thump of upstairs neighbors. I let myself drift, imagining what it would feel like to just float, not carrying or being carried by anyone. It was terrifying, and it was also a relief.
Eventually, Rachel broke the spell. “And Nate?” she asked, voice casual but eyes sharp. “How’s Prince Charming holding up?”
I snorted. “He’s—he’s Nate. He wants to be everything I need, but he’s also kind of a mess.
When Cam came up at the club, he lost it.
He was so possessive. Said some things I didn’t like.
It wasn’t like the Nate I know, like when he drinks—he’s someone else entirely. Someone dark. Maybe even dangerous.”
Rachel’s lips pursed, but she didn’t speak.
I picked at the edge of my napkin, unraveling it thread by thread. “After the club, he called me—you know that—like, eight times. Sent a novel’s worth of texts. Said he’d quit drinking if I wanted, said he’d do anything. He was so desperate I almost… I almost said yes.”
“To what?”
“I don’t even know.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “To him. To being his, full stop. To moving in together, to pretending we’re already a couple instead of two people trying to outlast their own disasters.”
Rachel gave a low whistle. “He really is all-in, isn’t he?”
“He is.” I looked up, and she was still watching me, steady and unwavering. “But I don’t know if I can be all-in with anyone right now. Not without screwing it up.”
Rachel took my hand, squeezed it once, hard. “So don’t. Take your damn time, for once. You always do what everyone else wants, and look where that’s got you.”
I tried to smile. “In your kitchen, drinking stale tea?”
“In my kitchen, free of a cheating husband and with a hot, if slightly unhinged, man waiting for you to figure your shit out.” She grinned, white teeth flashing. “Could be worse.”
I shrugged. “Could be better.”
Rachel’s face softened again. “What do you want, Livi? Like, for real. Not what you think you’re supposed to want, not what Cam or Nate or your parents or me wants for you. If you could snap your fingers and get anything, what would it be?”
I let the question settle. The answer was so obvious and so unreachable that I almost laughed again.
“I want to feel like I’m enough,” I said, voice so quiet I barely recognized it. “Just… enough.”
Rachel’s grip tightened. “You are. You always have been.”
I tried to believe her. I tried as hard as I could.
The sun was sliding lower now, painting the walls in a softer light, making the kitchen feel less like a confessional and more like a place where maybe, eventually, a new story could start.
Rachel stood and poured herself a second cup of coffee, offered me a refill, but I shook my head.
“I should go,” I said. “Nate wants to talk later.”
She didn’t argue. Just hugged me tight, her hair still wet against my cheek, her heart beating steady and unbreakable.
“Call if you need me,” she said.
“Always,” I promised, and this time, I meant it.
∞∞∞
A few weeks later, I let myself into Nate’s apartment with the key he’d pressed into my palm after our third consecutive weekend together, back when things still felt like a string of cozy mornings and not an open field full of landmines.
The door was sticky with late-summer humidity, and the hallway was heavy with the smell of takeout—green curry, maybe, and something fried and sweet that clung to the walls.
Nate was at the window when I walked in, half-hidden by the drooping shade.
His phone was in his hand, but he wasn’t looking at it—just staring out over the city, thumb flicking the screen in nervous bursts.
The blinds were drawn halfway, leaking afternoon sun in parallel stripes across the old wood floor.
“Hey,” I said, dropping my tote on the bench by the door.
He didn’t turn, but his shoulders flinched like I’d just dropped a stack of plates. “Hey,” he echoed, voice thin.
I went to the kitchen, opening the fridge for a seltzer.
The takeout containers from last night were stacked in an uneasy pyramid, and behind them, a lopsided birthday cake in a plastic box—Rachel’s handiwork, a half-joke she’d brought to my “started a divorciversary” dinner three days ago.
I didn’t touch it. I wasn’t ready to be celebrated for surviving, not when I still felt like I was treading water.
Nate didn’t move from the window. I could feel the tension rolling off him, dense and sparking at the edges.
I tried to go casual. “You hungry?”
He shook his head, still not facing me. “Not really. Got a weird stomach today.”
I cracked the seltzer and took a long pull, counting the fizz as it prickled my tongue. I watched the way Nate’s back seemed to shrink in on itself, like he was bracing for a blow.
“I talked to Rachel,” I said, to fill the silence. “She and Jackson are fighting again. Something about the dishwasher.”
Nate let out a short, humorless laugh. “Figures. Those two are allergic to peace and quiet.”
I watched him, trying to pick up where the thread had gotten tangled. “Are we okay?” I said, before I could talk myself out of it.
He turned then, slowly. His eyes looked even paler in the strange, slatted light. “You tell me.”
The seltzer can was cold enough to hurt my hand. I set it on the counter, afraid it might slip and shatter the moment.
“I keep thinking this will get easier,” I said. “Us. But it’s like the closer we get, the harder it is for me to—” I couldn’t finish. I didn’t have the words, not the real ones.
“To what?” he said, too quick.
I tried to smile, but it felt like showing teeth. “To trust that it’s not all going to collapse again.”
He pressed his lips together, jaw tight. “That’s what I am to you? Another disaster waiting to happen?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He stepped away from the window, the phone dropping to his side. “Then what do you mean, Livi? Because sometimes it feels like you’re here because you’re afraid of being alone, not because you actually want me.”
I could feel my pulse in my ears. “That’s not fair.”
He barked out a laugh, sharp and hollow. “Isn’t it? You left Cam, but you can’t leave Cam. Not really. You talk about him all the time. Even when you say you’re over it, it’s always right there, under the surface. I’m not your rebound, but you treat me like a—” He stopped, shaking his head.
I wanted to run, or scream, or curl up under the couch and never come out. “What am I supposed to do, Nate? Pretend I don’t have a past? Pretend I’m not still trying to figure out how to breathe on my own?”
He closed the space between us in two steps, but stopped short, as if the air between us was a minefield.
“I don’t want to be your project,” he said, softer now. “I don’t want to be the thing you pick up just to keep from thinking about everything you lost.”
“I don’t want that either,” I whispered.
He let his head drop, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes. “I just want to know if you’re ever going to let me all the way in, or if I’m going to be waiting out here forever.”
The question hung between us, huge and impossible.
I reached for him—reflex, habit—but he stepped back, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you.”
“It’s okay,” I said, though it clearly wasn’t.
We stood there, staring at each other, both waiting for the other to say something that would undo the last ten minutes. The sun had shifted, painting the whole apartment in a sickly orange. The air conditioner kicked on with a rattle, as if the room itself was shuddering at the awkwardness.
Nate picked up his phone again, like it was armor. “I need to go for a walk,” he said. “Clear my head.”
I nodded. “I’ll stay.”
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the lock button, then slid the phone into his pocket. “I hope you do.”
He left without another word, the door shutting quietly behind him.
I stared at the closed door, at the line of light that snuck in under the jamb.
I wished I could crawl through it, dissolve into the hallway, start fresh with the next version of myself.
Instead, I wandered to the window, pulled the blinds all the way up, and let the last of the sunlight burn my retinas.
It didn’t make me feel better, but it was a start.
∞∞∞
Back in Rachel’s apartment, I sat at the edge of the bed, hunched over, elbows on knees, staring at the slow, uneven pulse of my phone as it charged on the nightstand.
The room was half-shadow, the only light coming from the blinking red indicator, casting just enough glow to remind me I wasn’t sleeping again.
My head throbbed in a dull, persistent way, and my tongue still tasted like battery acid from the talk with Nate.
The aftermath felt as sticky as the humidity—anger, regret, a soft panic creeping in around the edges.
I hadn’t showered since the night before, and I didn’t plan to. It felt like defeat.
The phone buzzed, sudden and violent against the wood, making me jump. I glanced at the screen, expecting Rachel or maybe a guilt-text from Nate. But the name was unfamiliar: just a number, no contact. The area code was local.
I let it buzz three times, thumb hovering over the answer button, before I picked up.
“Hello?”
A pause—static, the crackle of a cheap connection. Then, a woman’s voice. Quiet, careful. “Is this Olivia?”
Something in the timbre was instantly familiar, and the memory clicked into place with a jolt. Lacey.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. The silence grew, long enough for her to clear her throat and try again.
“It’s Lacey,” she said, her voice lower now, as if she thought someone might be listening. “I’m sorry to call. I just—there are some things you need to know.”
I sat up straighter, every muscle tensing like I was bracing for a blow. “What things?” I asked, trying not to let my voice shake.
Another pause, this one more loaded. “I can’t say everything here. I just… there’s more information. Stuff about Cam. About the baby. About me.” She let out a nervous, wet-sounding laugh. “A lot has changed since… you know.”
I waited. The silence stretched until it felt like I might snap.
“Can we talk?” she said, voice almost pleading now. “In person?”
I swallowed. “I guess,” I said, the words coming out small and unsteady. “When?”
“Soon,” she said, and I heard something like relief. “I’ll text you a place.”
The call ended. I stared at the phone for a long minute, the screen still glowing with the unknown number, as if I could force the answers out with just my will.
I set the phone down and wrapped my arms around my knees, pulling them to my chest. The room was dead quiet except for the distant hum of a neighbor’s TV and the soft click of the air conditioner cycling on.
I closed my eyes, let my head drop, and whispered into the dim, empty room, “What now?”
There was no answer.
Not yet.