Chapter Forty-One #2
I shuffled out, still in the sweats and giant t-shirt Rachel had packed for me.
The kitchen was fuller than I’d seen it in months: Rachel perched on the counter with a mug of black coffee, Cam at the stove, Jackson slicing oranges with the precision of a man trained to avoid all accidents, legal and otherwise.
Rachel saw me first. “Oh my god, zombie Livi,” she crowed, but she set down her mug and closed the gap in two strides, arms open for a hug.
She was careful, but still squeezed tight enough to make my ribs protest. “You look like shit. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said, voice thick. “Is this an intervention?”
Cam turned, spatula in hand. “She needs food. Her blood sugar’s a disaster.”
I rolled my eyes, but Rachel grinned. “Listen to Doctor Oz over here. He’s got your entire day scheduled out.”
Jackson set down his knife, wiped his hands. “You want coffee? Juice?”
I nodded to the coffee, and he poured, adding just enough cream and sugar to make it taste like the sweetened milk I loved as a kid. He was good at reading the room—always had been—and I wondered how much of his presence was really for me, and how much for Cam, or even Rachel.
The four of us crowded around the island, picking at eggs and toast and bacon, the conversation ricocheting in every direction.
Rachel managed to keep things light—she had a way of stuffing the room with noise, making it hard to focus on anything but the present.
Still, there was an undercurrent. Jackson kept glancing at me, as if checking for fresh breaks.
Cam hovered, always within arm’s reach but never crowding.
Eventually, the talk drifted to logistics.
“Have you heard anything?” Jackson asked, his tone soft but insistent.
I shrugged. “Not since… that night.” I left the rest unsaid, but everyone heard it.
Rachel jumped in. “We talked to Mr. Porter yesterday. He’s banning Nate from the store until he ‘gets his head on straight.’ His words, not mine.”
I blinked, surprise eclipsed by a punch of guilt. “He’s… really doing that?”
Jackson nodded. “Said it’s for everyone’s safety. Including Nate’s. He wants you to stay away, too. At least for now. In case Nate tries to find you there.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out jagged. “I’m a hazard to myself, I guess.”
Cam set his coffee down, hard. “You’re not going back there. Not unless it’s safe.”
The air went dense. Rachel and Jackson both shot me sympathetic looks.
I swallowed, then said, “He was good at that job. Better than I ever was.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “He was a mess, Livi. He always has been.”
I felt the need to defend him, but the words stuck. I settled for, “He tried.”
Jackson shifted, leaned forward. “Mr. Porter said he’d let you know if anything changes. But for now, he wants to make sure you’re okay.”
I nodded. “I appreciate it.”
Rachel drained her mug and hopped off the counter, making for the bedroom. “I brought you actual clothes, by the way. Sweats are a look, but I figured you’d want a change.”
I managed a thank you, and she winked. “I’ll lay them out. Do not make me dress you like a toddler.”
When she was gone, Cam finally said what I’d been waiting for.
“You should get a restraining order.” His voice was careful, but the words dropped like an anvil. “I called the lawyer; he said he’d need a meeting.”
I shook my head. “That’s not necessary.”
He raised an eyebrow, the way he used to in work meetings when someone was being willfully stupid. “He nearly killed you.”
“He’s not going to come back,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction.
Jackson cleared his throat. “If you want, I can walk you through the process. It’s not as complicated as you’d think.”
I almost laughed at that, but there was no humor in it. “What if he gets help? What if he… I don’t know, sobers up?”
Cam didn’t answer. He just sipped his coffee and stared at the backsplash, as if trying to memorize the pattern in case he never saw it again.
Jackson leaned in, more earnest than I’d ever seen him. “It’s just a precaution. Doesn’t mean you have to use it.”
I looked at Cam, then Jackson, then down at the Band-Aid on my wrist. The bruise underneath was fading, but it would be a week before the pain went away.
“Let me think about it,” I said.
Jackson nodded, accepting the maybe for now.
Rachel returned with a pile of clothes and dumped them on the end of the couch. “You have three choices: yoga pants, jeans that will probably suffocate you, or this cute black dress I found at the bottom of your closet. Your move.”
I reached for the yoga pants, and she nodded approvingly. “Excellent choice. We’ll start small.”
We spent the rest of the morning in the living room.
Rachel turned on a daytime talk show and mocked it ruthlessly, Jackson worked from his laptop, and Cam oscillated between the kitchen and wherever he went to make angry phone calls.
I felt like a guest in my own life, but it was better than the alternative.
At some point, Rachel forced me to brush my hair and put on lip balm. “Self-care, bitch,” she said, grinning. It hurt to laugh, but I let her fuss over me, grateful for the distraction.
It wasn’t until after lunch that Cam cornered me in the kitchen.
“Do you want me to drive you somewhere?” he asked. “I can take you to the library, or Rachel’s, or wherever.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine here. Really.”
He looked unconvinced, but didn’t press.
I hesitated, then said, “You don’t have to babysit me, Cam. You can go to work, or… do whatever you need to.”
He looked at me, and there was a flicker of the old sadness in his eyes. “This is what I need to do.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say more.
He reached for the divorce packet, glanced at the signature line, then slid it away. “I’m in no rush,” he said.
“I know,” I replied, but my heart twisted all the same.
By evening, the house had settled into a kind of uneasy truce. Rachel and Jackson stayed for dinner—pizza, because that’s what the day called for—and we sat around the table, making dumb jokes and pretending everything was almost normal.
As the sun faded, Rachel packed up her things, gave me a hug that lasted just a second too long, and promised to text every hour. Jackson shook my hand like we were closing a deal, then left his number on the fridge in case I “needed legal advice or just a pizza recommendation.”
When they were gone, Cam and I stood in the kitchen, the silence stretching thin.
“Thank you,” I said, though I didn’t know which of a thousand things I was thanking him for.
He nodded. “You’re welcome.”
I went to bed early. Cam didn’t follow, but I could hear him downstairs, cleaning up, making calls, probably checking every lock in the house twice.
I curled up on my side, watching the snow outside pile higher, hiding everything ugly under a blanket of white.
For the first time, I wondered if maybe that’s all any of us ever did: cover up the bad parts, hope nobody noticed, and keep going.
Tomorrow, I decided, I’d call Richard. I’d check on Nate. I’d decide about the restraining order.
But for tonight, I let myself be protected, just for a little while.
∞∞∞
The next morning, Cam woke me with coffee and a sleek new phone, still encased in the plastic like it was evidence at a crime scene. “Set it up,” he said, sliding it across the table. “Use your old number or change it, whatever you want.”
I almost said “new number,” but the words jammed up behind my teeth.
Part of me wanted to cut off every string that connected me to the last few months, to start over as someone else, but the rest of me couldn’t let go of the old ghosts.
It was the kind of self-destruction I excelled at: knowing what was healthy, and doing the opposite.
“I’ll keep it for now,” I said. Cam didn’t comment, but his eyes flickered.
Activating the phone was mechanical. The familiar startup sequence, the soft buzz as it synced to the cloud, every app restoring itself like nothing had changed.
It was only when the barrage of texts hit—one after another, each notification slicing the silence—that I realized just how much I’d missed, and how much I wished I hadn’t.
At first, I ignored them. Cam watched from the other side of the table, not saying a word, but I could feel the disapproval radiating off him in waves.
By noon, the notifications had clogged the phone so badly I had to silence it just to think. I read the first three messages, then the next ten, and before I knew it, I’d scrolled through the entire morning.
It started with apologies.
Livi I’m so sorry.
I don’t remember everything, but I know I fucked up.
I’m not myself anymore.
Then it veered into blame.
You didn’t have to leave.
If you’d just given me a chance, none of this would have happened.
You always run.
Then came the threats, alternating between declarations of love and something much darker.
I can’t live without you.
I’ll come find you if I have to.
If you don’t answer, I’ll make you pay.
The texts were relentless, a flood of language so raw and desperate I almost felt sick. The worst part was, I recognized every word. I’d written my own versions of them, once, years ago, when I thought heartbreak was supposed to look like obsession.
At three, Nate called. I let it go to voicemail.
At four, he called again.
At five, I picked up, just to hear what it sounded like.
He was sobbing, his voice warped by cheap liquor and regret. “Please, Livi,” he begged. “Just talk to me. Tell me you’re okay. Tell me you’re not with him.”
I hung up, hands shaking.
Cam saw the state of me when he came home from work, but didn’t ask.
He set the groceries down, poured two glasses of wine, and joined me on the couch.
We watched a documentary about dogs saving lives in the Arctic, neither of us saying a word.
When the episode ended, Cam muted the TV and turned to me.
“You need to block his number,” he said, not a suggestion.
I bristled. “I can handle it.”