Chapter 17 Nathaniel
SEVENTEEN
nathaniel
She dozes off before we even reach the edge of town.
That should be a relief—a sign that her body has finally surrendered to rest, that the worst is behind us.
But all I can think about is how tightly she has folded herself into the passenger seat—like even in sleep, she is bracing for impact.
Arms tucked in. Shoulders curled. Face turned toward the window as if the view might soften the memory of what we just walked away from.
The road ahead stretches long and pale beneath the late afternoon sky. Empty and quiet in the way small-town roads are once the dust settles. I keep one hand on the wheel and the other near her knee, like proximity could pass for comfort even as I try to give her space.
My mind replays that final scene in the Bennett family home.
How her mother’s expression had faltered, but not because she’d realized she was wrong—because she’d been called out.
The way her father didn’t even raise his head.
Most of all, how Olivia, the only one at the table with anything worth listening to, hadn’t said a word.
That’s what stays with me now, as mile after mile of open road passes beneath the tires. Not the threat I made, or the way her parents folded when I said it. Not the apologies that clattered out of their mouths like loose change. But the way she absorbed it all without blinking.
Nothing has ever demanded restraint like sitting at that table and listening to people who were supposed to love Olivia tear her down like it was second nature.
The only thing worse than hearing it was knowing that my perfect, precious girl believed them—at least in some deep, buried place she’d never admit aloud.
Because Olivia doesn’t think she is allowed to want more. To have more.
I’ve worried incessantly that she’ll run because my love for her is too intense. Now, I see that she might run because she doesn’t believe she deserves to be loved at all.
That realization settles in my chest like a boulder I can’t dislodge. Something I’ll carry now without question.
We stop at the hotel to collect our things.
She barely speaks as we move through the lobby, her hand trailing lightly along the edge of the reception desk as we walk past. The staff nod politely, but I don’t meet their eyes. I’m already thinking about the drive ahead, the house, the next hour, the next day.
Once we’re in the room, I settle her on the armchair with a kiss to her forehead.
Then, I pack our bags myself. Her clothes first, folded with more care than my own.
The charger she always forgets, coiled and slipped into the side pocket of her bag.
I tuck everything into place without asking.
I’ve already memorized where she keeps her things, how she likes her toiletries separated, which shirts she sleeps in. There’s nothing left to ask.
By the time we pull onto the highway, the light is beginning to fade.
Olivia reclines her seat, curls into the window, and lets her eyes slip closed.
I watch the subtle twitch of her fingers, the soft drag of her breath.
She never lets herself go fully still, even in sleep.
Like rest is an indulgence she can’t afford.
She stirs as we turn off the main road. Blinks once, slow and groggy.
"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice rough with sleep.
I glance at her, my chest tightening. "Somewhere that won’t ask anything of you," I say.
She doesn’t respond. She simply watches me for a long moment, then turns her gaze back to the window. Her hand creeps over the console between us, and I take it without hesitation.
Our destination isn’t far and the house is ready. I made sure of that before we even left Boston, anticipating the need for an escape from Ashby.
Olivia’s still sleeping when we turn onto the coastal road. Her head rests lightly against the glass, her hand still in mine.
The Caldwell house in Cape Cod sits beyond a winding stretch of road and an unmarked gate, quiet beneath a canopy of sycamores and salt-worn sky. It isn’t the kind of property that appears on maps. The driveway curves long and slow, like the place has no interest in being found quickly.
It’s the kind of quiet that presses in from all sides. The kind you can only afford if you have the means to keep the rest of the world out.
I haven’t brought anyone here before. This place is a kind of sanctuary. A holdout against the noise. And some part of me must have known that if I ever brought Olivia here, I wouldn’t want to leave without her.
She doesn’t ask where we’re going. I think she knows the question would ruin whatever spell has settled over us since leaving Ashby. When we pull up to the house, she blinks at it like she isn’t sure it’s real. Pale wood, weathered stone, and whitewashed cedar siding with windows facing the sea.
She stands in the doorway for a moment, her bags at her feet, her arms tucked into herself. I don’t interrupt whatever is happening behind her eyes. I just unlock the door, carry our things inside, and watch her step barefoot across the polished oak floors.
She walks from room to room without touching anything. Her gaze drifts over the built-in shelves, the pale linen drapes shifting with the breeze, the stretch of coastline beyond the windows. She pauses at the bedroom, staring at the open closet.
She’s still subdued in a way that makes me want to carry her through the threshold and lay her in sunlight until she blooms again.
She doesn’t say much the entire night. She changes into a T-shirt and climbs into bed beside me, curling into my chest. I hold her while she falls asleep and stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift and the sky outside lightens.
She sleeps soundly, the kind of sleep you only get when no one expects you to wake up performing.
I don’t move. I just let the weight of her settle into my body and pretend that I deserve it.
The next day, she stands at the water’s edge while I make coffee, wind in her hair, the cuffs of her jeans soaked where the tide kisses her ankles. She comes back inside with sea glass in her pocket and sand between her toes.
She falls asleep that afternoon in the armchair, a book half-open on her lap. I sit beside her and read nothing at all.
The house is big enough to give her space, but she never wanders far. I cook for us—sautéed fish, crisp vegetables, rice—and she leans against the counter while I plate the food, the back of her hand brushing mine once, then again.
We eat on the deck, wrapped in sweaters, the wind salted and soft.
She doesn’t say much. But she smiles. And that is enough.
By the third morning, she is singing softly while brushing her hair. A tune I don’t recognize. I memorize every note anyway. She asks if we can make pancakes. I say yes before she finishes the sentence.
Later, I catch her staring out the window, her mouth tilted in something close to wonder. More of her is surfacing—little by little—like she’s been underwater so long, she’s forgotten what air could taste like.
I touch her constantly, and she lets me. A hand on her back as she passes behind me. My lips at her shoulder when she bends over the stove. My fingers skimming the inside of her wrist while we stand in silence, waiting for the kettle to boil. She folds into each one without thought.
It should satiate me.
Instead, I felt starved.
Now, we sit in the cool night air wrapped in a blanket on the back deck, watching the tide creep over the sand.
I don’t remember deciding to say it. The words are already rising by the time my mouth is moving.
“I know I asked you before,” I say. “And I know you weren’t ready. But I want to come home to you and… I want you to come home to me. Every day.”
Her head shifts on my shoulder. She doesn’t pull away. Her hand tightens slightly on the blanket between us.
She doesn’t answer right away. But there is no hesitation in the way she looks at me when she does.
“Okay.”
That is all.
As we lie in bed later, she tucks her leg around mine beneath the sheets, her breath slow against my chest. I watch the curtain shift in the wind and think—this is what it should’ve always been.
We leave Cape Cod behind and drive without stopping, the miles folding under us until Boston rises ahead. I head straight to Halford, turning toward her dorm.
I tell myself it’s practical, that we should take care of it before exhaustion makes the decision harder, but the truth is simpler: I don’t want to give her the chance to change her mind.
She laughs when I admit it aloud, equal parts indulgent and incredulous.
“You’re ridiculous,” she chides, and maybe I am. But I’m not taking chances—not after coming this far.
I follow her up to the room and pause at the doorway, watching as she takes it in—the bed, the books, the remnants of a life about to be folded away. For a moment, I let her have it, the quiet of closing a chapter.
But the longer I stand there, the harder it becomes to stay still. My fingers itch to secure proof that she’s really coming with me. So when she steps toward the closet, I move before I can stop myself.
“Sit,” I say, crossing the room. “Allow me.”
She obeys without protest, lowering herself onto the bed, cross-legged at the edge. Her easy compliance pleases me more than I’d admit.
I make quick work of emptying her life into bags—drawer by drawer, hanger by hanger. Each item folded, each shelf cleared, makes the room look less like hers and more like a place she only passed through.
Once the room is bare, the restlessness in me finally settles—the click of a lock turning, a plan sliding cleanly into place.
Olivia doesn’t own much. A few dresses, jeans, notebooks, her laptop, and a handful of toiletries—the bare minimum of a life lived in transit. It strikes me how easily everything she owns can fit at the back of my car.