Chapter 23
Olivia
The white Tesla in my driveway didn't belong there, and I knew who it belonged to before I'd even put the car in park.
The white Tesla sat where Ryan's truck used to be, and on my porch steps sat Chloe—lavender hair catching the last of the daylight, leather jacket zipped against the cold, the posture of someone who'd been waiting a while.
I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and climbed out. Chloe stood up as I walked toward the porch, brushing off the back of her jeans.
"So," she said, her voice carrying across the driveway.
"Mom called me at four in the morning, California time, in full panic mode.
Said she's been stopping by and you're never here.
That you're not picking up her calls. That you haven't gone back to work.
" She paused. "She's convinced something's wrong, and honestly, Liv, looking at you right now? I'm not sure she's off base."
She looked me up and down. "Your coat's on inside-out, by the way. And I'm pretty sure you have drywall dust in your hair. Which is a look, I guess."
I glanced down. She was right about the coat.
Chloe had been my best friend since college, back when her hair was brown and she was still convinced she'd become a documentary filmmaker.
She'd introduced me to Ryan at a party sophomore year—her older brother, the architecture major with the easy smile.
When she moved to LA five years ago for a production coordinator job, we'd kept in touch through texts and FaceTime calls that got further apart as her career took off and my life calcified into routine.
She'd flown in for the funeral, stayed two days, then had to get back for a shoot. I remembered her hugging me at the airport, promising to check in. She'd been texting. I'd seen them pile up on my phone. I just hadn't been able to find the words to respond.
And now here she was, on my porch in the February cold, looking at me like I was a problem she'd been hired to solve.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I should have called you back. Or texted. Or—"
"Liv." She held up a hand. "Can we not do this on the porch? I've been sitting out here for forty minutes and I can't feel my ass."
I fumbled for my keys, hands clumsy with cold and exhaustion. The lock stuck—it always did in winter—and I had to jiggle it twice before the door finally gave.
The house was dark. I flipped on the hallway light and the familiar space materialized around us, exactly as I'd left it this morning.
The living room couch still had the blanket I'd thrown over it last week.
The kitchen counter had a coffee mug I'd rinsed but not put away.
Everything looked normal, like a life was being lived here.
It was a lie.
Chloe followed me in, closing the door behind her. She walked past me into the kitchen, and I saw her eyes land on the dining room table.
I'd been using it for the paperwork I couldn't bring to the site. Mortgage documents, loan agreements, bank correspondence. Legal folders stacked next to a coffee mug I'd left there this morning.
Shit.
I moved quickly, reaching for the nearest folder. "Sorry, it's a mess. Let me just—"
"Liv." Chloe's voice was gentle. "You don't have to clean up for me."
"I know, I just—" I grabbed another stack, trying to organize it into something less incriminating. "I've been busy, and I haven't had time to—"
"Is this why Mom can't reach you?" She picked up my dirty coffee mug, moved it aside. "Because you're busy with... whatever this is?"
"It's just work stuff." The lie tasted sour. "Estate stuff. You know, after—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
Chloe watched me shuffle papers, her expression unreadable. Then she reached out and plucked a document from my hands before I could stop her.
She scanned it and her face changed.
"Liv," she said slowly. "This is a construction loan. A big construction loan."
"It's just—" I reached for it, but she held it away. "It's some stuff of Ryan's. I'm trying to untangle it."
"Untangle it?" She looked at me like I'd just told her the sky was green. "This is a loan, Liv. Are you in money trouble? Because if you need—"
"I'm fine."
"You're clearly not fine. You're covered in construction dust, you won't answer Mom's calls, and you have a six-figure loan document on your kitchen table." She set the paper down. "What's going on?"
I could feel it building in my chest, the whole ugly story pressing against my ribs like something that wanted out. But this was Ryan's sister, the woman who'd introduced us. The one who’d loved him even before I knew his name.
How was I supposed to tell her that her brother had been a liar?
"Olivia." Chloe's voice was quiet now. "Whatever it is, just tell me."
I looked at her standing in my kitchen—her lavender hair and her leather jacket and her patient, worried face. She'd flown across the country because her mom had been scared. She'd waited on my porch in the February cold. She deserved the truth.
And I was so tired of carrying it alone.
"You should probably sit down," I said.
"Ryan," Chloe said quietly, staring at the ceiling. "You absolute fucking asshole."
We were on the couch. She had a glass of wine in her hand that she hadn't touched. I had nothing. My hands were empty, resting in my lap, the left one still pale where the ring used to be.
I'd told her everything. The affair, Lucia, the house on Route 9, and the fact that I was now trying to finish what Ryan and his mistress had started just so I wouldn't lose everything.
She'd listened without interrupting. Now she was processing, and I could see the anger and grief warring on her face.
"I have savings," she said suddenly, turning to look at me. "Not a lot, mind you… LA bleeds you dry. But I can help. And if we tell Mom… she has Dad's life insurance, and the house is paid off. She'd want to help, Liv. We can figure this out together."
The offer landed in my chest, warm and painful. These women loved me. Ruth and Chloe both. They would help if I asked. They probably would have helped from the beginning if I'd told them.
But I hadn't asked them, had I? I'd been too proud, or too deep in survival mode to even think of it. Instead, someone else had stepped in.
"Someone's already helping," I said. "He bought out Lucia's share of the project. Put up his own equity to keep us afloat."
Chloe's eyebrows went up. "Wait. Someone bought into this disaster? Voluntarily?"
"He didn't really give me a choice," I said. "He just... did it. And now he's risking his business, his house, everything he's built… If this fails, he loses it all." I looked at her. "I can't ask anyone else to stand in that fire, Chloe. I can't. Ben's already there because of me."
"Who?"
I looked down at my hands. "Ben Walsh."
The name sat between us for a beat.
"Ben," Chloe repeated slowly. "Ryan's best friend?"
"Yes."
She stared at me. Then she picked up her wine glass and took a long drink.
"Okay," she said finally. "So let me get this straight. Ryan's best friend—the guy who was his best man, the guy who helped you move into this house—just voluntarily bought into a half-million-dollar construction disaster to save you from foreclosure."
"Yes."
"And you're out there every day. With him. Building this house."
"Yes."
Chloe took a long gulp of wine, then set down her glass. "Jesus, Liv. Now I really wish you'd given me tequila instead."
I wanted to laugh, but the sound came out as something between a sob and a breath.
"Does Mom know?" Chloe asked.
I shook my head. "No. I couldn't. I… I didn't know how to tell her."
Chloe was quiet for a long moment, staring at her wine. "I don't know if we should. She's grieving her son. Do we really need to tell her he was..." She trailed off, then tried again. "That he did all this?"
I'd thought about it. Late at night, when I couldn't sleep, I'd imagined that conversation a hundred different ways. Ruth deserved the truth, I knew that. But what would it do except destroy how she remembered him? Ryan was gone. The truth wouldn't bring him back or change what he'd done.
"I don't know," I said finally.
"We don't have to decide tonight." Chloe looked at me. "But she's worried about you. That's why she called me."
"I know."
Chloe's eyes dropped to my hands, still folded in my lap. I watched her gaze land on my left ring finger—the pale band of skin where the gold used to be.
Something soft and sad crossed her face.
She didn't say anything. Didn't ask when, or why, or how I could. She just reached over and squeezed my hand once, quick and firm.
"I have to fly back soon," she said after a moment. "But before I go, I want to see this place. The house."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She let go of my hand and picked up her wine again. "And Liv? You have to start answering my texts. I'm serious. Even if it's just an emoji. I need to know you're alive."
I nodded. "Okay."
"Okay." She took another sip. "Now, do you have anything to eat in this house, or have you been surviving on sawdust and spite?"