Chapter 19 Olivia
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Olivia
I didn’t mean to overhear.
The walls in this place aren’t thin, but the voices were raised, sharp enough to cut through plaster and my slightly open bedroom door.
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, not really. But the second Karl said it, I couldn’t unhear it.
We’ve only been on one date, Leo. One. I was just being kind.
It loops in my head, repeatedly, like the crack of a glass spiderwebbing until the whole pane shatters.
Kind.
That’s all it was. A kindness, like holding a door open for someone or picking up their dropped groceries.
A gesture with an expiration date. I’d let myself believe it was more.
That the way he looked at me across the table last night meant something.
That the warmth in his smile was meant for me, not just anyone who happened to need cheering up.
I’m a fool.
I sink on the edge of the bed, fingers twisted tight in the blanket. My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with smoke inhalation or bruised ribs.
It’s something deeper, more humiliating. Because I had built this story in my head, that maybe Karl had seen me. Perhaps I could matter to someone in a way that wasn’t tied to my mistakes, my failures, or my endless list of should-have-beens.
But it turns out I’ve been wrong. About him. About this whole situation.
And maybe that shouldn’t surprise me, because I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately.
I thought I had control at work, that I knew what I was doing, that my choices were leading somewhere. Then the fire proved how fragile everything really is.
I could keep my distance from Jesse, maintain my boundaries, and keep them neat and unblurred. But I’ve already crossed more lines than I can count. And now Karl.
Maybe this is the pattern. I see what I want to see, not what’s there.
The sound of the front door shutting jolts me back to the present—heavy boots, quick steps, then silence. One of them leaves, the other stays. I don’t know which, and I don’t want to.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That Karl did what anyone decent would’ve done. Offered me a roof when I needed one, made me laugh when I couldn’t find it myself, and it’s on me for reading too much into it.
But knowing that doesn’t stop the sting. It doesn’t stop the hollow feeling in my chest, the reminder that once again, I’ve mistaken kindness for care.
And this time, I don’t know how to come back from it.
The ceiling blurs above me. At first, I think it’s just because I’m tired, because the weight pressing down on my chest is making it hard to breathe. But then I blink, and the blur slips hot and wet into the corners of my vision.
I turn my face into the pillow, as if hiding will make it stop. As if muffling the sound will make the ache go away.
But it doesn’t. It grows.
Every word of Karl’s echoes in my skull until it’s too much to hold back, until the dam I’ve been patching with brittle hope finally cracks. The tears come fast, harsh, spilling over like they’ve been waiting for permission.
I curl in on myself, knees pulled tight, fists pressed to my chest like I can keep myself from falling apart if I hold on hard enough. But it’s no use. The sob breaks free, jagged and raw, and then another, and another, until I’m shaking with it.
It’s not just Karl. It’s not just the sting of knowing I’ve been imagining something that was never there.
It’s everything. The fire. The hollowed-out shell of my apartment.
The way Jesse looks at me is like I’m both his salvation and his curse.
The endless pressure at work, every choice I’ve made that feels wrong in hindsight.
It all crashes down at once.
I cry for the life I thought I was building, for the stability I convinced myself I had. I cry because I don’t know who I am when it’s stripped away. After all, I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing or why I keep running in circles that always end with me alone.
My throat burns, my chest heaves, and still the tears don’t stop.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t try to.
I let it happen.
Because pretending I’m fine hasn’t saved me. Pretending I’m strong hasn’t rebuilt anything. And maybe letting myself fall apart is the only honest thing I’ve done in weeks.
By the time the tears run dry, my head is pounding, and my pillow is damp. I feel hollow, scraped clean, like there’s nothing left in me but the throb behind my eyes.
And maybe that’s what I need. To be empty for a while. To stop clinging to whatever story I’ve been telling myself about Karl, about Jesse, about my job, about… everything.
What I do know is this: I can’t sit here waiting to be saved.
I push myself up, drag a sleeve across my face, and take a long breath. I need to get my apartment sorted. If nothing else, I can control that much.
Notebook in hand, I step onto Main Street and nearly get flattened by a blur of beige and squealing.
“Pickle!”
The French bulldog launches himself at my ankles, snorting and wheezing like a tiny steam engine.
Behind him, Ivy jogs up, Mia strapped in a carrier on her chest, Max and Lily in the pram, chanting “Pickle, Pickle, Pickle!” in perfect sing-song chaos as Penny rolls her eyes.
“Sorry!” she says, a little breathless. “He’s on his third escape today.”
I crouch to scoop the dog up, though he’s heavier than he looks.
“He’s determined,” I say, scratching behind his ears.
“Determined to make me lose my mind,” Ivy mutters, taking him back. “What are you doing out here, Liv? You look like you’re on a mission.”
I hold up my notebook. “Trying to find contractors. I can’t keep living out of a duffel bag.”
Ivy tilts her head, eyes narrowing just enough that I know she’s clocked something. “What’s going on?”
I swallow hard. “I overheard Karl this morning. Talking to Leo.”
Her brows shoot up. “That sounds dangerous already.”
I manage a shaky laugh, but it dies quickly. “He said… I was just someone who needed kindness, and he was only trying to help. And that Leo was making it too serious, because we’d only been on one date.”
Ivy’s face softens instantly, but she doesn’t rush in with platitudes. She lets me keep going, and it all comes pouring out.
“I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That there was more there. That maybe the way he looks at me wasn’t just in my head. And now I feel stupid. Like I’ve been misreading everything. Him, my work, my whole damn life.”
My throat tightens. I force a breath, staring at my notebook so she won’t see my eyes gloss over. “It hit me harder than I thought it would. And now I just… I can’t stay there. Not if I’m just some charity case he cooked dinner for.”
Her eyes soften. “Okay, good. Let’s do it together.”
I blink. “What?”
“You think I’m going to let you wander around asking Bill Granger about plumbing? Please. Come with me. Mitchell knows every carpenter in the valley, and Timothy’s weirdly obsessed with drywall. Freddie might know people, too. Between the three of them and me, we’ll get you a list.”
Before I can protest, she’s steering me down the street, her little parade in tow.
Ink & Iron is buzzing when we arrive.
Mitchell is behind the counter, tattoo gun in hand, while Timothy grimaces over paperwork and Freddie flips through his phone like it has all the answers to life.
“Not in here, Pickle!” Ivy hisses, trying to wrestle the French bulldog back into her arms as he wriggles free like a greased pig.
Penny races to Freddie as Mia lets out a war cry from her carrier, and I’m pretty sure half the shop turns to look. At least Max and Lily are almost asleep…
“Chaos is here,” Mitchell says without looking up from the customer in his chair.
The buzz of the tattoo gun doesn’t falter, but there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Timothy glances up from the counter, his gaze softens when he spots me. “Olivia. You okay?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Ivy cuts in. “She needs a contractor. Her place can’t stay a shell forever. We figured between the three of you, somebody knows someone who doesn’t overcharge and shows up.”
Mitchell finally sets down his tattoo gun, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Okay, slow down, everyone,” he says, calm but firm. Pickle squeaks in protest as Ivy wrestles him to the ground again. “Olivia, contractors, right? Let’s start with flooring. I know a guy who does solid work. Reliable. Doesn’t charge like he owns the place.”
Timothy leans over the counter, still focused, but there’s a softness in his eyes. “Drywall… I know a couple of guys who’ll show up when they say they will. None of that ‘we’ll see’ crap. I’ll call them myself if you want.”
Freddie scrolls on his phone, smirking at a text he’s clearly ignoring. “Plumbing? Electrical? I know guys for everything. Don’t need to overcomplicate it.”
I crouch down, scribbling furiously into my notebook as the men volley names, numbers, and availability at me.
I really do hope this is a good start.