Chapter 35Avery
Chapter Thirty-Five
Avery
I'm elbow-deep in suds, my fingers wrinkled like prunes, when Olivia pads into the kitchen. Her gaze hovers over me for a second too long before it clicks.
"Mom, you're not even washing anything," she says with that furrowed brow of hers that's way too wise for ten years old. "You're just... scrubbing the sink."
"Am I?" The words tumble out as I glance down, the green scouring pad in my hand working over the stainless steel like there's no tomorrow. My shoulders deflate, the tension seeping out. "I guess I'm more anxious about tonight's board meeting than I thought."
"You need to chill, Mom." She reaches up, patting my arm with her small, warm hand. "It'll work out. It always does, right? "
"Right." I muster up a smile and flick some bubbles her way, which earns me an eye roll.
"Go work on your project," she says suddenly, nudging me away from the sink.
"Liv, I can't?—"
"Mom, seriously. You haven't touched it for so long, and I know you love it." She's insistent, her eyes full of something fierce and supportive. "You should finish it."
"Since when did you get so grown up?" I ask, even though I know she's been my rock in pigtails since forever.
Olivia grins, all gap-toothed and cheeky. "Gonna go do my homework. No more sink-scrubbing, promise?"
"Promise." Watching her skip off, I dry off my hands, feeling the weight of unfinished dreams calling me.
Stepping onto the patio, a shiver races up my spine. Worcester's chill doesn't care about timing or moods. I dart back inside, grab the chunkiest jacket hanging by the door, and swing it over my shoulders. It's not just the cold that's biting; it's the anticipation nipping at my heels.
With the jacket zipped to my chin, I make my way back outside. The huge board looms in front of me, draped under a canvas like a secret begging to be told. With a hesitant hand, I reach out and pull back the cover. There it is, my half-finished world in colored shards, staring back at me.
The mural was supposed to be my fresh start, Eric and me against a backdrop of our dreams. But life has a funny way of smudging lines and recoloring plans.
I suck in a breath, trying to steady the tremor in my hands as I remember the day I found out about Olivia. Joy crashed into fear so fast it left whiplash. Eric vanished with the news, leaving just emptiness and the echo of promises. But I couldn't let go, couldn't let this art become another casualty.
So, piece by stubborn piece, I changed the narrative. Where his silhouette once stood, now there was space for a little girl—space for Olivia. My fingers hover over the spot where our smiles should be, where the studio sign morphed into the welcoming arch of our small house. Our home.
"Finish what you started," I murmur to myself, but the tiles remain cold and indifferent. They don't know how much rides on tonight, how uncertain our future feels. All they know is the story I've yet to complete. The very picture I'm creating could all come crashing down in reality.
The boxes of glass shards sit like a jury beside me, their colors once vibrant, now just fragments of a dream that's slipping through my fingers. I run my hand over the cool surface of the tiles, letting each piece whisper its story of what could have been. My heart clenches at the thought of packing them up, of leaving behind this canvas of memories.
"Will we have to move, little pieces?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might make it real. Tonight's vote looms over us, a threat to the home and life Olivia and I have built. The image on the mosaic stares back, half-finished, a reflection of our lives—always on the verge of change, never quite complete.
"Mom?"
I flinch, caught in the moment's melancholy.
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." Olivia stands there, her small frame leaning against the doorframe, concern etched in her young face.
"What is it, Liv?" I try to mask the waver in my voice, to be the rock she always leans on, even when I feel like I'm crumbling inside.
"Someone to see you," she says, tilting her head towards the living room.
"Who—" The question dies on my lips as I turn around, and there he is. Victor Stone fills the doorway with his presence, dark hair, blue eyes that seem to cut straight through to my soul—or my secrets. He's the last person I expect. Or want, really. But here he is, standing in my safe space, bringing the coldness of the world outside with him.