Chapter 5
OLLIE
Hope dwindles like the last remnants of kindling in an open fire. Flames take the splinters fast and without mercy, leaving behind heat that doesn’t comfort—just stings.
Acceptance is a bitter emotion.
But as I watch Rafe walk away, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat, I know that’s what I have to do.
For now.
Because sometimes not everything turns to ash.
Sometimes you can lose the flame and still keep the ember.
And I made a promise—to myself, to Rafe, even if he’s never heard it—that I will find a way back to him.
Even if the only path I’m allowed is one made of apology and closure.
Even if the end of it is forgiveness with no future attached.
I don’t get to force the man who’s always had my heart to be mine.
But I can try.
I can try to be better than the worst version of myself. I can try to do the right thing in the ways I’m capable of. I can try to keep showing up, even when the person I want most can’t—or won’t—meet me there.
I breathe in, slow, like Maria, my incredible charity program head, taught one of the kids yesterday when he got too wound up during drills. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
The green room is too bright, too quiet as I stand still until the echo of their footsteps fades. Only then do I let my shoulders drop.
The hallway is a blur. The studio staff keep moving like nothing happened—like heartbreak isn’t a live organism that just walked through their green room wearing a wedding ring on his right hand.
I leave the building with my cap low and my head down, Adrian Vale’s parting joke ringing faintly in my ears, Cal’s warm handshake a ghost on my palm.
Outside, LA is warm and oppressive, the night air adding to the leftover heat of stage lights. I get into the car that’s waiting for me and head to Marco’s.
It takes thirty minutes of traffic and willpower to get across the city. Thirty minutes of my brain replaying Rafe’s face when I said his name. Thirty minutes of wanting to rewind time so badly it feels like a physical ache.
Thirty minutes of questions I’ll never have the right to ask.
Does singing “Velocity” hurt?
Did you wait for me?
Do you hate me?
By the time I pull up to Marco’s place, my hands are steady again.
Marco lives in a quiet neighborhood with enough trees to make it feel like the city is farther away than it is. His porch light is on, warm yellow spilling across the steps like an invitation.
I take a breath, then knock. The door opens and Marco is there, barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that says RETIREMENT: 10/10 WOULD RECOMMEND in big block letters.
I huff out something that’s almost a laugh.
Marco’s grin doesn’t soften, but his eyes do when he takes me in.
Apparently my face is giving all my emotions away tonight.
He steps forward and wraps me in a hug that’s firm and familiar, the kind that doesn’t ask questions but still somehow answers them.
“You look like shit,” he says into my shoulder.
“Love you too.”
“I do,” he says, then pulls back just enough to study my face. “Come in.”
Carol appears in the hallway behind him, hair piled messily on her head, wearing an oversized sweater that probably cost more than my car. She smiles like she’s happy to see me, but her gaze sharpens with concern the second it lands on my face.
“Hey, Ollie,” she says softly.
“Hey,” I manage.
She steps forward and hugs me, too, gentle and warm, smelling like vanilla and fabric softener. “We’ve got leftovers,” she murmurs. “And if you say no, I’ll throw a shoe at you.”
“I won’t say no,” I promise, because Carol doesn’t make empty threats and we both know it.
From deeper in the house comes the thunder of small feet.
“Uncle Ollie!” Mina barrels into the foyer like a tiny comet, hair in messy braids, eyes bright. Tucker is right behind her, clutching a stuffed dinosaur like it’s a weapon. They slam into my legs with the force of pure devotion.
I crouch automatically, arms coming around them. “Hey, monsters.”
“We’re not monsters,” Mina informs me very seriously. “We’re children.”
Tucker points his dinosaur at me. “Roar.”
I grin, the expression real for the first time all night. “That’s fair. Roar.”
Marco leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching us with that familiar softness that only shows up around his kids. “They’re supposed to be getting ready for bed,” he says, but he makes no move to stop them.
“Bedtime,” Carol calls from down the hall.
Mina groans like she’s being asked to file taxes. “Ughhhh.”
Tucker clutches his dinosaur tighter. “No.”
I glance up at Carol. “Want me to do story time?”
Her face lights up with relief. “Please.”
Mina narrows her eyes. “But you’ll do the voices?”
“Obviously,” I say.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the edge of Mina’s bed with Tucker curled against my side and Mina sprawled across her blankets like a queen, holding a picture book that smells faintly like peanut butter.
I do the voices. The dinosaur voice. The brave hero voice. The ridiculous villain voice that makes Mina giggle even as she tries not to.
For a little while, my world is just paper pages and warm kid weight and a lamp casting soft light across the room. No cameras. No Rafe. No eight years of silence.
When the story ends, Mina yawns hard enough to make her eyes water. Tucker’s already halfway asleep, dinosaur tucked under his chin.
I tuck Mina’s blankets up and kiss her forehead. “Night, kiddo.”
She catches my wrist before I can pull back. “Are you sad?” she asks quietly.
My lungs constrict. Kids are terrifying. “I’m… tired,” I say truthfully.
Mina nods like that makes sense. “Mom says when you’re tired you have more feelings.”
Carol, from the hallway, makes a small sound that might be a laugh.
I brush Mina’s hair back gently. “That’s true.”
Her grip loosens. “Okay. You can have a hug tomorrow too.”
My chest aches. “Deal.”
Once they’re asleep, Marco and Carol usher me to the kitchen. Dinner is leftovers—pasta, garlic bread, salad—and it should feel normal. It almost does, if I ignore the way my appetite is a distant concept.
We sit around their kitchen table, the same one we’ve sat at countless times over the years. The same one where Marco told me he was proposing to Carol, where Carol showed me Mina’s ultrasound pictures, where Marco told me he was retiring, jaw tense like he expected me to judge him.
I’ve never judged him. Not for choosing peace.
Marco retired last year—quietly, on his terms, with his body still intact. He’s been doing youth coaching ever since, and I’ve watched him become something softer without losing any of his edge.
I envy him too.
Maybe envy really is everywhere.
Carol pours me water like she knows I need it. She doesn’t ask about my expression. She doesn’t pry. She’s always had the kind of emotional intelligence that makes you feel seen without being cornered.
Marco, however, is Marco.
He stabs a piece of garlic bread with his fork—which let’s be honest, is really weird—and points it at me. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”
“I saw him,” I say, because there’s no point pretending. “Rafe.”
Carol’s hand stills around her glass. Marco’s expression hardens in the way it always does when Rafe’s name enters a room. Protective. Furious on my behalf. Like he wants to fight someone and doesn’t know where to put the energy.
“Where?” he asks.
“Tonight,” I say. “At the studio.”
Marco’s eyes widen. “No way.”
“Yes way.”
I stare at my plate because if I look up, I might break. “He was there with the band. They were on the same show I was on.”
Carol’s lips part. “Ollie….”
“It was the first time in person in almost eight years,” I say, voice too calm, even though they both know everything. “And it felt like I’d stepped into an alternate universe.”
Marco swears under his breath. “And?” he presses.
“And I asked him to wait, and he said he couldn’t.”
Marco’s jaw clenches. “What did you say?”
“I said okay. Because what else was I going to do? Chase him down a hallway?”
Marco leans back, frustration vibrating off him. “Jesus.”
Carol reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers, warm and steady. “Did he look… okay?”
That question lands somewhere deep. I swallow. “He looked like… he looked like he’s been living without me. Which is fair.”
Marco’s eyes flash. “It’s not fair that he had to.”
I flinch, because that’s the truth I don’t deserve to be comforted from. I take a sip of water.
“I’m retiring,” I say suddenly. It drops into the room like a stone. Marco goes still. Carol’s eyes widen.
“What?” Marco demands.
I shrug like it’s no big deal, like it’s not the scariest decision I’ve ever made. “After next season. I’m done.”
Carol sits back slowly. “Ollie….”
Marco studies me. “Is this because of him?”
“No.” Then, because Marco knows me too well, I add, “Not just.”
He nods once. “Okay.”
“And,” I continue, forcing the words out before I can talk myself out of them, “the house in San Francisco is official. It went through.”
Carol’s face brightens instantly, the designer in her waking up. “Oh my God. Finally.”
Marco whistles. “Damn. Look at you making moves.”
“Yeah,” I say, but the words feel hollow. Because moves don’t matter if the person you want most won’t look at you.
Carol points her fork at me. “I want pictures. Layout. Floor plan. I’m not kidding. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to get my hands on a project that isn’t ‘open concept but make it farmhouse’?”
I manage a small smile. “I’ll send you everything.”
“And Lindy knows?” Marco asks.
“Yeah,” I say, my smile easy when I think about my sister who’s always had my back. “She’s excited.”
Carol nods. “Of course she is.”
“And Phil is going to do the contractor work again. I know it’s cross-country, but he did my loft in Minnesota, and he’s solid.”
Marco snorts. “Phil’s a saint. That man could renovate a cardboard box and make it luxury.”