Chapter 7 #2
“No,” I mutter aloud, to the empty loft. “No. Fuck that.”
My hands are already shaking, but they’re moving with purpose now. I grab my duffel from the closet and throw it onto the bed, yanking drawers open, tossing clothes inside without folding. T-shirts. Jeans. Hoodie. Chargers. Toiletries. Passport.
I don’t know where I’m going yet. I just know I’m not staying here. Because this—this ending by envelope, this quiet severing after eight years of silence—is not how it finishes. Not if I have any say in it.
I grab my phone and call a car, my thumb stabbing at the screen hard enough that I nearly drop it. As soon as the ride is confirmed, I’m on Google, fingers flying.
Rafe Ortiz address SF.
Steel Saints residence.
Rafe Ortiz San Francisco.
Nothing usable comes up, which I’m not surprised by. He’s private when he wants to be.
My pulse spikes with frustration. I can’t just call him. There’s no universe where he answers that call. And even if he did—what would I say?
“Hey, I just got served divorce papers. Please don’t do this. Please forgive me. Please still love me.”
No. I need to look him in the eye. I need him to see that I’m not hiding anymore—even if I’m still terrified, even if I still don’t know how to be brave in all the ways that matter.
I need to try.
My phone buzzes with a notification, and for half a second, my heart leaps stupidly—
—but it’s just a calendar reminder for my flight tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow. No. That’s too late.
I swipe back to the browser and type his band name instead, more out of desperation than logic.
Steel Saints charity event tonight… is the first thing that pops up, and I stare at the screen.
Tonight. Los Angeles. Private charity gig.
My pulse spikes. I don’t think or hesitate. I text Eric with the link.
Me: I need into this event. Tonight. Steel Saints charity gig in LA. I don’t care how. Please.
Three dots appear almost immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again.
My bag is zipped. My coat is on. I grab the divorce papers off the counter, hesitate, then shove them into the side pocket of my bag like they’re proof I might need later.
The car arrives downstairs. I’m barely seated before I’m back on my phone, searching flights. There’s one. One seat in ninety minutes. I book it without looking at the price.
My phone buzzes again. Thank fuck it’s Eric.
Eric: Jesus Christ, Ollie. I can get you in—but it’s going to cost you.
I type back fast.
Me: Whatever it takes. I need in.
I stare, waiting for his response. Hopefully the delay is him making something happen.
Eric: Done. I had to buy a table. A whole table that didn’t exist five minutes ago. Please tell me you’re serious.
I let out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.
Me: I’m serious.
The reply comes seconds later.
Eric: You’re in. You owe me an explanation later.
I drop my head back against the seat and stare at the ceiling of the car, lungs pulling in air that feels sharp and electric.
Okay.
Okay.
Now I need people. I need witnesses. I need support. I need—
Lindy.
Marco.
I start with my sister.
Me: Change of plans. I need you in LA tonight. Please don’t ask why yet.
The reply comes fast.
Lindy: Are you okay?
I swallow.
Me: No. But I will be.
Fuck, I hope I’m not lying to her or myself. Three dots follow.
Lindy: I’m in. Phil too. Amelia?
My breath hitches with gratitude.
Me: Can Phil’s parents watch her?
I type, hating myself for even asking.
Lindy: Already texting them. They’ll say yes. They adore her. Obviously.
I blink hard.
Me: Thank you.
Next I need to tackle Marco and hope like hell he responds.
Me: I need you and Carol at an event in LA tonight. I know it’s insane. Please trust me.
The response isn’t delayed at all.
Marco: Where and when?
I exhale.
Me: I’ll send details.
Then, before he can ask questions I can’t answer, I send a photo.
The divorce papers in my hand. The image is slightly blurred because I’m shaking.
Seconds later my phone rings. I don’t answer. I can’t. It’s likely my voice will shake, or hell, I may just break down.
A text comes through.
Marco: Say no more. We’re there.
Another message follows.
Marco: Whatever you need—we’ve got you.
My throat closes completely, and I text Carol separately.
Me: I’m sorry for the chaos. I promise I’ll explain.
She replies with a single heart just as the car pulls up to the airport.
Everything feels surreal now, like I stepped off the edge of my life and didn’t hit the ground. I move through the terminal on autopilot, bag over my shoulder, phone clutched in my hand like it might anchor me.
I check the time again. It’s still afternoon. Still possible.
I think about the papers in my bag. About endings. About how I’ve spent eight years being careful and afraid and silent—and how none of it saved me anyway.
The boarding group is called. I step forward with the other passengers, heart hammering so hard I’m sure someone can hear it.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to him. I don’t know what I can offer him beyond honesty and regret and the truth that I never stopped loving him. I don’t know if forgiveness is even possible.
But I know this: I can’t let our story end in an envelope. Not without standing in front of him and asking him to look at me again.
I reach the door of the plane and pause for half a second, hand resting on the edge like it’s a threshold. Then I step on board.