Chapter 48 Olivia
Chapter forty-eight
Olivia
Monday
I’m still in bed.
Still in yesterday’s clothes. Still in the same spot I crumpled into last night after he kissed me like goodbye and left.
The curtains are open because I can’t help it.
Because I keep looking.
A soft knock. Then the creak of the door.
“Liv?” Ella’s voice floats in, careful, gentle.
I don’t move.
She pads in anyway, loose strands from her neat bun tucked behind her ears, cashmere sweater sleeves too long, but folded. She smells like chamomile and that clean perfume I always forget the name of.
“You want to catch a movie? Or go walk the town? Something brainless?”
I shake my head into the pillow.
Ella sighs and crosses to the bed. Her eyes sweep over me and land on my hand.
“What’s that?”
Shit.
I scramble to sit up, trying to shove the box under the covers.
But she’s already seen it.
“Wait. Are those… macarons?” Her nose scrunches. “I figured you’d have your signature heartbreak girl snacks, chips, chocolate or jelly beans. Not fancy rainbow cookies.”
I sniff, cheeks hot. “They’re from France.”
I open the box anyway, because it’s already ruined, and hold it out to her.
She takes a delicate green one, bites in, chews slow. “Hmm. Not bad.”
I smile through the sting in my chest. “He used to keep them in the penthouse. Had them shipped from Paris, just because I liked them.”
My voice catches.
“And now… he left a box in my parents’ fridge. For me. Like he knew I’d need them. He was so good to me.”
The tears fall without asking.
Ella doesn’t say anything at first. Just chews slowly. Then, with that signature bluntness of hers—
“Then why don’t you go to him?”
I blink at her, tears sliding sideways down my face.
“Because…” I swallow hard. “Because he told me I’m free. And I don’t know if I want to be or not.”
Ella nods slowly, understanding more than I expect her to.
“These are really good,” she murmurs, grabbing another one.
I laugh wetly, wiping my cheeks.
Then her head tilts. “Wait. He took you to France?!”
I nod.
The question rips the breath from me. My throat locks as the memory surges; the weekend in Paris. The Seine at night. His hand warm around mine as the city glittered. His mouth on me in a hotel that smelled of jasmine and rain.
I sob, covering my face.
Ella doesn’t speak.
Instead, she climbs into bed beside me and curls up like she used to when we were kids, arms folded, warmth offered.
“Shhh. It’s okay, Liv.” Her voice is soft now, anchoring. “He’s at the inn. He’s here until Friday. He doesn’t want to leave without you.”
She brushes her thumb across my wrist.
“You have time, okay?” she whispers. “You don’t have to decide today.”
And somehow that’s worse. Because I’ll see him again. And it’ll hurt.
But I nod anyway.
Curl into her, like I used to when the world felt too big.
And cry.
***
“Tell me when it’s gone, tell me when it’s gone!” Ella squeals, face buried in the collar of her sweater.
I laugh, toss another handful of popcorn into my mouth, and mumble, “It’s gone.”
She peeks out, blinking, then drops her sweater back down.
I shake my head. “I don’t know why you insist on scary movies when they scare the life out of you.”
She exhales dramatically, smirking as she grabs the bowl. “That’s the fun part.”
“What’s fun?”
We both scream, popcorn rains over us, kernels skittering across the blanket.
Dean chuckles from the doorway.
I grab the remote and lob it at him. He ducks easily, flicking on the light.
“Not the big light!” Ella groans, yanking her sweater over her eyes.
I squint at Dean. “What do you want?”
“Pops asked if you could pick up the pies from Murphy’s.”
I frown. “Why can’t you do it?”
Dean shrugs, already halfway back into the hall.
“Busy with the renovations,” he says over his shoulder. “Murphy’s closes early, so hurry.”
He disappears, leaving my door open.
I glance at Ella.
My heart’s already tightening.
“War’s gonna be there, isn’t he?”
She doesn’t pretend otherwise.
“More than likely, yes.”
I nod once, already bracing for the sting.
Ella shifts, folding her legs under her. “Your family likes him, Liv. But if you don’t anymore, then tell them to respect your boundaries. You don’t owe them anything.”
Her tone is kind, but firm.
“But,” she adds softly, “if you do like him… then go. He’s probably just going to talk to you. That’s it. And it’s up to you if you want to talk back. Okay?”
I stare down at the box of macarons on the nightstand.
Colorful. Delicate. Stupid.
I miss him.
God, I miss him.
I nod.
Ella doesn’t smile, doesn’t press. Just watches as I pull my hair into a low bun and grab the coat I left slung over the desk chair.
Downstairs, Dean is lacing up his boots.
He looks up when I reach the bottom step. “You going?”
“I’ll take your car.”
He arches a brow but doesn’t argue, just tosses me the keys before heading out the front door and across the street, where the inn hums with the sounds of renovation.
The drive to Murphy’s is short. Familiar.
The kind of path you could take blindfolded.
But my pulse pounds the whole way there.
The parking lot is mostly empty. The diner glows warm in the fading light. I park, take a breath, and head inside.
The bell above the door jingles.
I scan the booths. The barstools. The corner table where my dad always sits with his paper.
But War isn’t here.
My heart sinks, and I hate that it does.
I tell myself it’s better this way. That I can just grab the pies and go.
Sue sees me from behind the counter and waves. “Got three ready for pickup, sweetheart. Be right back.”
I nod, gripping the edge of the counter to ground myself.
The door jingles again.
I don’t even turn at first.
But then I hear it—boots on tile. Slow, steady. A low voice murmuring a polite “Thank you, ma’am” to one of the waitresses.
I turn.
And there he is.
A dark winter jacket half-zipped over a charcoal shirt. Fitted jeans. Work boots scuffed at the toes. His collar dusted with snow melt. Paint smudges streak one hand where his glove must’ve been pulled off.
He looks…human. Solid. Out of place and yet perfectly placed, like some kind of mirage I summoned with grief.
My lungs stutter. He’s too close. Too real.
But he doesn’t see me.
He doesn’t look at me.
The waitress hands him two bags of food. He passes her a folded bill. I know it’s too much, he always tips too much. He murmurs a quiet thanks.
Then he turns.
And walks out.
Just…leaves.
I stare after him, stunned.
My throat tightens.
Sue sets the pies down on the counter, wrapped and boxed. “Need help carrying those out, honey?”
I shake my head.
Swallow hard.
“No, I got it.”
I try not to rush, try not to look like I’m chasing him.
But I am.
I get outside just in time to see him shut the trunk of a sleek black rental.
He gets in.
Doesn’t look back.
Doesn’t see me.
And drives away.
I stand there on the curb, hands full of pies, heart full of something I can’t name.
He didn’t even look at me.