Chapter 50 Olivia
Chapter fifty
Olivia
Wednesday
The morning drags. Every tick of the clock feels louder than it should, like it’s mocking me. I try to read. I try to help Mom with laundry. I try to lose myself in Ella’s chatter over breakfast. Nothing sticks. My skin feels too tight, like I’m waiting for something without admitting it.
By late afternoon, I give up. I pull on boots, a thick scarf, and my old coat, tucking my hair into a messy knot before stepping out into the brittle cold.
Brokenwoods in February feels like a photograph drained of color. Frost clings to the curbs, salt streaks the asphalt, and every breath hangs white in the air. The trees are bare skeletons, their branches scraping against a dull gray sky.
Every street is a memory, the cracked sidewalk outside Mrs. Whitmore’s house where Ella and I used to ride bikes, the patch of grass on Maple where I fell rollerblading at eleven and Logan carried me home, blood streaking down my knees. Every block holds some version of us frozen in time.
I turn the corner and hear it before I see it: the grind of machinery, the splintering thud of wood, men shouting over the noise.
The park.
It’s being gutted. Half the fence is down. The benches are overturned, the play structure half-disassembled. Piles of wood and metal lay scattered like bones. Even the air smells different, cold dirt, sawdust, and rust.
I stop at the corner, my pulse quickening.
My eyes go straight to the far end.
The swing set.
Gone.
My chest hollows. The space where it stood is nothing but churned earth and splintered planks tossed beside the dumpster.
A memory hits so sharply I sway.
Ella and me, twelve years old, racing barefoot through the grass.
She gets there first, throws herself onto the left swing, hair flying like fire in the sun.
I grab the right one, push off, both of us shrieking with laughter.
Our initials carved into the frame with a pocketknife Chase swore we’d get grounded for touching.
Cherry popsicle stains on our fingers. The creak of the chains, the dizzy rush of summer.
We used to tell each other everything on those swings; crushes, secrets, stupid dreams. It was our place to be infinite, like nothing outside the park could touch us.
Now it’s nothing but dirt.
I stumble back, pressing my hand to my mouth.
It feels like someone ripped a page out of me and threw it away.
Panic burns through the numbness. They can’t just erase that. Doesn’t anyone understand some things shouldn’t be replaced?
I turn and run, boots slipping on the frost-bitten sidewalk, the cold biting at my lungs as I head straight for the inn.
Logan’s at the front desk when I push through the door. He looks up, startled.
“What room is War in?”
He frowns. “No, Liv.”
I roll my eyes, breathless. “Not for that, I need to speak to him.”
Logan hesitates, jaw flexing, then sighs. “Room 10. But he’s not here.”
My chest sinks. “Where is he?”
“Hardware store. With Chase.”
The air rushes out of me.
Too late.
It would have been too late anyway. The swings are already gone.
I nod stiffly, turn away before Logan can say more, and retreat across the street.
Back into the house.
My chest aches as I climb, each step heavier than the last.
By the time I reach my room, tears are already stinging, because it isn’t just about swings. It’s about everything. About him, about me, and about what’s gone that I can’t seem get back.
***
“You’re not eating.”
I look down at my plate, Murphy’s famous grilled cheese, the one I begged for every birthday as a kid. Three kinds of cheese, golden crust, fries crisped just right. It should taste like home. It tastes like nothing.
“He had our swing removed,” I murmur.
Ella exhales, leaning back in the booth. “I’m not dead, Liv. We don’t need a rotten piece of wood with our initials to prove it meant something.”
“I know.” My throat tightens. “But it feels like—like it’s gone because of him. Like every time I almost tell myself I want him back, I can’t reach him. He’s always just… out of reach.”
Ella steals a fry from my plate, crunching it slow. “Have you tried calling him?”
The words hit harder than I expect.
“No. Not since the day he showed up here. I figured he blocked me.”
She shrugs. “So check. Worst case? You’re right. Best case? You’re wrong. Either way, you’ll stop torturing yourself.”
I dig through my purse with shaking hands, fingers closing around my phone like it’s a live wire. My heart hammers as I unlock the screen. His number sits there, unchanged, like it’s been waiting.
Ella leans on her elbow, watching. “Gonna call him right now?”
I hover, thumb trembling over his name.
“I shouldn’t,” I whisper.
“Up to you,” she says, dry as ever. “But don’t pretend the phone’s the one holding you back.”
My thumb hovers, heart slamming, before I finally press his name.
It rings. Once. Twice.
Click.
The line connects, but there’s no voice. No breath. Just muffled sound.
I freeze.
Then I hear it—laughter. Familiar voices. My family.
Dean. My mom. Logan. All bleeding through the speaker like he’s sitting in my living room with them.
My stomach drops. I hang up fast, my pulse rattling in my ears.
I look at Ella. Narrow my eyes. “Are you distracting me again? Bringing me here so War could meet with my family behind my back?”
She blinks, startled. “No, Olivia. You asked me to go out. What happened?”
I toss cash onto the table, my movements jerky. “War’s at my house. I have to go. And I have to run, and I know you hate running, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ella scoffs, incredulous. “Liv, let’s just call one of your brothers. They’ll drive us—”
“It’ll be too late if we do that,” I snap, sliding out of the booth. “And they’ll tell War. I need the element of surprise.”
Before she can argue, I shove through the diner doors and into the freezing night air.
I hate myself instantly. I hate the way the cold air burns my lungs, the way every extra pound drags like an anchor, the way my thighs scream with every step. But I don’t stop. Not until my house is in sight.
I stumble up the porch steps, breath ragged, sweat dripping down my back.
The door flies open under my hand.
Empty.
The lights are off. The rooms silent. My family; gone.
I stagger back outside, heart pounding. The inn glows across the street, warm with lamplight.
I force my aching legs to move, cross the road, push through the door—
And there they are. My family, gathered together.
But not him.
“Where’s War?” My voice cracks as I scan the room.
My mom smiles, like it’s nothing. “He went to Murphy’s.”
Defeat crashes over me. “When?”
“Like five minutes ago,” Dean says with a shrug. “Ella called Logan to pick her up, but War said he’d do it. We all thought you were with her.”
My vision blurs hot. Fury. Humiliation.
Fucking Ella.
I turn on my heel before anyone can see me break, push back out the door, and make the walk back across the street with tears burning in my eyes.