12. Oliver
OLIVER
Meg comes out of the elevator in leggings, a fleece, and a windbreaker. Hair braided. Eyes clear in that early-morning way. She lifts a small duffel. “Snacks.”
“Perfect.” I take the duffel and the paddle she carries because I want her hands free on the stairs.
We load up and go. The roads are empty. The sky has no edge yet.
We don’t talk much on the highway. Neither of us are chatty this early.
She sips from my thermos and passes it back. It’s quiet in the cab in a way I like.
We put in near Edgewood, where the water is flat this early. The ramp light is on. The air is cold enough that our breath shows. I hand her a hat with a fleece band. “Ears.”
She puts it on and tugs it low. “Thanks.”
PFDs on. Spray skirts clipped. I double-check her foot pegs and back band like I always do and then step back so I don’t overdo it. She sets her paddle across the cockpit and looks at me. “Race to the point?”
“After we warm up.”
She nods. We push off together. The water is black and glassy.
The first pulls are easy. I watch her stroke rate.
It’s good. She fell into a smooth cadence fast last summer.
I match it. The bow of her boat cuts a clean line.
Our breath settles. It’s been a long time since we’ve done this, but we remember all the steps.
She calls over, not loud, “You okay about everything?”
“We made a plan. I like plans.”
“Me too.”
We paddle side by side for a few minutes. The shoreline is a dark strip. The first birds start up. We track along the edge for a bit and then angle out to open water. No boats. Not much wind yet. I feel her find more length in her pull. I add a half inch to mine to stay even.
“Warm,” she says.
“Race,” I answer.
She grins. “Three, two?—”
She jumps early. I let it go. I dig in a beat later and push.
My kayak has more waterline. Hers has less weight in the bow.
It levels out. I pull harder and feel the burn in my shoulders.
She kicks and leans forward. Her braid taps her back.
She cuts the angle to the point. I follow and try not to laugh.
She’s cheating, but I don’t call it. I like that she’s pushing herself.
The point hits her first by a half length.
She lifts her paddle like a flag. “Victory.”
“You cut.”
“Strategy. Also, I’m faster.”
“Sure you are.” I wink.
She sticks her tongue out at me and then puts it back in because it’s cold. She rolls her shoulders. “Again?”
“On the way back. Drink.”
We drift a minute and sip the hot tea. I look at her face without staring. There’s color in her cheeks, even in the dark. No makeup. She looks rested for the first time in days.
We push again and make a loop along the shore. There’s a small ice shelf in a shallow spot. We give it space. The first hint of sunrise shows up low in the east.
“Thanks for planning this,” she says.
“Thanks for saying yes.”
“You always say that.”
“I always mean it.”
She’s quiet for a few strokes. “I want to keep doing stuff with you guys, but not make it complicated. I’m trying to find the line.”
“That’s why we have rules.”
Out here, it’s easier to talk. Nature has a way of opening us up. That’s why I wanted to do this.
We turn toward the small beach where we launched. The light is lavender-gray now. I feel the wind start to come up. It’s time. We slide in and hit the sand clean. I step out, steady her bow, and offer my hand. Her boots crunch on the frozen sand.
“Cold,” she says, looking down at her bare fingers. I pass her a hand warmer from my pocket. She squeezes it and sighs.
We pull the boats up to the grass and unclip the skirts. I reach for the paddles and hear a shutter. Then another. Two photographers at the end of the lot. Big lenses. They’re not close, but close enough.
I will never understand why paparazzi follow the team around.
We’re not even that good. But I get it a little bit when it comes to me.
I’m a Fitzwilliam on top of playing for the team.
My people were on some of the first boats to the colonies.
We own railways and lumber and other crap.
My family practically owns the society pages.
It’s great for some things, and a burden for others. Like today.
I move without thinking, stepping between the cameras and Meg, and lift a hand. “Guys, give us space.”
Meg rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. I’m used to it with you three.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“You never have.”
I do the rest fast—paddles on the rack, bow lines clipped, boats up. The cameras click. I keep myself between them and her without making a scene. One of them calls, “Fitz, you skating first line Thursday?”
“Have a good morning.” I never answer questions. You’d think they’d learn that by now.
We drive out. Traffic is normal on the way back. We make it home before six thirty. The apartment is quiet. I’m not sure if they’ve left for the day or they’re sleeping in. I forgot to ask. “Shower,” I say, and almost add, Together?
It gets stuck in my throat. I want her pressed against the glass, moaning my name. But this morning was about us being friends, so I stop myself.
“Sounds good.” She goes down the hall to her bathroom.
I lean on the counter and stare at the hanging plant Hudson somehow keeps alive. I think about the question sitting on my tongue a minute ago. I let it evaporate. I make coffee instead of making things weird.
The shower runs. I pour the coffee and set it on a coaster near her seat at the table. I hear the shower stop. A beat. Her door opens harder than usual. She walks out with her phone in her hand and an upset face.
“What?” I ask.
She turns the screen so I can see. Review page.
A flood of one-star reviews from accounts with names like Gina44321 and Alexis_1989x .
Same phrases repeated. Rude staff. Cold coffee.
Owner yelled at me for asking for cream.
Dozens in the last hour. New usernames. No real photos. She scrolls. It keeps going.
“Okay,” I say carefully, ignoring my boiling blood. “We’ll handle it.”
“Look at the time stamps. They’re coming in batches. Obviously fake.”
“Troll farm.” I bite back the rest of what I want to call it. I take her phone and read faster. Same language patterns. Same closing lines.
She puts the phone down and rubs the heel of her hand over her eye. “We can flag. We can post. It doesn’t stop the score.”
“Let me call my lawyers. They can do a takedown request for bad-faith reviews. They can send a letter to the platform and force a freeze while they verify accounts. They can send a cease and desist to the source. They’ll move fast.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t afford your lawyers.”
“I’ve got it.”
She backs up a step. “No.”
“Meg.”
“It’s my shop. It’s my problem. I will fix it.”
“You don’t have to do it alone. This is time-sensitive. The longer it sits, the more it sticks.”
“I know that.” She pulls in a breath and lets it out slowly. “I also know what it looks like if I bring in your family’s lawyer and they steamroll a problem for me. People will say I can’t handle my business without money I didn’t earn.”
“It doesn’t matter?—”
“This is my problem, Oliver.”
I lean both hands on the counter. “Okay. Then we still need a plan. Flag and log everything. Screenshots with time stamps. Send a press note to Baltimore Eats and the neighborhood blog about the fundraiser and the night we had. Ask regulars to post real reviews this week. I can get our sponsors to order a drop-off for their offices. Large tickets push the queue back up.”
“I’ve got this. No lawyers.”
“I won’t call unless you ask.” It costs me to say it.
“Thank you,” she says. She picks up the coffee and sits at the table like if she doesn’t sit she might break something. I sit across from her. She scrolls and flags. Sips and scrolls some more.
It takes time, but her hand is steady now. That’s good. She texts the staff and adds a line about not replying to anything from personal accounts.
I clear my throat. “If it spikes again, can I at least get a first consult pro bono? Quiet. No billing. Just advice on the right language and the right inbox to hit.”
She presses her lips together and thinks. “If it’s free and it doesn’t tie me to your name in any public way.”
“I’ll call a guy who does platform policy for small businesses. He owes me a favor from a Habitat thing. He’ll write me an email I can forward you. That’s it.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I step into my room to make the call. It’s quick.
He says he’ll send me three bullet points and two email addresses for the platforms’ small business rep lines.
He tells me to include the surge graph and note the copy-and-paste language.
He tells me to have her keep screenshots and not just links.
I thank him and hang up. I text it all to Meg. She gives me a thumbs-up.
I lean in the door. “You want toast?”
“Fine,” she says, distracted. “One. Light.”
I toast. I butter. I bring it to the table with a plate and a napkin because doing anything helpful makes me feel like a person again.
She eats a bite and relaxes a hair. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We sit with the quiet for a minute. She stares at the phone and doesn’t touch it.
“I hate that I’m saying no to help,” she says after a while. “I hate the pride in it. It’s not about pride. It’s about not repeating patterns.”
“I know,” I say. “I get it. I like doing things myself too much. It makes me dumb sometimes.”
“It doesn’t make you dumb,” she says. “It makes you you .”
“Same,” I say. “You’re allowed to want to fix your shop with your hands. I’m allowed to want to fix it with mine. We meet in the middle.”
“Okay.”
I check the time. “We need to get you to Bea’s.”
“Yeah.”
I rinse the mugs and plate and put them in the dishwasher because it’s something done. In the truck, she watches the city wake up. I keep my mouth shut unless she wants to talk.
At a red light she says, “I’m not mad at you for offering. I need you to know that.”
“I know it.”
“I’m mad that he’s still in my life like this.”
“Me too.”
She sighs hard. “I want one day where he isn’t. And I don’t get it. Why does he bother? Why does he care enough to hurt me?”
“Some people like to pick wings off of flies. From the sound of things, you embarrassed him, and Luke Fucking Addaway is nothing if not a big ball of pride.”
“That’s his only big ball.”
I snort at that and pull to the curb. Aqua is already at the door with keys. She waves. Bex arrives right behind us with a bag from the bakery. Tom jogs up with two cases of milk on his shoulder. They see the set on Meg’s face and snap into place without questions. Good team.
I could go, but I don’t want to leave her on a morning like this without giving her one more thing she can hold. I slide my hand across the counter and tap the wood twice. “We’ve got you.”
She nods. “Go skate.”
I salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You big dork.”
I grin and jog out of the place. The arena is near enough that I don’t bother turning on the heater before I get there. Practice is tough, but the team is tougher.
At home, I shower. I almost text her, Need me?
I don’t. She knows all she has to do is reach out, and I’m there, but not being there right now feels like a dereliction of duty.
I try to read for ten minutes and can’t focus.
I end up standing by the window, checking the time, and telling myself not to drive back across town and stand at the counter like a security guard.
Guarding what, I’m not sure. Her heart? Mine? There’s no telling.