Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
SHEA
It has to be a good sign that he’s coming over.
Right?
After Oliver’s apologetic text last night, I don’t think he’s headed here to berate me. Not given how eager he seemed to see me, even suggesting that he stop by the next day if I’d let him. And once I got past the initial shock from his message—it was the last thing I expected after how things went between us—of course I said yes.
I had to.
Even though I knew it could make me feel even worse in the end, it was impossible to say no.
Seeing Oliver again made me realize just how badly I miss him.
I thought I was happy before. Or at the very least, content. For the last four years, I’ve built a comfortable life. A safe life. And I told myself it was enough.
But then I saw Oliver. Talked to him. Felt his achingly familiar touch. I could smell the cologne he still uses, an intoxicating blend of cedarwood and citrus and amber. I was reminded how, when we talk, he looks at me like I’m the most important woman in the world. For a second, I even thought I saw a flicker of desire in his eyes.
Now I have confirmation of something I’ve tried to deny for years.
I still love him. So much.
I wanted to believe my counselors when they told me eventually the pain would subside, and that I’d find someone else when the time was right. That I didn’t need to be in a relationship to be happy. That maybe Oliver and I weren’t meant to be together.
For four years, I tried to convince myself it was the truth.
It wasn’t. It still hurts to think about what happened back then, and not a dull kind of ache, but a deep wound that’s never healed. I’ve never been happier than I was with Oliver. And I’ve never met anyone who could come close to replacing him in my heart.
I know I screwed things up beyond repair between us.
But after hearing Nora’s story, it brings a glimmer of hope that maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Oliver can truly forgive me and we can have some sort of relationship again.
But there’s the crux of it. The big question, the one that kept me awake half of last night—what do I really hope for?
Following each other on social media again? Impersonal but friendly conversation on the rare occasions we see each other? Maybe a brief text for Christmas and birthdays?
Faced with the option of not having Oliver in my life at all, I’d pick any of those. But deep down, in my heart of hearts, I know what I really want.
I want another chance.
If only…
This time, I wouldn't mess up. I wouldn’t hide things from Oliver because I’m ashamed to tell him the truth. I’d be stronger.
No. I am stronger.
Strong enough to tell Oliver the truth and accept whatever happens from there?
I think so.
Will Oliver understand? Hopefully. He’s a kind man, and I never blamed him for the things he said back then. They sucked, but I didn’t blame him. I can’t even fault him for getting upset last night. Had the positions been reversed, I would be bitter, too.
Will understanding lead to giving me another chance? That one’s more iffy. And that’s the part I’m most scared about, because even though I had reasons for how I acted back then, that still doesn’t make it okay. Understanding doesn’t mean forgiveness, and it definitely doesn’t mean he’ll be willing to try things again.
Since I worked from home today, I took a break to call Jade to see what she thought. And ever the worried friend, her first concern was for my health.
“I want you to be happy ,” she said, “ but I have to ask. What if he’s angry? What if he leaves and doesn’t want to see you again? It’s not that I think it’ll happen, but if it does… are you going to be okay? After the last time… will it set you back? ”
It was a valid question, but I really think I can handle it. Even if this goes badly, at least I’ll have tried, and I won’t be haunted by what-ifs anymore.
All day, my nerves have been going crazy. I managed to keep myself somewhat distracted earlier in the day—focusing on my new project at work and a virtual pilates class afterwards—but now that Oliver is about to arrive, I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin.
I spent well over an hour getting ready, carefully blow-drying my hair so it’s all shiny, meticulously covering the bruise on my cheek, and trying to pick out the perfect thing to wear. After approximately ten outfit changes, I settled on something cute but simple—a dark-blue shirt dress that just happens to be Oliver’s favorite color on me.
It can’t hurt, right?
Now I’m pacing around the living room while I wait for him to get here, my heart trying to beat out of my chest. It feels like a heavy band has wrapped around my chest, incrementally tightening by notches as six PM gets closer.
The room looks beyond neat, down to the HGTV-worthy arrangement of pillows on the couch and the vacuum lines in the carpet. I have several candles burning—lavender and eucalyptus—in an attempt to create a soothing mood. And I have snacks and drinks prepped in the kitchen, just in case Oliver decides to stay.
On my fifth pass through the living room, my gaze moves to the bookshelves, not checking for imaginary dust this time, but at the actual items on them.
Ack.
I didn’t even think about it last night.
But right there, on full display, are the things Oliver gave me. The little bear that I sometimes take to bed when I’m not feeling well. The fake diamond from the Smithsonian. And that cherry blossom…
Most people hide the gifts their ex gave them, or even throw them away. But I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t want to sever that last connection.
But what must Oliver have thought when he saw them? And he had to—he was right over here by my Stephen King books, inches from the diamond. Did he think it was sad? Weird? Did he?—
My phone chimes loudly, nearly giving me a heart attack. A few seconds later, a text comes in. Right after that, the doorbell rings.
Before I answer, I check the video feed on my phone, just to be safe. And there he is, so handsome even on the small screen, smiling up at the camera as he gives a little wave.
My poor, rattled nerves revolt, forcing my stomach into my throat.
Calm down.
As I walk to the door, I keep repeating it to myself.
Calm down. Calm down.
I’m thirty-one years old. Not a child. I can handle whatever happens.
At the door, I take several steadying breaths before I open it.
I can do this. If I took on those men at the Hop-less Horseman with only a couple of chairs, this should be easy.
But as soon as I see Oliver, it’s a battle not to fling myself in his arms immediately.
On my phone was one thing, but in person, Oliver is beyond handsome. He’s wearing worn jeans that hug his muscular legs and a white short-sleeved Henley that stretches over his very impressive biceps. They’re big without being crazy-bulky, tanned from all the outdoor activities he loves to do in the spring, and there’s this vein running down each arm…
I never thought veins could be sexy. Ever. I remember a college friend going on about her boyfriend’s arm veins and I thought it sounded weird. A vein? Attractive?
Then I met Oliver and I understood what she meant.
And the way he looks at me—his gaze flicking up and down my body so quickly I almost miss it—with his eyes darkening in appreciation.
“Oliver.” Crap. Is my voice shaking? Taking a deep breath, I try again. “Hi. How are you?”
His smile expands. “Shea. I’m good. Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
Ugh. That sounds so formal. So unlike our old greetings, when I’d call out Oliver’s name in a joyful tone just before flinging myself into his arms. Then he’d pick me up so our faces were level and he’d kiss me until my heart fluttered and we were both gasping for breath.
But I can’t expect that anymore. So I shove aside the disappointment and meet his smile with one of my own. “I’m glad you texted. I felt… Well. Last night… It wasn’t…”
Oh, my gosh. What is wrong with me?
“I know.” Oliver holds my gaze. “I didn’t feel good about it, either.” From behind him, he pulls out a white paper bag with the words Sleepy Sweets printed on it. Holding it out to me, he says, “A new bakery just opened in town. I heard they have the best snickerdoodle cookies, and I remembered they were your favorites. So…”
He trails off, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “I just thought you might enjoy them. Unless you don’t like snickerdoodles anymore?”
The band around my chest releases a notch. Not just because he remembered, which is sweet on its own, but because I’m realizing I’m not the only one nervous here.
“I love them.” Taking the bag, I unroll the top and take a sniff, inhaling the scent of freshly baked cookies. “Thank you, Oll. You didn’t have to?—”
“It’s not a big deal,” he replies, his cheeks turning a bit pink. “I was headed home after my shift, and the bakery was on the way, and I just thought… You used to be obsessed with those snickerdoodles at that bakery in McLean.”
“Those cookies were incredible.” Smiling at the memory, I add, “Remember their Christmas cookies? They were so pretty?—”
“That you couldn’t bring yourself to eat them.” He grins. “All those cookies I bought you, and they went stale just sitting on a plate in the kitchen.”
My smile fades. I remember. It was our last Christmas together, and Oliver had been traveling overseas on and off since the fall. It had been much harder than I expected, and I wasn’t handling it well. When he gave me those cookies… I didn’t eat them because I claimed they were too pretty. But that wasn’t the truth at all.
“Shea?” He eyes me with concern. “If you don’t want them. Or if I overstepped?—”
“You didn’t. And I do want them.” Gesturing for him to come inside, I continue, “Thank you. Really. I just… Do you want to sit?”
Oliver glances at the couch. A moment later, his lips twitch. “Those are very nice pillows.”
“Um. I guess?” The throw pillows are made of a soft denim fabric in an array of blues, what I thought was a nice complement to the cream-colored couch. Then I follow his gaze to the karate-chop-style crease in each of them, and a tiny snort of laughter escapes. “You mean the chops?”
“Yeah.” He heads to the couch and sits down on it, carefully setting the pillows to the side. “Maya does it too. The chopping thing. She says they do it on HGTV.”
“They do,” I agree. As I join him on the couch—leaving a full cushion between us—I add, “I started watching HGTV a few years ago. It’s surprisingly addictive.”
“So I’ve heard. I can’t get into it, though.”
“Are you still watching those history shows, then?”
“Sometimes.” He pauses. “I’ve been pretty busy. With moving, and the new job, and spending time with Maya and Cole and Clara…”
“Are you dating anyone?” It just bursts out. My face goes hot as I quickly amend, “Sorry. That’s none of my business. Forget I asked.”
He stares at me for a moment with an inscrutable expression. “No. I’m not.” A beat, and then, “Are you?”
“No. There hasn’t been—” I stop myself, afraid of saying too much.
Then again, if there’s any chance…
“There hasn’t been anyone,” I tell him. “Just a few first dates. But that’s all.”
Surprise flickers across his face. “No one? I thought?—”
My heart thuds hard. “You thought what?”
He hesitates. Sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” Belatedly realizing I’m tugging at a loose thread on the cushion, I shove my hand beneath my leg to stop myself. “It matters, Oll.”
“Fine.” His jaw tightens. “I thought maybe you left me for someone else. And if not that, I was sure you’d find another guy, eventually.”
A lump lodges itself in my throat. Swallowing hard, I say, “That’s not why I ended things. I would never have left you for someone else.”
In the silence that follows, tension builds. My pulse is a staccato drumbeat in my head.
This is it. This is the opening. The opportunity to explain after all these years.
But I’m scared.
“Shea?” Oliver’s voice gentles. “Are you okay? I shouldn’t have said that. Not now. It’s?—”
“No. I want to tell you.” Turning towards him, I clutch my hands together in my lap. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to explain.”
His shoulders go tight. A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Explain?”
Please. Give me the courage to get through this.
“After my parents died freshman year, it was really hard,” I begin. “I had Jade, but with my parents gone, and Niall in the Army, it was… a lot. I was so scared something would happen to Niall and I’d end up completely alone.”
“Shea…”
Oliver knows the story of how my parents died. During my freshman year of college they were hit by a truck driver who was drunk on the job. Just like that, in one terrible accident, both of them gone. In the horrible aftermath, the company offered a settlement that was more than enough to pay for my college and give me and Niall a decent nest egg for the future. But that could never come close to giving us back what we lost.
“At first, I tried to keep myself so busy I wouldn’t have time to miss them. Studying. Spending time with friends. Parties. Exercising.” Lifting my gaze from my hands, I look at Oliver to see him watching me with a sympathetic expression. “But it wasn’t enough. And sophomore year, I… I developed an eating disorder.”
Startled, Oliver’s eyebrows jump up.
“I know. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell Niall, either. Jade noticed something was off, and she pushed me to go to a counselor on campus. So I did. And I worked hard to get past it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was over. After college, I was fine. Mostly. Sometimes when I got really stressed about something, I’d start skipping meals. Work out more than usual. But it never lasted more than a couple of weeks and then I was back to normal.”
“Okay…” His lips press together. “But?”
This is the hard part.
“I had a relapse. Back when… when we were together. Towards the end.”
“Shea.”
Taking a deep breath, I let out the rest in a rush. “It was after you got the promotion and were traveling a lot. Not that it was your fault. It wasn’t. But that last winter we were together was when it started. First, it wasn’t that bad. I thought I had it under control. But then spring came around, and it got… worse.”
Flatly, Oliver says, “When I wasn’t there.”
I nod. “During your last trip, when you were gone for months. That’s when it got really bad.”
“How bad?”
My chest squeezes. “Pretty bad.”
“Shea.” Oliver moves closer on the couch. “If you’re going to tell me, tell me everything.”
“I wasn’t eating. I just exercised all the time, and took stimulants to keep my energy up.” Catching his frown, I explain defensively, “I know it was dumb. Unsafe. But at the time… I couldn’t see past the mess in my head. Losing weight—it seemed so important back then.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was ashamed. There you were, doing this important job, a dangerous job, while I was home obsessing over calories and BMIs. I didn’t want anyone to know.”
His voice grim, Oliver asks, “So what happened, Shea?”
“I got sick. Really sick. It was—” Stopping, I sniff against the threatening tears. “I wouldn’t even talk to Jade. She finally convinced my landlord to let her into my apartment, and when she found me… I don’t even remember it. I was basically comatose in bed. Wasting away.”
Oliver curses under his breath. “How did no one know?”
“I didn’t want anyone to know. Not you, or Niall, or Jade. I lost my job because I couldn’t get to work anymore. And I… all I cared about was controlling my weight. Nothing else mattered. I know it sounds crazy, but?—”
“It doesn’t sound crazy. But what happened next?”
“Jade got me to the hospital. I was in intensive care for a couple of days. She contacted Niall and he came home on emergency leave. As soon as he could, Niall got me into a treatment facility around here. Since we grew up in Suffern, he knew the area better. Trusted it.”
Staring at my hands again, I force myself to tell the worst parts of the story. “I screwed everything up, Oll. Because of me, Niall left the Army. The job he loved. Then we bought this house and he lived with me to make sure I was okay. He was afraid to go to Texas last year, but I insisted. I couldn’t stand to hold him back anymore.”
Oliver touches my hand, wrapping his around it. Roughly, he says, “Don’t cry, Shea.”
Am I crying?
Yes. I am.
With my free hand, I brush away the hot tears. “I ruined things between us. In the hospital, Jade wanted to contact you. I wouldn’t let her because I was so ashamed. Embarrassed. I felt like a failure. Like you deserved better than a crazy person who only cared about being skinny.”
My voice cracking, I continue, “That’s why I broke up with you. And then… when you came to see me later that summer… We were waiting for a spot to open up at the treatment facility. I looked horrible. Some of my hair had fallen out. I couldn’t… I didn’t want you to see me like that. It was so stupid?—”
Crap. Now I’m full-on crying. “I’m so sorry, Oll. I wish I could go back and do things differently. Tell you the truth. Not send you away. Niall wanted me to talk to you, but I wouldn’t. And he was too scared of me dying?—”
“Shea. Honey.” Oliver pulls me into his arms, and I bury my face in his shirt as I cry harder. “Please don’t cry.”
After several moments, I pull away from his shirt, leaving a large wet spot behind. “I was in treatment for a couple of months. And by the time I got out, and Niall moved us to New York, I was too afraid to reach back out to you. Too afraid to tell you how badly I messed up.”
“After I said all those things to you on the phone.”
“I understood why you were mad. I would have been too.”
“But you were sick.” Oliver stares at me, guilt and devastation in his eyes. “You were sick, and I wasn’t there. I just left you for months. What kind of… Fuck.”
He jumps off the couch and storms over to the window, staring out at the setting sun. “I should have been there for you. Instead of being so damn concerned about my job. I let you down. I let Maya down.”
“You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault.”
Turning, he meets my gaze. His features are set in hard lines and shadows. “If I’d been there, I would have seen. You couldn’t have hidden it from me. And maybe… you wouldn’t have gotten so sick.”
Maybe not. But that wasn’t his fault. Plenty of other people have partners that travel for work and don’t almost kill themselves with an eating disorder.
“I made the choice, Oliver. I did that to myself.”
Crossing the room again, he takes the seat he just left. His gaze intense and worried, he asks, “Are you okay? Are you still?—”
“No.” More in control now, my sobs have subsided to little sniffs and stuttered breaths. “I mean, I’m okay. I have been for a while now. I still go to counseling once a month just to keep tabs on things, and I’m careful about exercising and not obsessing about food. So no, I’m not sick. But change is hard for me. The loss of control. That’s why I didn’t want to go to Texas, or stay at Blade and Arrow in Sleepy Hollow. Not knowing most of the people, being in a strange place… I was worried it might be triggering.”
“Shea.” He takes my hand again. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Why would you? I could have told you, but I didn’t. I was too scared. And because of it, I ruined everything between us.”
After a long pause, he asks, “Why are you telling me now? Not that I didn’t want you to, but?—”
Fear clutches my chest. Chokes my breath.
But if I want any chance of fixing things…
“Because I never stopped thinking about you. That’s why—” I gesture at the bookshelf. “But I told myself I was okay. Happy. That it was my screw-up and I had to deal with it.”
“And now?”
“When I saw you, I knew. The happiness I thought I had? It wasn’t the same. I don’t feel the same when I’m not with you. And… I miss you. I know it’s probably too late, and I understand. But I thought I could at least tell you. Explain why.”
Oliver stares at me, emotion working in his eyes. He runs a hand through his dark hair, tugging at it. “Shit, Shea.”
My heart drops.
It’s too late. And the only person to blame is me.
“When I heard you were hurt, I was beyond scared. The thought of something happening to you… and knowing you were so sick and I wasn’t there? It kills me.”
My voice is small. “I’m sorry.”
“But.”
“But?”
“I miss you, too. And there hasn’t been anyone else. No one comes close to you, Shea.”
“Oll?” Cautious hope wars with dread. “What does that mean?”
“It means…” Turning to me, he takes my hands as his gaze burns into mine. “We both made mistakes. But we’re human, too. And if we still care about each other, maybe we should give this another try.”
“I do. Care about you.”
Maybe now’s not the time to tell Oliver I never stopped loving him.
“So do I.” His thumb strokes across the back of my hand. “I never stopped.”
Then, with a hopeful smile, he asks, “What if I took you on a date? A real one, like we used to? And we go from there?”
Oh.
Nora was right.
Happy tears prickle behind my eyes this time. “Yes. I would really like that.”