Chapter 45 Rina
Rina
Even though I’ve been staring at my computer screen for the past hour, the words continue to blur into meaningless shapes. The meeting agenda open in front of me may as well be written in another language. The cursor blinks in quiet accusation, a small flash of light in a room that feels too still.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Oliver’s face when he blurted out that proposal.
Let’s get married.
I’m still flooded with the disbelief and panic that had crashed over me.
The way I’d run before I could even answer.
I press my palm flat against my abdomen, as if it’s possible to will away the memory, but it only grows louder. More insistent. My mind replays the sound, the look in his eyes when he heard it, the warmth of his fingers tangled with mine. The depth of emotion rolling off him had nearly undone me.
We made that.
The quiet whir of the computer and the faint blowing of the vent overhead feels almost oppressive. It’s like I’m back in that exam room again. Or sitting in the car when he turned to me with that unshakable certainty, asking me to marry him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My throat constricts, making it impossible to swallow, let alone think.
Even the scent of his cologne clings to the sweater draped over my chair. It smells like warm cedar and something darker. It wraps around me until I can’t tell where memory ends and longing begins.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I shove my laptop into my bag and then scoop up my keys.
I can’t sit here surrounded by pieces of him.
The half-empty to-go cup of herbal tea from Lakeshore Sweets he dropped off this morning.
The sweater he just so happened to bring yesterday because I complained the office was cold.
The sticky note in his bold, slanted handwriting.
Don’t forget to eat lunch, boss lady.
By the time I reach the parking garage, the chill hits like a slap. I walk faster, my steps ringing off the walls.
I don’t even think about where I’m going.
I just drive.
The city flashes past me as I merge onto the freeway. The autumn light is flat and cold, the kind that turns everything a muted shade.
When the exit for my mother’s neighborhood appears, I take it without thinking. A few turns later, I’m pulling into the same cracked driveway I used to race my bike down as a kid.
As I trudge up the front steps, the porch creaks under my weight, and before I can knock, the door swings open. Mom stands on the other side of the threshold, surprise written across her face before concern softens her expression.
“Rina? What’s going on? I wasn’t expecting you this evening.”
It’s a shock when tears prick my eyes. They rise without warning before spilling over. I’m not someone who cries easily, at least I never have been before, but I can’t seem to help it now.
Maybe it’s hormones.
Or grief.
Probably a combination of both.
“Oh my God, Rina!” She pulls me into her arms and holds me tight.
I squeeze my eyes shut and just breathe her in.
Sandalwood and the faintest trace of irises.
It’s a scent I’ve known my entire life. Mom has never been overly demonstrative.
She’s exactly what you’d expect from a tenured professor at the University of Chicago to be.
Polished, methodical, and entirely contained.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
“Don’t be silly.” She ushers me inside, one arm wrapped around my shoulders.
In the living room, I notice one of her friends on the couch. It’s Maryanne, another professor I vaguely recall from faculty events. I freeze mid-step, heat rushing to my face. I haven’t cried in front of anyone but Oliver in years, and the realization makes me flush harder.
“I didn’t realize you had company.”
Mom gestures toward her friend. “We were just finishing dinner.”
It never occurred to me that my mom might have plans—an actual social life beyond lectures and department meetings. When we talk on the phone, she only ever mentions grading, the grants she’s applying for, or the house projects that need attention.
Never dinners or friends.
Maryanne rises gracefully, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “It’s fine. Dinner was lovely. Next time, we’ll do it at my house.”
While Mom walks her to the door, my gaze drifts to the dining table. There’s a bottle of red wine, two half-filled glasses, and a pair of candles flickering low between them. The scene is warm and intimate. So unlike the version of my mother I’ve always known.
When she returns, I rush to apologize again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“It’s fine,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. She gestures toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll make some tea.”
A few minutes later, I’m curled up beneath the soft glow of a lamp, a steaming mug of chamomile warming my palms. The scent of vanilla candles mingles with the tea, calming the raw edges of my nerves.
For the first time all day, the tension I’ve been carrying finally loosens.
Mom settles beside me, one leg tucked neatly beneath her. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Oxygen leaks from my lungs in a slow, shaky exhale. I’ve barely told her anything about Oliver. The closest I’ve come was a passing there’s a guy, but it’s nothing serious. Even saying that had felt like too much.
When I stay silent, her brows lift in a knowing look she’s mastered after years of watching students fumble through half-truths. “You didn’t come all the way over here and burst into tears because nothing is going on.”
I chew my lower lip, trying to organize my thoughts, but everything feels jumbled. Words scatter before I can catch them. Eventually, I just blurt it out. “I’m pregnant.”
She blinks once. Then again. “You’re… pregnant?”
I nod. “His name is Oliver. He’s a hockey player, and he wants to marry me.”
“Oh my.”
A gurgle of laughter slips free. “Yeah.”
She studies me as the silence stretches between us, until it feels like it might snap. “And how do you feel about all this?”
“Overwhelmed,” I admit. “Confused. Maybe a little terrified.”
Her tone gentles as the lines around her mouth ease. “I wish you’d told me sooner. We talk every week, and you never mentioned him.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I know. It’s just…” The rest disintegrates before I can force it out. I have no idea how to even begin explaining Oliver. How it started, how fast it all escalated, or how I barely recognize my own life anymore.
Her mouth curves faintly. “I suppose I’m not the easiest person to open up to.”
My shoulders sag in quiet agreement. Even though she’s right, I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.
“Especially where men and relationships are concerned,” she tacks on.
I manage a slight smile. “I don’t blame you for being cautious.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘bitter,’” she says with a wry twist of her lips that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Maybe.”
For a long moment, she looks away, her gaze unfocused. Almost as if she sees something I can’t.
With a deep inhale, she turns back to me, her expression gentler, somehow steadier. “Rina, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Her sudden candidness surprises me.
My mother has never been one for confessions.
“In hindsight,” she begins carefully, “your father and I never really fit. I’d thought I was doing what was expected by getting married, having a child, living the life my parents wanted for me.” A small, sad smile tugs at her lips. “But it was never right.”
Confusion ripples through me. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
She reaches across the couch, her hand wrapping around mine. “Maryanne and I are more than friends. We’ve been together for a while now.”
I falter. “You… and Maryanne?”
She nods. “And for the first time in my life, I feel like myself. The person I was always meant to be. I spent years trying to fit into a version of happiness that was never mine. Always doing what I thought I should, never what I wanted. Once I stopped pretending, everything got lighter. Easier. And I realized how much of that fear—the need to protect myself, to control everything—I passed on to you.”
For just a moment, I see myself in the woman sitting across from me.
The same tight control, the same fear of wanting too much. It hits me that I didn’t just inherit her eyes or mannerisms. Maybe I inherited her fear too. The belief that love has to be managed and kept at a safe distance.
Her admittance sinks deep, right where I’ve been trying not to look. Because she’s right. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been keeping Oliver at arm’s length, pretending distance equals safety, pretending I can live without him when all it does is cause pain.
Mom squeezes my hand, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. “You can’t live your life being afraid, Rina. I spent too long doing that. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t walk away from love just because it scares you. Or because you saw me and your father fall apart.”
A memory of Dad’s suitcase sitting by the front door before he walked out of our lives surfaces.
I was thirteen, and I told myself I’d never need anyone that much ever again.
I blink hard as tears blur Mom’s face. Maybe this is what healing looks like.
Not erasing the past but finally sitting with it and coming to terms with it.
Terrified is exactly what I am.
And yet, beneath all that fear, something quieter blooms.
A knowing.
A truth.
That maybe Oliver isn’t the danger I keep telling myself he is. Maybe he’s the one thing I shouldn’t be running from.
Later that night, when I finally crawl into my childhood bed, the house settles around me with its familiar stillness. For years, it was my refuge. A place to hide, to heal, to convince myself I didn’t need anyone.
But tonight, it feels different.
Emptier.
Like something has shifted, like the fog I’ve been living in has lifted and I’m seeing everything—maybe even myself—with startling clarity.