Chapter 11
Olivia
I’ve got Amelia on speaker and a tea towel over my shoulder, walking laps between the lounge and the kitchen while I stack blocks back into the tub. Teddy’s eaten, bath’s in half an hour, and the house is in that rare, gentle hush stage.
I fill her in on the second date, which, let’s be honest, was doomed from the minute I replied to his text.
For starters, I called him Ryan. His name was Terry.
Definitely not my finest moment. In my defence, he looked like a Ryan.
Not that I was exactly bringing my best self either.
I’d left Sebastian’s place still weirdly flustered, swapped my oversized tee for a dress that felt like overkill, and spent most of the night trying to remember why I’d agreed to a second date with a man who described his dream weekend as “sinking cold ones with the boys and mowing the lawn shirtless.”
I’m grinning when it happens. Teddy pads into the lounge, quiet as ever, eyes bouncing from me to the half-packed tub. I keep talking. “Anyway, I told him I can’t date a man who calls his car ‘princess’, so—”
A sound snaps the air, sharp, small, like a wire pulled taut.
Teddy’s face folds, not into tears but into something tighter.
His hand shoots out, palm flat against the edge of the tub I’ve been filling.
He doesn’t look at me. He looks at the space where the blocks were. His breath goes fast and shallow.
“Amelia,” I say, the word thin. “Hang on.”
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Her voice is wary.
“I… I think I messed up.” I lower the tub to the ground. “Hey, champ,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “Do you want these out again?”
He presses both hands to his ears. Rocking. Not big, just a steady forward-back, forward-back. The blocks I put away suddenly feel like bricks I pulled out of the wrong wall. He nudges the tub with his toes, a quick, repetitive tap like he’s trying to push the whole moment back into place.
“Liv?” Amelia’s voice is small now. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s… he’s not crying. He’s… holding his ears and rocking a little. I packed up his blocks. I do it every afternoon, but—”
“It’s okay. It might be today’s pattern. Can you put them back exactly where they were?”
I nod, my throat tight, so damn grateful she’s on the phone.
That I told her. That she knows. Because if anyone is equipped to handle a potential meltdown, it’s Amelia.
My hands shake as I tip the tub. Blocks spill out like rain.
I try to remember the order—red line, then blue, then the tower he was ignoring, but apparently not ignoring.
My heart is a drum in my throat. As I continue, Teddy’s rocking eases, fraction by fraction, but his fingers curl tighter against his ears.
He hums, one note, thin but steady, like a lighthouse in fog.
“What if I can’t match it?”
“Ask him,” Amelia says. “Point. Wait. But don’t rush him.”
I crouch, hands open. “Teddy,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Do you want this here?” I hover a blue block over the spot I think it belongs.
He looks at the block, then at the space beside it. A tiny nod. I set it down, and his hands drop from his ears.
“Okay,” I murmur, placing the next piece where his eyes dart. “Here?” The pattern soon reappears, his breathing slows, and my panic drains out through the soles of my feet.
“Liv?” Amelia’s voice drifts through the speaker. I’d almost forgotten she was still on the phone.
“It’s okay,” I say, closing my eyes. “It’s okay now.”
“Do you want me to come over?” she asks immediately. “Say the word.”
I press a hand into the rug, anchoring myself in something solid. “No. It’s alright. Thank you. I’ve got him.”
“Okay. Text me later, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I will.”
I hang up because I need both hands for the apology. I slide off my heels, get on the floor until I’m small, until I’m eye level with him and the world he was building. “That one’s on me,” I say, palms up. “I’m sorry I moved your blocks. I’ll ask next time, okay?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Instead, we rebuild his tower together in a quiet that feels like a truce.
Each block I place is careful now. Intentional.
I match his rhythm, wait for his nod or his glance before reaching again.
He doesn’t speak, but there’s a shift in the air—like the static’s clearing just enough for him to let me in.
Not all the way. Just a sliver. But I’ll take it.
When the tower’s finally back to what I assume is its proper glory, Teddy stands, shuffles across the rug, and pulls a battered picture book from the shelf. He holds it out.
“For me?” I ask, blinking hard against the burn behind my eyes.
Teddy nods once, solemnly.
I take it like it’s a sacred offering. “Okay. One book. Then we get ready for bed.”
He pads back to the couch without a word, climbs up, and pats the spot beside him.
And that’s the thing no one tells you about moments like these—not the parenting books or the articles I frantically read at midnight when I don’t know if I’m doing any of this right.
That trust doesn’t come in grand gestures or big speeches.
It comes in blocks rebuilt, in picture books offered without a word, in silence that softens just enough to feel like a maybe.
Sebastian comes home an hour later. I hear it all before I see him—the lock clicking, the familiar thud of his boots, the whisper of his jacket sliding off his shoulders. His eyes land on me first, before shifting to the lounge, to Teddy, rocking gently with a book cradled in his lap.
And that’s all it takes. Sebastian’s gaze narrows.
“What happened?”
The question carries weight, and still, somehow, I’m stunned he even knows.
The way he clocks the shift in the room, the way his eyes dart to the smallest cue, to Teddy’s fingers still twitching slightly against the pages.
How he’s rocking. Suddenly, the guilt claws its way up my throat.
Because I hadn’t called him when I should’ve.
“I, uh…” I rise slowly, voice awkward. “I think I packed up his blocks while he was still using them, and he became pretty upset. But we fixed it. He showed me where things go—we did it together.”
“If he has an episode, you call me.” It isn’t harsh. Or cruel. But it still slices across the moment like it is.
Heat pricks my neck. “Okay, but I handled it.”
“I’m not saying you didn’t.” His eyes lift to meet mine. “I’m saying… tell me. I need to know.”
The breath I let out tastes bitter. Like pride and adrenaline and something else knotted tight in my chest. “I understand that. I do. But have a little faith, okay?” My voice softens. “I know I’m new at this. But I’m learning him.”
Something flickers behind his eyes. Something tight and unreadable. He nods once, jaw working. “Okay.”
But the silence that falls doesn’t feel resolved.
It feels suspended. Like something hanging between us that neither of us can quite grab.
I glance toward Teddy, then back at Sebastian.
And I wonder what battle he’s been fighting alone.
How long he’s been carrying the weight of this little boy’s world on his shoulders. How much it’s cost him to protect it.
God. What if he was married? I mean, yeah, I’ve known him for years, but I never knew past the part of him being my brother’s best friend. What if this is the part no one talks about, the grief buried in the corners of his silence? What if she left? What if she—
I wish I knew how to ask where his story begins. No. Stop. It’s not my place to pry. For now, I say nothing. I just stand there, watching the man who feels more like a mystery every time I think I’ve figured him out.
I clear my throat. “Bath’s ready when he is.”
He nods again and crouches beside the couch, his hand coming to rest gently on Teddy’s head. He murmurs something too low for me to hear, so I busy myself by picking off the pills on my shirt, half-listening to Diesel barking his head off in the backyard.
I turn, stepping toward the door. “I’ll get out of your way,” I say, already reaching for my tote.
“Olivia.”
I pause to turn around. Sebastian straightens, standing fully now. His hand rakes through his hair, and he shifts slightly on his feet before walking over to me. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “For the way I reacted. And… thank you. For getting him through it.”
I don’t mean to freeze, but I do. Just for a second.
“It’s what I’m here for, right?” I try to smile, to keep my voice light, because if I don’t, I might cry from the leftover adrenaline. “I’ll call next time.”
“It’s okay. I—” His eyes close briefly. “I trust you.”
His words shouldn’t mean as much as they do, but…
they just do. “Thank you.” I should leave.
I know I should. But something keeps me rooted.
“You know,” I add, “I see you every day, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked…
how you’ve been. I mean, surely we can manage something resembling friendship, right? So, how was your week?”
His eyes meet mine, slow, deliberate. They catch onto something. My face? My hair? I’m not sure. But under his stare, my skin starts to buzz, and it’s not entirely unpleasant.
“Long,” he says. “Yours?”
I shrug my tote higher on my shoulder, swallowing around the tangle in my throat. “Fine. Nothing exciting.”
Great chat, Liv. There’s the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a smirk that I pretend not to see.
I nod, forcing myself to move, to leave before I say anything else that might tip the balance.
“Goodnight,” I say softly, and walk outside.
I don’t say goodbye to Teddy. It kills me a little, but I won’t risk stirring him up again.
I slip out into the dusk, heart still pounding from everything and nothing all at once, and make it to my car before my hands start to tremble for real. The call comes just as I’m reversing.
I jab the answer button. “Is everything okay?”
The low rumble of Sebastian’s voice filters in. “Uh, Teddy wanted to tell you something.”
My fingers tighten on the wheel. “Oh. Um. Okay.”
There’s shuffling on the other end before, “You didn’t say goodbye.” Teddy’s voice is soft as he speaks. The words land like a pebble in a pond, rippling everywhere at once. He noticed. I swallow hard and smile into the phone, like he can see it.
“I know, champ. I didn’t want to upset you. I’ll say goodbye tomorrow, promise.”
Silence stretches. Then, a tentative, “Pinky promise?”
A laugh slips out. “Pinky promise.”
“You can’t pinky promise if she’s not here, bud.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm.
I scramble, my heart suddenly in my throat. “We’ll do it tomorrow morning. Properly. Pinkies and all.”
The line shifts, and I can sense Sebastian hesitating. “Drive safe.”
“Always,” I murmur, before the line ends. I sit there a second longer, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, the quiet of the evening pressing in on me.