Chapter 14
I force myself to eat a piece of toast even though I’ve lost my appetite.
After my mom finally reassures me that Farmor is holding steady—no better but also no worse—I make myself take a shower and put on some sweats.
And Hunter still hasn’t reappeared when I’m done.
I don’t know if he’s next door or if he left entirely.
I rub more peppermint on the back of my neck as I sit on the couch, responding to the dozens of texts I have from my mom, Lou, Talia, my brothers, even Austin—all worried about me and wanting reassurance that I’m okay and not getting worse.
But through it all, I can’t stop thinking about what Hunter admitted.
The skin grafts that cover so much of his face and body . . . I assumed he’d been through something traumatic. But not . . . this.
He drove drunk.
He crashed his car because he drove drunk.
And his sister died.
With nothing left to do, I sit staring, unseeing, trying to wrap my mind around it.
Hunter’s right, after all. Even though I’ve been through a lot, and I can even understand survivor’s guilt, I can’t imagine what he’s been through—what he’s still going through. The memories he must battle . . . the trauma, the shame, the self--loathing . . .
I grab the remote and turn on the TV to some new Netflix movie. I need to distract myself; my brain is spinning from his confession. The plans he wanted to show me for the bakery are still sitting there, but it feels wrong to look at them without him.
The show does little to capture my focus. Instead, I wait with my heart in my throat for the moment when Hunter finally relents and comes back. I know he will because he promised my mom. But I have no idea how long it’ll be before he remembers that.
His phone buzzes at least five more times with phone calls or texts. He left his computer, too, so there’s no way he can be working.
I keep replaying every one of our interactions, trying to decode them with this unexpected flash of light illuminating some of the darkness he carries.
Why he’s afraid to connect with anyone, even if only as a friend.
His angry insistence that he doesn’t drink at dinner.
The glimpses of kindness, of a teasing side, of a considerate person who cares deeply for others, only to have him retreat behind his facade of hostility—-the armor he dons to keep everyone at bay.
It all makes so much more sense.
But if he assumed telling me the truth would make me not want to be friends, he was wrong.
My heart is cracked open by the pain he carries.
I ache for his sorrow and guilt. And it only makes me more certain that a friend is exactly what he does need.
His admission did the opposite of what he intended; instead of scaring me off, it crumbled my defenses against him.
I’m summoning every ounce of courage I have to march next door, knock on his door, and demand he talk to me when my phone buzzes. I quickly check the text and groan when I realize it’s Austin again.
Talia told me you’re sick now, on top of everything else! I hope you get feeling better soon. I know you’re going through a lot, but I want you to know I had a great time the other night. In fact . . . I can’t stop thinking about you.
His text makes my stomach sink. I should be thrilled that he’s still interested in me. But all I can think of is Hunter somewhere nearby in such unbearable pain, so lost and alone.
Another text comes through before I can decide how to respond.
If you’re feeling better and if your grandma is doing better, are you free Saturday? I have reservations to this amazing new restaurant in Phoenix . . .
And of course, it’s that moment, when I’m staring at my screen, indecision probably written all over my face, when Hunter comes through the front door.
“Everything okay?” he asks as though the last hour never happened. If his eyes weren’t a little bloodshot, I would have believed he was completely unaffected by his admission and had merely gone to take a nap.
“Uh . . . yeah. Are you okay?”
He doesn’t respond, merely resumes his seat in the armchair, grabbing his computer and phone from the coffee table. When he opens the screen and sees his notifications, that same muscle in his jaw from earlier tenses.
So, that’s a no.
I’m dying to ask him who Colette is and why her profile picture is of them together when I know he’s very single right now.
Instead, I take my dishes to the kitchen and get another Tylenol because it’s been six hours since my last one.
It barely touches the headache that has worsened again, but I tell myself it’s better than nothing, and at the very least, it will assuage my mom’s concern if I tell her I’m staying on top of taking it.
Not wanting to face Austin’s text yet, and unsure of how to proceed with Hunter, I turn to what I do whenever I’m upset or nervous or worried.
I make food. Nothing fancy because I feel like crap, but it helps calm my mind to go through the methodical steps of putting together turkey sandwiches.
Once both plates are ready, I walk back out to where Hunter sits, staring at his computer screen unseeingly, lost in thought . . . or the past, maybe.
“I have lunch,” I announce, setting his plate down on the table in front of him.
He blinks and looks at it, then up to me. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”
I wave him off as I sit down with my plate in my lap. “I told you this morning, I’m not that sick. I can take care of myself. And I figured you were hungry. Hopefully you can have bread and stuff.”
Hunter says, “Yes, I eat bread,” and sets his computer off to the side to pick up the sandwich. After taking a bite and swallowing, he groans appreciatively. “This is really good. What did you do to it?”
I flush happily but shrug. “Nothing crazy. Just my own special seasoning blend mixed into a little bit of mayo and tomatoes from the farmer’s market so they’re extra fresh.”
Hunter takes another bite. “Well, it’s the best turkey sandwich I’ve had in a long time. Thank you.”
We finish our lunches in silence, but this time, it’s softer, less fraught with tension. Even though we both know it’s there, waiting to be dealt with at some point. Austin texts me again, but I flip my phone over on the couch without reading it.
“Your mom?” Hunter asks.
“No,” is all I say back.
“Sorry,” he winces, “that was intrusive. Not my place to ask.”
I sigh. “It’s fine. And she has texted me at least ten times already.” I pause, then admit, “That was Austin.”
Hunter’s expression shutters. “Oh.”
“But since you asked me, I’m going to ask you: Who is Colette?”
He startles, clearly not expecting to hear that name from my mouth. “How do you know about Colette?”
“You left your phone with the screen up”—I point at where it sits on the table—“and it started ringing. I saw her name . . . and contact photo.”
Hunter exhales and rubs a hand over his face. “Colette is . . . was . . . my girlfriend.”
“Oh.” I figured as much, but I don’t know why hearing him say that word—with so much longing and hurt—makes my stomach clench. That same hot, sour sensation hits me again but, this time, square in the chest. Which is ridiculous. I have no grounds for jealousy. Crumbled defenses or not.
He reopens his computer when I don’t say anything else, staring at the screen intently . . . but not typing anything.
After several minutes where he pretends he’s working and I pretend I’m still watching the Netflix movie, he looks at me and asks, “What did Austin want?”
“What did Colette want?” I shoot back, eyebrows arched.
“Touché,” he says, a flicker of a smile ghosting his lips. “I have no idea. She hasn’t called or texted me for over a month. Not since I caught her . . .” He trails off, and I grimace. “Honestly, I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Austin wants me to go with him to dinner on Saturday. But I don’t know if I want to go out with him again.”
Hunter’s eyes don’t move from mine when he says, “She’s the reason I’m afraid to be anything with you.”
“You’re the reason I don’t know if I want to go out with Austin again.”
We stare at each other. There’s a barely veiled heat in his eyes, and the longer he holds my gaze, the harder it is to breathe. The pull between us makes my heart crash against my lungs, my blood a rush in my body. I’m acutely aware of the mere two feet of space that separates our knees.
He breaks first, looking down at his computer screen with a slight shake of his head. “Liv, I can’t—”
“I have an idea,” I blurt out.
“An idea?” he repeats, still not looking back up, as if he’s afraid of what will happen if he does.
“You’ve made it clear you don’t want to be ‘scar buddies’”—-he winces, his nose squinching—“so maybe we can be ‘messy mates.’ Like the British term,” I rush on before he can misunderstand.
“Because we’re both a mess, and in England, a ‘mate’ can just be someone you live by, not an actual friend or anything. ”
The look he gives me is one of exasperation, but I don’t miss the way his lips twitch. “Messy mates,” he repeats.
“Not friends. Only messy mates. A whatever nonrelationship of any sort that this is.” I gesture between us.
Hunter shakes his head. “You’re very tenacious, you know that, right?”
“I’ve been told it’s my most life-saving quality.”
“Touché again.”
“Is that a yes?”
Hunter’s phone lights up, but I can’t see who’s texting him. I hope it’s work, not Colette. He stares down at the screen for several seconds, then finally says, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
I mask the sting of his continued rejection with a nonchalant rise and fall of my shoulders. “Can’t fault me for trying.”
“Olivia,” he says, squeezing his temples between his thumb and pointer finger.
But I cut him off. “No, it’s fine. I get it.
I should rest and let you work.” I lie down and pull the blanket over me.
My throat is burning, and now my body is beginning to ache.
I don’t say anything because I don’t want to alarm him—or anyone else—prematurely.
It’s probably from embarrassment; hopefully, a nap is all I need.
“You look flushed. Are you feeling okay?”
I open my eyes to see Hunter examining me, his forehead creased. Any heat I thought I saw in his eyes is gone, as if it never existed.
“I’m fine,” I insist sharply. “I’m going to try to nap, so keep it down and stop waking me up.”
“Sorry.” His reply is immediate.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, trying not to think about him tucking it around me earlier, and close my eyes.
But sleep doesn’t come right away, even with the inexplicably comforting sound of him typing away on his computer to help me drift off.
Instead, for some reason, I think of Farmor’s insistence that I give him another chance—that I give love a chance—and even going so far as to ask me to promise I would.
What if that ends up being her last request, her dying wish?
The thought makes me shiver, even beneath the thick, cozy blanket.
I tried, I think. I tried more than once.
But she doesn’t know that. If she doesn’t make it, one of the last things I said to her was a snide comment about not all of us getting swept off our feet in Hyde Park.
It was valid though. I’ve heard about her grand romance my whole life: meeting the love of her life while she was a nanny in London.
And what a perfect meet-cute it was—having his friend ask her out first, backing out, and my grandpa stepping in.
Falling in love and marrying within a month—then lasting well over forty years.
You can’t dream up that kind of love story.
And my parents’ was every bit as remarkable, though not quite as dramatic or fast. Growing up, I was surrounded by fairy tales coming true and happily-ever-afters.
Until all the love in the world couldn’t save either of them from tragedy.
Better to have a tiny prick of pain now than to be crushed later. His rejection hurts, but Hunter is actually doing both of us a favor.
My eyes open, but he’s focused on his computer.
“Hey,” I say, startling him.
Our eyes meet.
“I thought you were asleep,” he says.
“Not yet. I wanted to thank you.”
“I already told you, happy to help.” He looks back down at his computer.
“No, not for that. Well, also for that,” I amend.
“But I’m actually thanking you for not saying yes to being friends or messy mates.
You’re right not to. It’s better this way—for you.
I know you think you’re a mess, but I’m the walking time bomb.
Stay around too long and you’ll be caught in the blast zone when I detonate. So thank you.”
“Liv—that’s not—”
“I’m actually going to go to sleep now. Carry on with your work.”
This time, I roll away from him, and when I close my eyes, it’s with satisfaction, not remorse.