Chapter 32 ASH #2
Margot appears, bringing with her that quiet air of competence. Dish towel over one shoulder, hair in its no-nonsense bun, calm as someone who could talk a soufflé out of collapsing.“Tea?” she asks, like the kettle’s already on.
“Please,” I say, and my voice sounds rough.
She sets the kettle, takes one look at my face, and reaches for the chamomile without asking. “You look like someone who needs calm,” she says, filling the infuser.
I let out a humorless laugh. “I’ll take calm—and a side of not being an idiot.”
She waits. She’s very good at silence that invites instead of accuses.
“Olive and I had a huge fight,” I admit, staring down at the cutting board like it betrayed me. “Because I can’t give her what she wants. And now she left.”
Margot’s brows lift the tiniest fraction. “Can’t give her what she wants—or won’t?”
I close my eyes. There it is: the screwdriver in the right drawer. I haven’t wanted to look too closely until now. “I thought I was doing the right thing. Now I’m not so sure.” It’s not an answer, but it’s all I’ve got. “I think I’ll go to the studio.”
Margot pulls the kettle off the heat, letting the steam rise between us. “What I know,” she says evenly, “is that I’ve never seen you as happy as you’ve been these past few weeks with Olive.”
“Thanks, Margot.” I squeeze her shoulders, leave the wreckage of my cooking for later, and head for the studio.
There, I sit in the middle of the floor, lights dimmed low, surrounded by scraps of lyrics I haven’t touched in weeks. My notebook lies open, the page still blank. I wait for something to come—some melody, some line—but nothing does. My brain refuses to cooperate.
Only one thing keeps coming to mind.
Her.
Olive, with ink on her fingers and her hoodie sleeves pushed up. Olive, with her pillow tucked under one arm and a mug of tea in the other. Olive, mouthing along to the lyrics of some stupid love song in the car, smiling like she didn’t even realize I was watching her.
I strum a few chords.
Minor key. Low, quiet.
Everything sounds like her.
The second line I try has the word hedgehog in it. I laugh under my breath—half bitter, half aching. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
I try to pivot. Change the tone. Think of something grittier. But my fingers won’t move that way. The music won’t cooperate. It keeps circling back to softness. Longing.
Love.
I stare down at the strings, my chest tightening.
I can’t even fake my way through this anymore.
This isn’t a breakup song. This isn’t a regret anthem.
It’s a confession.
I love her. God, I love her.
It’s not new. That’s the worst part. This isn’t some sudden epiphany, some bolt from the blue.
It’s been there—she’s been there—all along.
In the way she made my place feel like home instead of a polished prison.
In the way she laughed at the dumbest shit and made it feel like the funniest thing in the world.
In the way she looked at me—really looked at me—like she saw past everything I pretended to be.
How could I have been so fucking stupid? How did I not see it?
Except… I did. I just didn’t let myself believe it. Didn’t let myself want it. Because if I let it be real, I had something to lose.
And now I have.
Now that I’ve finally admitted what’s been clawing at me from the inside out—it’s obvious. Blindingly, painfully obvious.
It’s in the air I breathe.
It’s in every damn song I write, even the ones I tried to make about something else. Every melody bends toward her. Every lyric drips with her laugh, her hurt, her warmth, her absence.
I drop the guitar and reach for my phone. My hand shakes slightly as I open my messages. I don’t second-guess it this time.
I type out a quick note to Celeste:
Ash:
Keep the flowers. I’m going to need them.
Then I switch to Olive.
Her name’s still in my favorites. Still saved with the little fox emoji she made me add one night while tipsy and curled up on the couch.
I tap her contact.
It rings once.
Then cuts to voicemail.
My throat tightens.
I try again.
Same thing.
I shoot her a message:
Ash:
I need to talk to you. Please.
No checkmarks.
No delivered badge.
Just the cold, blank status of digital silence.
I try another:
Ash:
Hart, I’m sorry. I was wrong. About everything.
Still nothing.
Another text:
Ash:
You told me you loved me and I said nothing. I haven’t stopped thinking about that moment since.
I stare at the screen.
Nothing goes through.
No blue checks. No “read.” No reply.
Then the realization lands like a punch in the ribs:
She blocked me.
Of course she did.
Why wouldn’t she?
She trusted me. Let me in. Said the scariest thing a person can say—and I froze.
I let her walk away without so much as a fight.
My fingers hover over her contact one last time. I don’t think. I don’t rehearse. I hit the call button and wait for it to go to voicemail. It does.
And when the beep sounds, I speak.
***
The sun is already high the next morning, but it feels like the day hasn’t started.
Because I haven’t heard from her.
I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Every hour felt like another reason to believe I’d ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. That my voice message went straight into the void. That I waited too long to be brave.
But I’m not giving up. Not yet.
Which is how I end up outside Liam’s apartment for the second time in a week, fists shoved in my pockets, heart pounding like it knows I don’t deserve what I’m about to ask.
I stare at his door for a long second. Then I knock—firm, but not aggressive. I’m not here to fight this time.
I’m here to beg.
There’s movement behind the door. A pause. Then the slow scrape of the chain lock, and the door creaks open an inch.
Liam’s face appears in the crack. His expression is a mix of sleep deprivation, suspicion, and mild annoyance.
“Seriously?” he says. “Is this part of some slow psychological breakdown?”
“Olive blocked me,” I say.
His expression doesn’t change.
“Yeah,” I continue. “I figured you’d want to know that before slamming the door in my face.”
He sighs and opens the door wider, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’ve got five minutes. If you say anything that pisses me off, I’m slamming it anyway.”
“Fair.”
He steps aside, and I follow him in.
Liam turns, arms crossed. “So what do you want from me? A medal for regret?”
“I want your help.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
I swallow hard and meet his eyes. “I love her.”
The words fall out with none of the panic or posturing they used to carry. They’re just real now.
Liam blinks, stunned into silence.
“I know I don’t deserve her,” I go on. “I know I hurt her. And I know it’s probably too late. But I need to try. I need to tell her to her face that I love her and that I want to marry her for real.”
He narrows his eyes. “And this isn’t about PR? Or damage control? Or trying to avoid the headlines that’ll drop when everyone realizes your wedding imploded?”
“Honestly?” I exhale. “Let the headlines come. Let the sponsors walk. I don’t care. All that matters is her. I know it took me too long to get here—I’ve never been boyfriend or husband material. But that’s all I want now.”
Liam leans against the counter, still guarded, still watching me like I might spontaneously combust. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly torn.
“She’s hurting,” he says flatly. “Which is what makes this hard. I want to believe you mean what you’re saying.
But you’re good at putting on a show, man. That’s kind of your thing.”
“I know how it looks,” I say. “But I swear to you, I’m not trying to win her. I’m trying to show her. That I love her. That I’m not walking away this time.”
Liam looks at me for a long time.
Then he says, “The wedding’s tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“And what? You want me to force her to take you back? What’s the plan here, exactly?”
“Just… tell her I left a voice message,” I say. “Please. It’s important.”
He exhales hard through his nose, mutters something that sounds like Jesus Christ, then finally gives a slow nod. “I’m not promising anything. I’ll reach out. That’s it.”
Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. “Thank you,” I say, meaning every word.
He walks me to the door, then stops, his hand on the knob. “You do this again—if you hurt her again—there’s no coming back. Not with her. Not with me.”
“I won’t,” I swear. “She’s it. She’s the one.”
He opens the door. “Good luck, man.”
And God, I know I’m going to need it.