Chapter 12 #2
The platform is mostly empty, the usual morning rush already gone.
The sky is overcast, the kind of pale, indifferent gray that makes everything feel somewhat melancholic.
I step out of the station and pull my coat tighter around me, shifting the weight of my bag on my shoulder as I open the Uber app.
There’s a driver already circling nearby. Twenty minutes to Ashby.
When the car pulls up, I get in without speaking.
It smells faintly of peppermint and worn leather.
We pull away from the curb, and I rest my forehead against the cool window.
The road stretches out ahead, lined with familiar houses—white clapboard, wind-chimes, front porches still strung with Christmas lights no one’s bothered to take down.
I text Nathaniel:
Got in okay.
It isn’t much, but I reread it twice before hitting send. It’s the best I can offer without cracking something open.
His reply comes within moments.
NATHANIEL
Thank you for letting me know. I’ve been thinking about you all morning.
I close my eyes. My fingers curl in my lap like I’m trying to hold the warmth of his words there a little longer.
By the time we reach the outskirts of Ashby, I’ve already slipped halfway back into the girl I used to be. Quieter. Smaller. Molded into something useful.
The front door sticks a little as I push it open.
The living room is cluttered—laundry baskets half-filled, snack wrappers on the coffee table.
One of my brothers is shouting at a video game in the other room.
They’re fourteen now, somehow taller and louder than I remember.
Months away and they look like they’ve grown into entirely new people.
My mom’s voice carries from the kitchen, sharp and fast, punctuated by the sound of a drawer slamming shut.
She rounds the corner mid-sentence, phone propped against her shoulder. Her eyes land on me.
“You’re early,” she says in greeting, brows rising. “Thought you said next week?”
I shrug. “Plans changed.”
She shifts the phone back to her ear. “Let me call you back.” Then to me, without missing a beat: “Well, can you finish checking inventory before lunch rush?”
I nod. She doesn’t wait for an answer before turning back to the kitchen.
The diner looks exactly the same. Fluorescent lights, smudged menus, a stack of unopened mail beside the register.
I grab the battered clipboard from its hook and start down the aisle, checking what’s low—sodas in the front fridge, creamers, the last sliver of lemon pie no one bothered to replace.
The motions come back fast, like muscle memory.
Once the list is filled, I slide behind the counter and wake up the clunky desktop. The ancient monitor hums to life, and I start translating the scribbles into the order form, my fingers falling into the old rhythm—quantities, vendors, restock notes.
The bell above the door chimes a few times. I don’t look up.
“We out of pie again?” my mom calls from the kitchen.
“We’re fine,” I reply without checking.
My brothers come in at some point—one asking me for a soda, the other wanting twenty bucks. I hand over both without protest. My father walks through the back door later and nods in my direction, eyes already fixed on the fryer.
No one asks how I’ve been. They only ask for what they want from me.
I text Nathaniel again.
Long day. Can’t talk now but I’m okay.
NATHANIEL
I figured you’d be tired. Please rest tonight. Don’t push yourself too hard.
His response is gentler than I deserve.
I tuck the phone away quickly, like holding it any longer might cause me to break down in front of my family.
The rest of the afternoon blurs into motion—refills, receipts, wiped counters. I keep moving because it’s easier than thinking. It isn’t until the tables are empty and the sky outside has faded to dusk that I let myself reach for him again.
A message is waiting on my phone.
NATHANIEL
Eat something decent, Olivia. Please.
Then another.
NATHANIEL
I miss you. It doesn’t feel like home without you.
I reread it three times before I can breathe normally.
I shift my weight, leaning back against the wall, and let my thumb hover over the screen before I respond.
I miss you too, my love.
Try to sleep early tonight, all right?
His reply comes almost instantly.
NATHANIEL
I will if you promise to do the same.
I glance at the kitchen, where the lights have gone dim and things are finally still. My chest aches, but I smile, just a little.
OLIVIA
I promise.
Back at my parents’ house, I head down the hall with my bag in hand, ready to collapse. My mom is washing up in the sink, elbow-deep in soapy water.
“Hey—” she calls without looking up. “Just so you know, Micheal is using your room now. You’ll be fine on the couch.”
She says it like it’s a minor detail. Like it’s not one more reminder of where I fall on the hierarchy here.
I stop at the edge of the doorway. The weight of my bag digs deeper into my shoulder.
“Okay,” I say, too softly for her to hear.
The living room is dark when I walk back in. I set my bag on the floor and stand there for a moment, staring at the couch like it might explain something to me.
I sit down, curl my legs beneath me, and pull my phone from my pocket. The screen lights my face in the dim light.
You still awake?
His reply comes a moment later, like he was waiting by the phone.
NATHANIEL
For you, always. Everything okay?
I rest the phone against my chest. The glow fades, but I don’t put it down.
In this house, no one notices I’m here. But he sees me—even from miles away.
The screen lights up again before I can let the moment settle.
Incoming Facetime—Nathaniel Caldwell
My heart kicks once. Hard.
I should ignore it. I asked for space, after all.
But I don’t.
I swipe to answer, and then he’s there, filling the frame with that force that always pulls me in.
It’s dark on his end. His face is half-shadowed, lit only by the faint glow of what might be his bedside lamp.
His hair’s a little rumpled, like he’s been running his hand through it, and the collar of his shirt is loose, like he never quite settled into bed.
“Hi,” he says softly. Then, after a breath, “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be calling. I just… I’ve been worried about you.”
I shake my head, barely catching the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth. “No. I’m glad you called.”
His eyes lift back to mine and in that moment, I see everything he’s trying not to show—how much he’s missed me, how hard he’s worked to give me space. It hits harder than I expect.
I don’t realize how tense I am until he lets out a slow breath.
“Good,” he says. “God, it’s good to see you.”
I shift a little, tucking my knees up and adjusting the blanket across my lap. “You too.”
He watches me for a moment, like I might disappear if he blinks.
His gaze roves over my face slowly, like he’s assessing what has changed in his absence.
My hair’s pulled back, there are shadows beneath my eyes, and I keep shifting the phone in my hands like I don’t know what to do with them.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel it in the way he looks at me—how much he wants to reach through the screen and hold me.
“You look tired,” he says finally.
“It’s been a long day.”
He says nothing, but there’s something in his eyes—like every part of him is aching to make it easier and hating that he can’t. I glance away because I can’t bring myself to hold his gaze.
The phone shifts a little as I adjust my grip, and I realize too late that I’ve tilted it enough to show the couch—the blanket, the pillow, the dim outline of the living room behind me.
His expression shifts and the air stills between us. His eyes darken, his jaw ticks once before he speaks.
“Is that where you’re sleeping?”
I try to smile but it feels feeble at best. “It’s fine. My brother is using my room. I’ll just be here for a few nights anyway.”
Again, he doesn’t answer immediately. I hear him take a deep breath, trying to collect himself.
“You promised me you’d take care of yourself,” he says. His voice is steady, but there’s no mistaking the sadness behind it. He’s hurt on my behalf.
“I am,” I say, but it sounds like a lie even to me.
He exhales slowly. “This is not what taking care of yourself looks like.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing I can say that would make this look any better.
It’s not the couch that he sees. It’s the way I’ve folded myself into a corner of it like I belong there. To him, it’s a rupture. To me, it’s just another day in my old life. I’ve spent most of my life squeezing into spaces where I don’t fit.
I shift the blanket in my lap just to have something to do with my hands.
“I don’t want you to worry,” I say quietly. “I know this isn’t ideal, but it’s familiar. I’ve made it through worse.”
His jaw works again. Then his voice drops, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to me. “I hate that you ever had to learn to live like this. You deserve so much more.”
“I’m okay,” I say gently, even though we both know that’s not quite true. I shift the phone and try for a smile again. “You should try to sleep.”
His mouth curves wistfully. “You always say that when you’re about to disappear on me.”
“I’m not,” I reply, sheepish. “I just want you to get some rest.”
A beat passes. He nods slowly. “Okay.” But the word lands like resignation.
I take in his handsome face one last time. I miss him so fiercely in that moment I almost say it again. But instead, I reach for something safer.
“Goodnight, my love.”
His eyes stay locked on mine. “Goodnight, baby.”
Neither of us moves to end the call.
The silence stretches, neither willing to be the first to let go.
So, I do.
I swipe to end the call, and his face disappears—but it doesn’t leave me. I close my eyes and see him anyway, like he’s been burned into the back of them.
The couch creaks beneath me as I shift down, blanket pulled tight to my chest.
I tell myself I’ll sleep, but I know better.
Because I suspect that Nathaniel Caldwell is already making his next move.