Chapter 2
OLIVIA
The house is dark save for muted sounds and a dim stream of light coming from the back. My rented townhouse in the Annex, one of the oldest and most prominent neighborhoods in downtown Toronto, still feels like neutral territory. Mine but not mine.
Three streets over, Pete lives in our old house. His house now. As much as I loved it, I didn’t want any part of our old life.
This three-bedroom executive rental was a splurge.
The price gave me pause, but when I hesitated, Pete didn’t.
As an investment banker, he makes money hand over fist, and even with all the difficult conversations that came with the divorce, he withheld nothing.
It’s ironic, really. He’s never been more generous than he is now that we’re apart.
I pad into the family room and find Paige lying on the leather sofa, earbuds in, watching The Walking Dead on her tablet. Her long brown hair spills over the arm like a chocolate waterfall.
My heart skips. It’s been a week since she was last here.
Shared custody is fair on paper, but the seven days without my kids is like slow starvation. And somehow, the texts, odd video chats, and practically nonexistent calls never seem to fill the empty space within me when they are with their dad.
Despite the current state of the relationship with my daughter, I adore Paige and miss her like crazy when she’s with Pete. We’ve been “a work in progress” since she hit double digits—what mother-daughter duo isn’t?
But since the separation, we’ve drifted further. Hormones, growing independence, and the aftershocks of a fractured family have created a chasm I’m still trying to cross.
“Hey, sweetie.” I lean down and kiss her smooth, soft hair, inhaling the familiar scent of coconut conditioner.
She barely glances up, expression somewhere between annoyance and neutrality. Sometimes I’m persona non grata, the villain in her version of our story. I’ve tried explaining that leaving her father was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I did try to save the marriage with several attempts at therapy, individual and couples. She doesn’t want to hear it and doesn’t hide her anger and frustration at my leaving her father.
Pete’s the saint; I’m the pariah.
“How was your game last night?” I perch on the coffee table.
“Okay.” Abruptly, she reaches to click off the lamp, plunging us into darkness.
“Hey, Paige.” I blink, adjusting to the dark. Flicking the lamp back on, I meet her glare. “Not nice, kiddo. Let’s try again. How was your volleyball game?”
“It was fine.” Her tone’s softer this time. Gathering her books, she hugs them to her chest. “Um, I’m going to do homework.”
Her go-to escape. She shifts toward the door, eager to flee, and I touch her shoulder gently, turning her to face me.
“Hey.” Despite my frustration, fatigue at this routine, and hurt feelings, I remind myself I’m the adult and try to act like one. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Will you sit with me while I eat? I’m just making a salad. It won’t take long. You can tell me about last week or you can do your homework at the table.”
As if carrying the troubles of the world, she releases a long, theatrical sigh. I force a smile, parking my exasperation because it’s useless.
“No talking.” She chews at the inside of her cheek.
“Just a little.” The soft plea in my tone hints at my sense of tiptoeing past a grizzly. “Minimum chatter. I promise.”
“Fine.” She leads the way to the kitchen.
We work in silence, Paige hunched over her laptop, me throwing together a chicken Caesar salad.
Let’s try again.
“How was your game?”
“We won.” Her words land flat. Emotionless.
It’s hard to reconcile her coldness with the girl who once told me everything. Back when we still lived under one roof, my kids were my world. Recitals, tournaments, homework, heartaches—all of it. Now? I’m lucky if Paige strings three words together when talking to me.
At least Drew, my eldest, and I are still solid. He doesn’t know every detail of my failed marriage, nor does he want to. And frankly, neither of my kids deserve to know everything. Sure, it impacts them too and I was fully transparent without maligning their father. But all the gory details…
That’s between me and Pete.
Throughout everything, Drew didn’t pick sides. That’s all I could hope for. And once or twice, he’s even hinted at understanding why I left.
I miss him. It’s been over a month since we last saw him. It was his nineteenth birthday. The good thing is, he’ll be back after exams so it isn’t much longer now till I see him again, and I can’t wait.
Time to try something else. “Honey, if you don’t want to talk about volleyball, you pick the topic.”
Her brown eyes—so like mine—stab right through me. “I don’t want to talk. I’ve got to get this done.”
“Paige, I’m trying here. Can’t you meet me halfway?”
Her little snort says everything. You didn’t meet me or Dad halfway in the marriage. As much as I wished I could give her what she wanted, I simply couldn’t.
I won’t compromise my happiness or sanity again. I can’t.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Her question throws me for a loop.
What is it with this outfit?
“I was working. I met with a hotel owner and landed her as a client.”
Eliza Preston loved my proposal for her hotel. The account is beyond my wildest dreams, a financial lifeline.
“It’s nice. You look pretty.” Her voice is low, near a whisper, as if she’s reluctant to offer the compliment and hopes I don’t hear her.
“Thanks.” My smile is instant, unstoppable. A crumb of connection. Better than the Preston account itself.
In my excitement, I slice the knife through my flesh. “Ouch.”
Blood gushes from my thumb.
“Mom.” Her tablet hits the table as she rushes to my side.
She cradles my finger with surprising tenderness and presses a dish towel on the cut. Paige takes over like a tiny field medic, her brow furrowed as she instructs me to apply pressure while she fetches a bandage. It’s barely a nick, but I bask in her care like sunlight.
When she returns, she drops into a ridiculous deep voice. “Moon of my life, are you hurt?”
A goofy grin covers her once worried expression, and her terrible Khal Drogo impression cracks me up. Her smile widens at my laughter and she joins in as our giggles echo off the kitchen walls.
When the laughter fades, I cup her cheek and kiss her nose. “Thank you.”
She kisses my thumb dramatically. “There you go.”
“I need a Drogo hit.” I beam, invoking our shared weakness. “Up for some?”
We’ve been known to watch countless episodes from season one of Game of Thrones to get our fix. It’s the actor as much as the character we love, and we know our favorite scenes word for word.
Her dark brows rise. “What kind of question is that? Hells yeah. I’ll make popcorn.”
She likes me—for now. My heart swells with joy. And it’s times like these that make all the tears, bumps, and bruises bearable.
We curl up on the couch, her head on my shoulder, popcorn in her lap. We’re not where we used to be, but for now we’re no longer where we were.
And next weekend?
Three days, no clients, no demands. Just girlfriends, wine, and Montreal.
Life is good.