Chapter 34
SAM
I’ve been sitting on Olivia’s front step for over an hour, elbows to my knees, head in my hands, my fingers gripping my hair so tight my scalp burns. She was supposed to meet me for breakfast. Hours ago. She hasn’t answered a single call or text.
Every dark thought possible has crossed my mind. An accident. Something with Paige or Drew. Something with her ex. I can’t take it anymore.
The sound of her car pulling into the driveway makes my heart lurch. Relief and anger collide like a punch to the gut. Before she even kills the engine, I’m at her door, yanking it open, unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Jesus Christ.” I flinch, not recognizing my rough scrape of my voice, most probably from too much worry. I pull her into my arms, crushing her against me. “Thank fuck you’re okay.”
She melts into me, her arms wrapping tight around my shoulders, her face pressing into my neck. The scent of her—warm, familiar, home—soothes me, even as my pulse still hammers.
“I’m okay. I’m so sorry.” Her lips brush my skin.
I exhale shakily, still gripping her. The fear’s fading, but in its place is frustration. I pull back, my hands cupping her face, scanning her expression for any sign of what the hell happened.
“Where were you, Liv? I called you a dozen times. I texted.”
Her eyes dart away. “I…”
The hesitation in that single word tells me whatever’s coming isn’t good.
All of it tumbles out of her. Paige’s last-minute stunt, running into Erin, then Pete.
The words tumble out in pieces, but I catch enough to piece together the picture.
I listen, silent, jaw tight, as she talks about the confrontation, her hurt, her anger, how she drove for hours after to clear her head.
Hours. Alone. Not answering.
When she finishes, I take a step back, crossing my arms over my chest. My voice comes out flat, clipped. “You were driving around for the past few hours.”
Her face softens, contrite, but before I can push further, my phone rings. Perfect timing. I glance at the screen, seeing it’s one of the suppliers. I answer anyway, needing something to ground me. “Beaulieu.” My voice is gruff, my French slipping in when I reply. “Oui…d’accord.”
The call lasts a few minutes but I keep it short. Ending the call, I slide my phone into my pocket and look at her. My pulse is still uneven, but now it’s not fear—it’s exhaustion.
“I have to go. I blew up my whole morning worried sick about you.” There’s more edge in my voice than I intend, but I can’t help it. The knot in my chest tightens when she flinches.
“Sam.” She inches closer. “I’m sorry. Can we talk about this over dinner?”
“What are you sorry for?” I shake my head, exhaling a bitter laugh. “You know what? Don’t bother answering. I have to go.”
Her face crumples a little, and it kills me. But I can’t stand here, pretending I’m okay. I’m not.
She calls after me as I head for my car. “Are you coming home tonight?”
Home. The word twists inside me like a knife cutting me wide open. For months, she’s been my home. And right now, I don’t know where that leaves me.
My hand tightens on the door handle of the car. I look over the hood at her—standing there in the driveway, arms wrapped around herself, eyes glassy—and I almost cave. Almost.
Instead, the truth spills out, low and raw.
“You know what the funniest, most fucked-up thing about all this is? I thought you were hung up on my age. I thought it was that—or the distance—that kept you from really letting me in.” I swallow hard.
“I told myself I’d wait, no matter how long it took, because I knew you’d come around. I believed it. But no. I was wrong.”
Her lips part, trembling. “Sam—”
“It wasn’t the age or the distance.” My voice cracks. “It was Pete. You’re still hung up on your ex.”
She shakes her head, eyes wide, tears shimmering, but I can’t stay long enough to hear her denial. I can’t trust myself not to say more, not to beg for something I might not be ready to hear.
I slide into the car, start the engine, and back out of her driveway. In the rearview mirror, I see her still standing there, small and still, her arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s holding in the pieces.
And God help me, I already miss her.
The drive home is endless. Every streetlight, every passing car, every song on the radio feels too loud. Too bright. I kill the sound, the lights, everything that reminds me of being alive.
All I want is quiet.
By the time I reach my place, I’m carved out.
Empty. The day was a complete waste. Most of it spent in the car, stuck with my bad thoughts.
I wasn’t supposed to work today. No, today was supposed to be about Olivia.
Instead, we blew up and I ended up dealing with a supplier crisis from the car.
Like I was in the right frame of mind for that.
I sit in the car long after I’ve parked, the engine ticking as it cools. My hands still grip the wheel, knuckles white, like letting go means admitting what I just said—what I accused her of.
“Fuck.” The heel of my hand slams the steering wheel.
It’s not just anger that’s eating at me—it’s fear.
Pete’s fucking text…how long ago was that? His text inviting her to dinner. I never did say anything to her. I trusted her. Hoped if anything was happening, she’d have told me. Besides, I wasn’t that guy. I didn’t read other people’s texts, question them. What kind of relationship would that be?
And if I’m being totally honest, a part of me didn’t want to know. Yeah…fear I might be right. Fear I might not be.
Inside, the loft is cold and still. I toss my keys on the counter, yank off my jacket, and pace the length of the kitchen, running both hands through my hair. I can still see her face, the way her lips trembled when I said it. The hurt in her eyes.
I should’ve stayed. I should’ve listened. But my emotions were already frayed before she even got home. Losing Bas, holding Alec together, trying to keep the restaurant project moving, running two restaurants—it’s been a balancing act. And Olivia’s been my one safe place. My constant.
Until today.
I don’t even know why it hit so hard. It’s not like she cheated. She wouldn’t. If Olivia wanted to try again with her ex, she’d have told me. And fuck, it’s not even about Pete, not really. It’s the idea of him still taking up space somewhere in her heart where I can’t reach.
I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My chest feels tight, my pulse still hammering.
Maybe I overreacted.
Maybe I didn’t.
I just know that when she didn’t answer my calls, something in me broke. I’ve already lost too much this year. For a fucking lifetime. The idea of losing her—of her walking away, of me being too much or not enough—terrifies me more than I care to admit.
I glance at my phone. Ten missed calls from her since I left. A few texts. I can’t bring myself to open them. Not yet.
My thumb hovers over her name.
I want to call her, to tell her I’m sorry, to take back the accusation that poured from me like poison. But my pride is a stubborn bastard. And the thing about pride is it’ll keep you warm until you realize it’s what’s keeping you alone.
I toss the phone onto the table and lean back, staring at the ceiling. The bustle of the city outside my window pinches at me. Somewhere, people are laughing. Living. Loving. And I’m sitting here, missing the woman who makes me feel more alive than I ever have, wondering if I just ruined it all.
When my eyes finally drift shut, exhaustion wins over regret. But even in sleep, I can still feel her in my arms, warm, soft, real. And the echo of her voice lingers like a ghost.
“I’m okay. I’m so sorry.”
God, Liv. So am I.
The morning light filters through the blinds in fractured streaks, thin slashes of gold against the gray. My head pounds not from booze, but from everything I didn’t say.
I didn’t sleep much. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her, standing in that driveway, arms wrapped around herself, trying not to cry.
I can still feel the weight of her silence pressing against my chest.
The coffee machine sputters to life, filling the loft with the rich, familiar scent of dark roast. Normally, it’s comforting. Today, it just seems barren.
I check my phone. No new messages. No calls. She’s finally stopped trying. That realization hurts more than I expected. I scroll through her last texts.
I’m sorry.
Please call me.
Can we talk?
Yet I can’t bring myself to reply. What would I even say? Sorry I accused you of still being in love with your ex? Sorry I acted like an asshole because I was scared?
The door creaks open behind me. Alec doesn’t knock anymore. He doesn’t have to.
He steps inside with the same steady calm he’s always had, dressed in jeans and a thick sweater, a paper bag of pastries in one hand. I’d left a voicemail for him on my way home, giving no details but letting him know I was headed back.
No doubt, he’s put things together. He knows me well enough, seeing Olivia is my number one priority. I should be there, with her, and yet here I am back in Montreal.
“You look like shit.” He sets the bag on the counter.
“Good morning to you too.” I run a hand over my face.
He eyes me for a beat, then pours himself a mug of coffee. “You and Olivia have a fight?”
I don’t answer right away, just lean back against the counter, watching the steam rise from my cup.
“Yeah. More like I fucked up.”
Alec nods slowly, like he saw that coming. “Want to tell me about it?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
Unfazed, he nods. “Let me guess, something to do with her ex?”
My eyes flick up, surprised. “How do you—”
“Because it’s always something to do with the ex,” he interrupts, lips quirking. “You love her, and you hate that someone else had her first. That’s human. What’s not human is expecting her to erase twenty years of her life because it makes you uncomfortable.”
I open my mouth to argue that he doesn’t even know what went down.
But he lifts a hand, stopping me. “Before you say it, yes, I know what it’s like.
I was jealous as hell when Bas’s first love came back into town years ago.
Thought I’d lose him.” His eyes soften, hazy with memory.
“Turns out, love doesn’t work like that.
You don’t erase what came before. You just become what’s next. ”
I stare at him, the truth of his words landing heavier than I’d like to admit.
He leans back against the island. “You’ve both been through a lot this year. Losing Bas broke you. It’s okay that you’re still finding your footing. But don’t take that grief and turn it into something it’s not.”
“I know.” My voice is low, rough. “I just…panicked. She didn’t answer my calls, and I thought—” I stop myself, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” Alec’s gaze sharpens. “You thought you were losing her.”
I don’t respond, but the truth hangs there, heavy between us.
He takes a sip of his coffee. “So, what are you going to do?”
I let out a slow breath, staring at the window where the light’s grown brighter, sharper. “I don’t know. I said things I can’t take back.”
“Then start with the ones you can.”
He pats my shoulder on his way out, leaving behind the faint scent of aftershave and old paper, the comforting residue of someone who’s been where you are and knows the way out.
When the door clicks shut, I grab my phone again. My thumb hovers over her name for a long moment before I finally type:
Can we talk?
I stare at the message, debating. Then I hit send.
Seconds later, the screen lights up—Delivered.
No reply. Not yet.
But for the first time since yesterday, I feel like maybe that’s okay.