Chapter 12 Olivia
Olivia
Iwas up at dawn.
The alarm wasn't set. My body just decided it was done with sleep. The meeting was at two, and Ben was picking me up at one, which gave me seven hours to get through, and the silence in the house was already deafening.
I lay in the gray light of dawn, staring at a water stain on the ceiling I’d never noticed before. I tried to rehearse what I would say to Lucia. Every script I ran through in my head sounded wrong—too angry, too pathetic, or too much like a lawyer cross-examining a witness.
Finally, the anxiety forced me up.
I showered until the hot water tank emptied, then stood under the freezing spray until my skin went numb. It was the only way to stop the buzzing under my skin. I dried off and stood in front of my open closet, shivering in a towel.
What do you wear to meet your dead husband's mistress?
I stood in front of my closet for ten minutes before I grabbed the black cashmere sweater Ryan had bought me for my birthday. I didn't know why. Maybe because it was his—his choice, his gift, proof that I'd once been someone he wanted to dress.
Or maybe I just wanted to hurt myself a little more.
By nine, I was pacing the kitchen. I made coffee I couldn't drink and toast that turned to sawdust in my mouth. I checked my phone. No messages. I checked the clock: four hours to go.
The knock came at nine-thirty.
I assumed it was Ben, early and anxious, and I opened the door without looking through the peephole.
It wasn't Ben.
Ruth stood on my porch, clutching a large Tupperware container with both hands.
Ryan's mother looked smaller than I remembered. Grief creates a specific kind of shrinkage; it had hollowed out her cheeks and bowed her shoulders, making the oversized navy sweatshirt she wore look like it was swallowing her whole. It was Ryan’s old college hoodie, the cuffs frayed.
"Olivia." Her voice was thin, cracking on the vowels.
"Ruth." I stepped back, my hand still on the knob. "Come in."
She walked past me, bringing a gust of cold air and the scent of her perfume—white lilac and something dusty, like dried flowers.
She set the Tupperware on the counter. "I made too much," she said, staring at the lid. "I keep cooking like I'm feeding a full house. Old habits from when his father was alive. I forget..." She trailed off, her voice tight. "I forget they're both gone now."
"Thank you," I said. "You didn't have to—"
"I needed to get out of the house." She turned to me, eyes wet and rimmed with red. "The silence over there is... it's too much. I just needed to see you. You're all I have left of him."
The words landed like a physical blow. I was the keeper of Ryan’s secrets, and she thought I was the keeper of his legacy.
"Sit," I said, pulling out a chair. "I'll make tea."
She sat, pulling the sleeves of the sweatshirt over her hands, tugging at the fabric. A nervous tic I recognized from Ryan. I filled the kettle, grateful for a task that allowed me to turn my back.
"How are you holding up, Livvy?" she asked.
"I'm managing," I said. It was the standard lie.
"I can't sleep," she whispered. "I keep expecting him to call. Sunday nights. He called every Sunday night, right after dinner. Just to check in." She let out a shaky, wet breath. "I picked up the phone yesterday and dialed his number before I remembered."
"I know," I said softly.
"He loved you so much, Olivia."
My throat closed. I focused on the steam rising from the kettle, watching it curl and disappear.
"You two were perfect together," she continued, her voice gaining a little strength, fueled by the memory. "I was looking at photos this morning. The wedding, you know? And that trip to Maui. I always thought... Thank God. Thank God he found someone like her."
The kettle started to shriek. I pulled it off the burner, my movements jerky.
"He was so busy those last few weeks," Ruth said. "Working all the time. I talked to him that Tuesday, and he sounded... distracted. Like his mind was somewhere else entirely."
I poured the water, watching the steam rise. "Distant?"
"I asked if everything was okay. He said—" Her voice caught. "He said he had something important to take care of. That he was working on something big. Something that was going to change everything."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"He said, 'Don't worry, Mom. It's all going to work out. I promise.'" She smiled through her tears. "I thought he meant a project, maybe some big contract. You know how he got when he was excited about his work."
I did know.
Ryan had never been content with his small practice, with its kitchen renovations and suburban additions.
The kind of steady work that paid the bills.
He wanted to build something that mattered, that people would remember.
He used to talk about it late at night, after too much wine, his voice taking on an edge of desperation I pretended not to hear.
"I'm designing glorified storage boxes, Liv," he'd said once. "I want to create something beautiful. Something that lasts."
I'd told him his work was beautiful, that it mattered. But maybe it hadn't been enough.
I set the mug in front of her, my hand steady despite the tremor running through my chest.
But maybe this "something big" Ryan had been working on wasn't about architecture. Maybe the thing he wanted to build—the thing that would "change everything"—wasn't made of glass and steel. Maybe it was a life. A different life.
With her.
I'd been so sure, so damn certain that Ryan had been driving to Route 9 to end it. That his final hours had been spent on trying to right his wrongs. But what if I'd been reading it all wrong? What if "this ends tonight" didn't mean the affair was ending… but that our marriage was?
"Did he say anything else?" I asked, my voice sounding far away.
Ruth shook her head, wrapping her cold hands around the warmth of the ceramic.
"Just that he loved me. And that he was sorry we didn't talk more.
" She looked down at the mug, the tea bag already steeping, turning the water dark.
"I told him we'd have dinner soon. Sunday night.
I was going to make his favorite—that pot roast he loved. "
Her face crumpled. "But Sunday never came."
I sat down across from her, my own hands folded tight in my lap to keep them from shaking.
"He knew you loved him," I said. It was the only kindness I could offer her, even if it felt like pulling teeth.
"Did he?" She looked up at me, her eyes desperate for absolution. "Did he know how proud I was? We didn't say it enough. We were always so... polite."
"Yes," I said softly. "He knew, Ruth. He told me all the time."
It was true. Ryan had loved his mother, called her every Sunday, worried about her living alone in that big house. Whatever else he'd been lying about, that part had been real.
She nodded, wiping her eyes with the rough cotton of his sleeve. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be dumping this on you. You're the widow. I should be comforting you."
"We both lost him."
We sat in silence for a while, the tea going cold. We were two women mourning two different men. She was mourning a saint; I was mourning a stranger.
I glanced at the microwave clock. 12:55.
"Ruth," I said gently. "I actually have to leave soon. I have an appointment."
She looked up, startled, as if she’d forgotten a world existed outside of this kitchen. "Oh. Of course. I stayed too long."
She stood up, leaving the tea untouched.
She paused by the door, turning back to look at me. For a split second, panic flared in my chest. What if she could see it written on my face? The doubt and all the questions I couldn't ask.
But she just reached out and pulled me into a hug.
She smelled like Ryan’s detergent. Her bones felt sharp through the sweatshirt.
"He would want us to take care of each other," she whispered into my hair.
I hugged her back, my body stiff, my eyes open and staring at the wall. "I know."
She pulled away, patted my cheek with a cold hand, and walked down the path to her sedan.
She was just backing out of the driveway when a black truck pulled in, the grill aggressive and large next to her small car. She hit the brakes and the truck stopped.
Ben.
They sat there for a second, idling. Then Ruth gave a small wave and maneuvered around him.
I grabbed my coat and bag, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I walked out before Ben could come to the door.
He was standing by the truck bed. He had cleaned up. He was wearing a dark button-down shirt tucked into clean jeans, and a jacket that looked new, or at least rarely worn. He was freshly shaved, his jawline sharp, his hair damp and combed back. He smelled like soap and mint instead of sawdust.
He looked like he was going to a deposition, like he was trying to be worthy of the disaster we were driving into.
"Was that his mom?" he asked, watching Ruth’s taillights disappear down the street.
"Yeah."
"Is she..." He trailed off, looking at me carefully. "Does she know?"
"No," I said, climbing into the passenger seat. "She thinks we were perfect."
Ben winced. A genuine, painful flinch, like I’d pinched him.
Still, he didn't say anything, just walked around to the driver's side and got in. He looked at me, his hand hovering over the gear shift. "You ready?"
"No," I said.
"Me neither."
He put the truck in gear. We pulled out of the driveway, turning west.
Toward the reservoir.
Toward Route 9.