Chapter 7
Seven
OLIVER
The contract folder was tucked under my arm like a shield, but it did nothing to protect against the fog still clinging to the edges of my mind.
The past few days were a blur—fever, Emmet’s worried face, Zahra’s unexpected presence with chicken soup and concern that I convinced myself was for her “perfect girlfriend” posts—but the details of it all slipped through my fingers like cosmic dust.
And then, there was Emmet’s offhand comment when he dropped by earlier.
"You talk in your sleep when you're sick, you know."
My grip on the folder tightened. He hadn’t elaborated and hadn’t looked me in the eye when he said it. And that was worse. What the hell had I said?
I closed my eyes. Zahra was leaving for a week in Norman tomorrow, finalizing wedding preparations, and we needed to align our long-distance schedule. I needed to get a grip.
My watch beeped once, indicating it was 6:00 PM sharp. I knocked, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway, determined to bury that haze under professionalism.
The door swung open, and there she was. Zahra's hair was pulled back in a loose bun, casual in a way I rarely saw, tendrils framing her face, her expression was neutral but her eyes were guarded.
She wore jeans and an oversized Seattle U sweatshirt, looking nothing like the polished businesswoman I'd grown accustomed to.
"Right on time." She stepped aside to let me in.
Her apartment was warm, cluttered with event binders, a large bulletin board dominated one wall, covered with fabric samples, venue photos, and what appeared to be seating arrangements for the wedding, and the faint scent of jasmine filling the air.
"I've ordered takeout," she said, gesturing to the kitchen. "Should be here in twenty minutes. In the meantime, we should go over the plan for the upcoming week.”
"Efficient," I nodded, setting my laptop bag down. "Let's start with the schedule."
This was good. Professional. Focused. No acknowledgment of my illness or what might have been said during it. We could pretend none of it had happened.
Zahra pulled out a leather-bound planner from her bag and opened it on the coffee table.
"I've mapped the week," she explained, flipping through meticulously organized pages. "Who I’m with, where I am, when texting would have maximum impact, what to write.”
I leaned forward, scanning the color-coded spreadsheet. Everything was arranged with precision that rivaled my own organizational tendencies, and each day was broken down into hourly segments with notes on locations, company, and messaging times.
"This is comprehensive," I said, genuinely impressed by her thoroughness.
"I'm a wedding planner," she reminded me with a slight smile. "Organization is kind of my thing."
The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of dinner. We ate as we continued reviewing our texting schedule, adjusting it as we went.
"Your brother's welcome to join us for the wedding, by the way," Zahra said casually between bites.
The unexpected offer caught me off guard. "Emmet?"
"Unless you have another brother I don't know about." When I didn't respond, she added, "He seemed worried about you going back to Norman alone."
Alone . I almost laughed. I’d been handling everything life had thrown at me alone for years. I could handle Norman alone for a couple of weeks.
"He's not coming." The words came out clipped, defensive.
Zahra looked up, surprise crossing her features at my harsh tone. "I thought he might want to see some of his old friends."
"Emmet doesn't have friends in Norman."
"What about your parents? Don't they still?—"
"No." I cut her off. "They don't."
"Okay,” she said slowly, setting down her pen. “What should I say if someone asks about him?"
The thought of Zahra fielding questions about Emmet sent a surge of panic through me. Those were exactly the conversations I needed to avoid.
"You say nothing." I was struggling to keep my voice measured. "Emmet is not part of our arrangement."
"People will remember him as Laura," she said carefully. "If your extended family or old classmates ask?—"
"They won't," I interrupted. "And if they do, you deflect. Say you don't know. Say whatever you need to leave Emmet out of it."
"This isn't about prying into your personal life, Oliver, it’s about preparing for every possible scenario."
"Is it?" I raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over my chest. Whatever Zahra thought she knew about my life, she didn’t. She didn’t get a free pass under the pretense we were playing.
Not to Emmet. "The contract specifically restricts personal questions about my current circumstances.
My brother falls squarely under that provision. "
"Stop trying to hide behind the contract." Her voice rose sharply, a note of frustration cutting through her words. "I'm not asking as your client, I'm asking as someone who's about to spend two weeks pretending to be your girlfriend in your hometown. I need to know what landmines I might step on."
“Emmet is off limits!” I yelled, shooting up from my seat and turning my back on Zahra, my fingers running through my hair as I fought to gain control of my breathing.
It was labored, my chest heavy, my head slightly foggy. I was still fighting off the remnants of my cold, and my body was betraying me, fraying my usual composur and control.
“He’s stronger than you give him credit for.”
I turned to her with a scoff. “You know nothing about him.”
“I know people, Oliver. It’s my job,” she said, firm and full of infuriatingly audacious conviction. “And after talking to Emmet, I’m telling you he can handle it.”
I laughed, bitter and sharp.
“Thirty minutes, and you think you know him better than I do?” I shook my head.
“He was just a kid. Two weeks from turning eighteen when I got him out of Norman. Two weeks, Zahra, and I spent every minute of them praying to a God I’d denounced over two decades ago that our parents wouldn’t report it as a kidnapping.
That was the first and last time I begged the universe for anything.
And I got lucky. They let him go. But don’t ever think I’d risk that again.
” I stopped to suck in air, filling my burning lungs with much needed oxygen.
“This isn’t about what you believe. It’s about the facts.
And the fact is that I won’t bring Emmet within a hundred miles of the people who tried to bury him under mountains of shame.
” I took a step closer to her. “And the facts are outlined very clearly in our contract.”
"Facts," she repeated. "Like whatever facts you might have shared when you were sick?"
The air between us suddenly felt too thin.
There it was—the confirmation that something had happened, something I couldn't remember.
Vacuum decay , my mind supplied unhelpfully.
The potential rapid expansion of a quantum vacuum bubble with a lower energy state, capable of destroying the entire universe.
"I was delirious," I said, struggling to keep my voice even. "Whatever I might have said didn’t mean anything.”
Zahra let out a sound between a snort and a snarl before looking up, a hint of hostility in her gaze.
“You’re right.” Her voice was flat, void of the emotions raging in her eyes. “It clearly didn’t mean a thing.”
But it clearly did. The uncertainty hung between us, expanding like the space between galaxies—invisible but inexorable.
“I apologize if I said anything offensive,” I offered, hoping it would placate her, put whatever words mucked the air between is to rest. “I truly don’t remember.”
"You had a high fever," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "It's normal not to remember."
But there was something in her tone, something that suggested I'd said things worth remembering. The uncertainty gnawed at me. What fragments of my carefully guarded thoughts had escaped while I was delirious?
I picked my bag up. "It's getting late. You have an early flight."
Zahra held my gaze for a long moment, then looked away. "You're right. We should call it a night."
As Zahra walked me to the door, there was a moment—brief but undeniable—when I wanted to stay. To explain. To tell her about the house, about my parents' betrayal, about the real reason I needed to return to Norman.
But I couldn't risk it. Not when I was so close to finally reclaiming what had been stolen from Emmet and me.
“Don’t forget the texting schedule,” she said as I walked out the door.
I shot her a look, and she cracked a smile.
“Right. You’re Oliver Beck.” She leaned on the door, her gaze pointed, full of truths that haunted my temporal lobe like apparitions, dissolving into smoke whenever I tried to grasp at them. “You remember everything.”
The irony wasn't lost on me. The one time my perfect memory failed was the one time I needed it most—to know exactly what secrets I'd surrendered in my fever-induced vulnerability.
I turned away without responding, her words following me down the hallway, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. For the first time in my life, I was terrified of what I couldn't remember.
My fingers instinctively reached for the watch on my wrist, adjusting it with scientific precision.
Tick .
Tick .
Tick .
Each second ticking by was a reminder that some variables—like whatever I'd revealed to Zahra—were now permanently beyond my control.