Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
POPPY
For the second night in a row, I’ve fallen asleep on a couch cuddling Oliver Fletcher.
I could get used to this.
We get ready quickly when my alarm goes off, and too soon, we’re at the train station in Cleveland.
It’s still cloaked in night when we arrive.
It’s barely five in the morning, and after the week I’ve had, I should be exhausted.
But leaning against Oliver while he buys our tickets, it’s impossible to feel anything but happy.
Even the pale fluorescent lights buzzing above us seem cheery, and the frowning faces of fellow travelers are just smiles waiting to happen (in fairness, I always think that).
The platform is surprisingly busy, with commuters and travelers huddled in their large winter coats, their breath fogging in the pre-dawn air.
He pulls out his phone to pay from his electronic wallet, and a Beyond Justice notification pops up on the top of the screen. He swipes it away, but not before I can read it.
GreenArrow11—You have 2 new notifications
Shock spreads through my veins like ice, freezing me in place.
GreenArrow11.
Arrow is …
Oliver is …
I feel like I can’t breathe, can’t think. My pulse has stopped entirely.
Oliver is Arrow?
I’m still staring at his phone—practically panting—when Scottie’s words from last night come to mind.
“Have you noticed Fletch’s phone case? Look closer, will you?”
He’s tucking it into his back pocket now, and I can see the vibrant green with the arrow symbol I’ve overlooked since Denver.
Scottie knew. That’s why she laughed when she heard my nickname: Gracie Lou.
That’s why she said she’d see me again.
My hands tighten around his arm involuntarily as Oliver takes the tickets.
He turns and looks at me. “You okay?”
I want to burst out laughing. Now that I know both versions of this man, Arrow turning me down makes so much more sense.
The fact that he asked for a couple of days coincides perfectly with us growing closer in real life.
And he is hard in person, especially at first, just as he’s always said.
But he sold himself short, because he’s incredible, too.
He has so much warmth beneath that frosty shell, and the way he cares about me …
No one has ever made me feel as cared for as Oliver has in only a few short days.
Him turning me down online is a green flag in real life. So I smile with my whole heart. “I’m good.”
“Here,” he says, directing us to a bench on the platform. My crutches click and echo with every step. When we sit, he pulls my leg up on his. “How’s the pain this morning?” he asks, and that wording makes me swoon. He’s acknowledging the pain, not trying to dismiss or erase it.
“None right now,” I say.
He puts his arm around me, kissing my temple, and I feel like this secret—this revelation—is going to burst out of me. With my cheek nestled in his neck, I can feel the beating of his heart.
A heart that feels like it belongs to me.
Over Oliver’s pulse against my ears, I hear another sound quickly growing louder—the rumble of the approaching train.
I can’t believe Oliver is Arrow, yet it feels perfect. Fitting in every way.
I fell for him online and again in person.
Virtually and in reality.
I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him. And nothing’s stopping me from doing it right now.
“Hey, I need to tell you something.”
“Is it serious?” he asks, the perfect amount of playfulness. “You’re not going to tell me you’re a spy, right? That confidential criminal justice job of yours—”
An icy gust of wind from the lake slaps me across the face.
My job.
“Uh,” I say, the air in my lungs vanishing so I feel panicky. “Huh. Okay, I have two things, actually.”
But the train roars into the station with a screech of brakes and the frigid wind cuts right through my coat. As passengers start jostling toward the train, they take my words with them.
“Tell me when we’re onboard,” he says over the clamoring noise, and then his lips catch mine before I can speak, before I can say anything.
My lips are cold from the winter air, but he warms me fast, and I could almost forget everything except that Oliver is Arrow and Arrow is Oliver and I love both parts of him so much, I could burst.
His hands hold my face tenderly, his thumbs brushing my cheek.
“Get a room,” a voice mutters from a few feet away. “It’s barely five in the morning.”
Oliver pulls back laughing and then stands, holding a hand out to mine. “Looks like we’re official,” he says, making my heart skip and trip.
“How so?” I ask weakly.
“You know you’re a real couple when you offend complete strangers.”
I chuckle over the low hum of dread.
Oliver grabs our bags with one hand and helps me with the other, guiding me through the crowd boarding the train. The press of bodies makes conversation impossible, which gives me too much time to think.
Just tell him about Arrow first. That’s the good news!
“Funny story: we knew each other before the plane! You’re Arrow. I’m GracieLou. We’ve been falling for each other online for over a year. Tah-dah!”
He’ll be shocked. Definitely surprised. But happy, too.
Until I tell him about Mercy in Justice.
The train car is warm, already filling with passengers. Oliver finds us spots halfway down—two seats together on the right side—and insists I take the window seat.
“I’m an aisle seat kind of gal, remember?” I say.
“I don’t want you to risk talking to someone better than me,” he says, nodding to the window seat. “Humor me.”
He puts my crutches in a storage compartment and I sit with a strained smile.
He’s so much brighter than usual, and that brightness makes hope and guilt clash in me. The lightness to him is because of me. I know it is.
It’s all going to be okay.
Oliver settles into his seat. “So, about those two things,” he says, giving me the opening I hope I’m brave enough to take.
Of course I’m brave enough. I love him. You don’t keep secrets from people you love.
“Yeah.” I inhale a ragged, hopeful breath. “I don’t know how to say this, so—”
Oliver’s phone rings before I can say whatever I don’t know how to say. “Sorry, can you hold on? That’s my second call from my mom in a minute.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say.
“Hey, Mom. What’s—” His face changes. “What? Is he okay?” He closes his eyes and pinches his temples. “Yeah.” He pauses. “Yeah, I know. It’s been a crazy week, Mom.” He sighs, looking like the worn down Oliver from three days ago. “I’m sorry, Mom. Tell him I’ll be there soon.”
He hangs up, jaw clenched tight. The overhead lights flicker as we pass under a bridge.
“Oliver?” I touch his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Evan.” His voice is rough. “He’s doing bad.
The TBI affects his emotional regulation, and wedding stress triggered a complete meltdown.
I guess Mom found him sobbing on the bathroom floor.
He’s been there all night. He called Sloane at three a.m. and told her he can’t be the husband she deserves because,” Oliver clears his throat, looking like he’s trying not to cry, “because his brain doesn’t work right. ”
The wheels thrum over a switch, jolting the car slightly. My chest tightens. “Oh, Oliver. I’m so sorry.”
“Four years since one punch changed everything, and he still can’t trust his own mind.” His fist clenches on his knee. “One drunk guy’s anger, and my brother lives with mood swings, anxiety, fear that his brain will betray him at the worst moment.”
I feel sick. This is exactly the kind of case I’ve worked on dozens of times. It’s so familiar, I could write it myself. No matter who’s at fault, the collateral damage stretches for years. For lifetimes.
A conductor’s voice murmurs over the intercom, muffled by static. The noise of a wrapper crinkles from a few rows back. The ordinary sounds make the story feel heavier, somehow.
“I can’t stop thinking about the guy who did it,” Oliver says bitterly.
“He walked away, Poppy. Your dad got fifteen years, and this guy got anger management classes and community service. He’s probably out there living his best life right now while Evan’s in a bathroom on his wedding day, terrified his damaged brain is going to ruin his future. I freaking hate Darren Murphy.”
The name hits like a slap.
Darren Murphy.
Bar fight. New York. TBI.
Oh.
Oh no.
Darren Murphy was my case.
I remember now. It was my first big case as an intern—the one I was so proud of because we got the judge to see Darren’s humanity past the injury. His abusive childhood. His girlfriend’s trauma. The fact that the other guy had picked the fight.
That guy was Evan Fletcher.
I can remember every client’s name I’ve helped, but never the victims. As hard as I’ve tried to respect their pain with the mitigating circumstances of my clients, I learned quickly that if I let the victims fully into my heart, I couldn’t function.
I’d freeze up completely, unable to advocate for anyone.
So I had to focus on the person in front of me—the one I was hired to help.
So no, I don’t remember Evan Fletcher.
I remember the angry, hurting young man whose family was so hostile during the proceedings, they ignored the fact that their son had done anything wrong.
They didn’t think it mattered at all that he picked a fight with my client—Darren—who was abused as a child and had no priors or history of violence until he was literally backed against a wall in a bar fight with his pregnant fiancé present.
That was Oliver’s brother.
The room tilts. The train leans into a curve, pressing me lightly against the window.
“Poppy?” Oliver’s looking at me now. “You okay? You just went white.”
“I—” I can’t breathe. The recycled air feels thin.
“Poppy, what’s wrong?”
My hands are shaking. “I need to tell you something.”
His eyes narrow slightly. Wary. “Okay …”