Chapter 23 #2
“In Wilson. When you mentioned the organization—Mercy in Justice.” The words are coming out too fast. “That’s where I worked. For four years. I quit this week, but I was there. I worked there.”
He goes very still. Outside, the tracks cross an open stretch—gray sky, flat farmland that flashes past the window in quick, dizzying bursts.
“You worked for Mercy in Justice.”
“Yes.”
“For four years.”
“Yes.”
“So you were there when—” He stops. His eyes are searching my face, and I watch him put it together. “That’s why you reacted to his name just now. Darren Murphy. You know that name.”
“Oliver—”
“You worked his case.” It’s not a question anymore. “That’s why you looked like you’d seen a ghost. You worked his case.”
I could deny it. Could lie.
But I can’t.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I was the intern who compiled the mitigation report. I didn’t make the final decision, but I—”
“You helped him.” His voice is shaking now. “My brother is having a breakdown right now because of what that man did to him, and you helped him avoid prison.”
The overhead lights flicker as we pass under a bridge, and his face sharpens in the brief shadow.
“I was trying to help someone who was abu—”
“Don’t.” He stands up so fast he bangs his knee against the seat in front of him.
The metal clang echoes down the aisle. “Don’t explain it.
I don’t care about his trauma or his background or why he deserved a second chance.
My brother deserved a chance too, but Darren took that away from him. And you helped.”
“Oliver, please—”
“Did you know?” His eyes are boring into mine. “When I told you about Evan. About the trial. About how much it destroyed my family. Did you know then?”
“No. Not until right now.”
“But you worked for Mercy in Justice and said nothing. Why should I believe you?” His voice is cold. The train leans slightly as it rounds a curve, and the fluorescent light trembles over his shoulder.
“I was scared—”
“You were scared?” He laughs, but it’s hollow, rough.
A conductor’s voice mumbles something about the next stop over the intercom, distant and tinny.
“Evan’s scared, Poppy. Scared his brain is going to betray him on his wedding day.
Scared Sloane is going to realize what she’s signing up for and leave.
Scared he’ll never be whole again. He has seizures.
Recall problems. Reading problems. He’ll never be the same. ”
“I know. I’m so sorry—”
“I can’t—I can’t look at you right now.” He grabs his bag, the zipper rasping loud in the quiet. “Don’t find me.”
“Oliver, please. Let me explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain. You helped the man who destroyed my brother’s life. And then you let me fall for you without saying a word.”
He turns and walks away. The automatic door at the end of the car hisses open, a burst of cold air sweeping in before it seals shut again.
The wheels clatter over the tracks in that steady, merciless rhythm, and the world outside turns to open farmland—flat, endless, indifferent.
Because he’s right.
About all of it.
I sit frozen in my seat, staring at the closed door he walked through.
A woman across the aisle glances at me, then quickly looks away when she sees my face.
He said not to follow him, but I have to, right?
But what would I say? What could I possibly say that would make this better?
My phone is in my hand before I realize I’ve grabbed it. No messages. Of course there are no messages. He doesn’t have my number and he doesn’t know I’m GracieLou.
Still, I open our chat thread like it’s the only tether holding us together.
All those months of conversation. All those moments of connection.
And I ruined it.
I ruined both versions of us in one terrible revelation.
The train rocks gently as we speed through farmland. I watch my reflection in the window—blotchy, tear-streaked, pathetic—superimposed over the gray winter landscape.
When I close my eyes, all I can see is his face—that devastated, betrayed expression before he walked away.
“And then you let me fall for you without saying a word,” he said.
He’s right. I let him fall as fast and hard as I did. And I said nothing.
What kind of person does that?
My mind jumps back to moment after moment from the last few days—diners, songs, debates—but then it goes one day further to the day before I met Oliver. To the day I blew up my life and took another family with me.
What kind of person does that? I ask myself. The same kind who tore another family apart.
By the time the conductor’s voice crackles over the intercom calling Rochester, two and a half hours have passed.
My face is swollen, my throat is raw, and my lungs feel wrung out from crying. I’ve tried to imagine a scenario where it’s going to be fine, where he’s going to forgive me. But I don’t believe it.
I don’t expect to see him again, but somehow, he appears above me when the train stops. He silently hands me my crutches and shoulders both bags before I can protest—a small sweetness he can’t seem to stop himself from giving me.
“Oliver,” I say, but he cuts me off with a single shake of his head.
“Don’t. I’m not doing this because I care. I’m doing this because I’m not the villain.”
And with that, he stomps forward through the crowd and off the train.
As soon as he sees that I’ve disembarked, too, he sets down my bag.
Gives me one look—one devastated, betrayed, broken-hearted look that’s worse than anything he could say to me—and then he turns on his heel, striding too fast for me to catch up.
“Oliver!” I call. “Wait!”
But the crowds are too thick, and soon, I see him approaching two men, the older of whom looks livid. I’m sure it’s his granddad.
And I’m equally sure I’ll never hear how it goes.
I’m shell-shocked as I watch him get into the backseat of the vehicle.
When my phone buzzes with the notification that my ride share is waiting, it takes every ounce of strength I have to make it.