Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Shaye
“He said I love you.”
I look at the picture of an old lady sitting at a table praying.
I found the picture at a flea market the first year I moved out of my mom’s house.
There was nothing particularly captivating about the white-haired lady with a bowed head over a bowl of porridge, but it spoke to me. It gave me a sense of hope, of family.
It’s failed me throughout my life, but I can’t part with it.
Lisbeth gasps. “He did what?”
I shrug even though she can’t see me.
“Wow, Shaye. How do you feel about that?”
“I have no idea.” I take in each stroke of the woman’s hair and the way the paint looks white but has gray and a yellow tone to it too. “I don’t know how I feel about it.”
“Well, I love it.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Lisbeth rattles on about how she knew it—that she called it. That she had a feeling in her stomach since the night I hit his car with mine that something big, something grand, would come of it.
I want to believe her. I do. But he loves me?
That word—love—is loaded. What is love, anyway? Sure, I love a frozen Snickers bar—that I’m positive. But loving a cold chocolate candy bar and loving another human are two decidedly different things.
I love Lisbeth. I love Nate. I have love in my heart for Joe and his toothless grin. But none of those things are what I think I love you means if you say it to someone you love like that.
Like I hope Oliver would say it to me.
Boone said he loved me. He doesn’t love me. It was a friendly knee-jerk reflex.
Is that what it was for Oliver too?
“Did you say it back?” Lisbeth asks. “I’m not going to judge you either way. I’m just curious.”
“No.”
“Shaye!”
“You said you wouldn’t judge me!” I pick up a stack of mail and sort through it as a distraction. “What a friend you are.”
“I’m not judg—I’m totally judging you.” She reconsiders. “No, I’m not. I’m disappointed that you aren’t being honest with yourself.”
“Oh, please.” I toss the envelopes back on the table. The top one is a letter from the loan company regarding Luca’s loan. I flip it over. Screw them. “I am being honest with myself. He probably just said it like you say it to me when you hang up the phone.”
“That’s not what I meant when I said that you weren’t being honest with yourself.”
I groan.
She’s not going to let this go.
“You have feelings for Oliver,” Lisbeth says.
“I do. I admit that. Happy now?”
“Then why are you being so awkward about his profession of love?”
“Because it’s probably not real.”
“Why? Because he said it to you? Would you think it was more realistic if he said it to me? To one of the girls at the gala? If he said it to the girl at work who answers the phones?”
My spirits sink.
The answer is that, yes, I probably would think it was more realistic.
I hate this about myself. I hate that my immediate thought is that it will go wrong or that it’s not meant to be. I do it all the time.
“Someone sent me flowers, and I didn’t tell him,” I tell Lisbeth.
“Someone like who?”
“A guy from the gala.”
“Shaye.”
I groan again. “I know. I know that I should’ve told him, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to rock the boat.”
“Because he obviously would’ve blamed you, right?” She scoffs. “He’s not Luca, Shaye.”
A load of guilt creeps on my shoulders. She’s right. I do place Luca’s sins on Oliver’s shoulders. I let Oliver pay the price for the things Luca has done, and that’s not fair—to either of us. Which is why I debated that at The Gold Room.
Today has thrown me, though.
I pace around the kitchen and feel the fog that sits in my head roll slowly away. If I acknowledge that some of my actions, some of my fears, are Luca-induced, it makes it easier to get to the truth about how I feel and what I want.
And what I deserve.
With every step that I take, my head becomes clearer.
I trust Oliver enough to hold me, to listen to my secrets. I respect him as a businessman and as a friend. I appreciate his honesty and openness with me, and even though some of his good intentions are misplaced—like my raise—he means well.
He always means well.
So who am I not to believe him when he says that he loves me? Why do I always feel like there’s a game being played behind my back, and I’m the one who stands to lose?
I know the answers to both questions, and none of them are his fault. And I’d be a total jerk—to both of us—if I don’t see that and act appropriately.
“Thank you, Lis.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s not like I had anything better to do than to listen to my best friend complain about her rich boyfriend problems.” She laughs. “Oh, wait. I do. I could pull up any celebrity magazine and watch my ex-boyfriend stick his tongue down his famous girlfriend’s throat.”
“Ew.”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to come over and bring pizza? ’Cause I will. I’ll come tell you how amazing you are and how that boy—boy—doesn’t deserve a woman like you.”
She laughs. “No. I want you to go find Oliver and tell him how you feel. You deserve that as much as he does, Shaye.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. I’m just going to be here drinking mojitos, so call me if you need me.”
I grin. “Drink one for me.”
“I’ll drink two for you because that’s the kind of friend I am.”
I laugh. “I need to be at the bar in twenty minutes, so I gotta go. Stay off the interwebs tonight.”
“I’ll do my best. Love you.”
She chirps the last two words. I roll my eyes.
“Love you, too, sweetie,” I say, my voice dripping with sugar.
She laughs at me. “Good night, my friend.”
“Night, Lis.”
I end the call and turn toward the hallway. I stop when I catch my reflection in a mirror.
My cheeks are rosy, my skin golden. I look healthy. Happy.
I think about all the words of encouragement that I’ve received from Oliver and am actually wowed.
He may have said his I love you off the cuff, but I’m beginning to see that he’s a man who I utterly feel safe with.
The happiness in my eyes is something that I haven’t seen for years.
I’m standing on my own two feet now, independent of my mom and my ex.
So, I can see this for what it is. I. Love. Oliver. Mason.
“You’re going to call Oliver after work and tell him the truth. About the flowers and that you love him,” I say out loud.
I wait for the words to make me panic, but they don’t. They feel right.
But that makes sense because Oliver—and the love that I have for him—feels oh-so right.