CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE PAST
I shivered as we stepped out of the car and walked along the path to the event center. I’d never had to take this walk. My classes at the university had been on the other side of campus, in the tech building where the bridging students studied.
The cobblestone path was bordered by gardens and benches beneath flowering trees. As we crossed under one, I looked up, my eyes skimming the beautiful pink blossoms. I was tempted to reach out for one when Oliver chuckled.
“You’re shaking.”
I smiled and turned my attention to him. “I’m practically wearing nothing.”
My black dress was backless, and there was a slit along the side of the gown that showed a lot of leg.
I couldn’t get used to the feeling of it on me.
My feet hurt with every step. I’d had to walk all day in these rhinestone stilettos because I was paranoid I’d fall on my face in front of everybody.
I hadn’t mastered it, so I hoped I’d be clinging to Oliver all night for balance.
He brushed his lips along my bare shoulder, and my skin tingled. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
“I know you’re doing this for me. Dressing up and coming to this stuffy place—”
“Not at all. I want to be here.”
I wanted to be seen with him. I wanted people to look at me like I wasn’t the nothing that I was only two years ago.
I felt elevated in Oliver’s presence. A woman of worth.
If he could love me, then I had to be better than the black noise pounding inside my skull, telling me that I didn’t deserve any of this.
That I was an imposter, and he would see straight through it in time and leave me.
Who was I without this man?
Nerves raced through me as we approached the large glass doors of the center. We arrived with many others, and I assessed them quickly, taking in the dresses and suits and feeling better that I wasn’t going to stick out like a sore thumb.
I took a deep breath, wanting to dig my nails into Oliver’s arm as the doors opened and we strode in.
The room was warm with chatter and clinking glasses. I smiled at everyone Oliver introduced me to, nodding politely, laughing when I was supposed to. I didn’t understand half the conversations—philosophy jokes, references to thinkers I’d never read—but I tried to keep up.
Then someone asked me a question.
It was one of Oliver’s colleagues, a woman with assessing eyes and a throaty voice. “So, Daisy, was it?”
Oliver’s grip around my waist tightened possessively as I nodded. “Yes.”
She caught the gesture, glancing briefly at Oliver before smiling strangely at me. “What do you think of Oliver’s latest paper on metaphysical realism?”
I blinked and attempted not to squirm. “Oh. Uh…I haven’t read it yet.”
She tilted her head. “But you must hear about it all the time.”
I laughed nervously, glancing briefly at Oliver, who was staring emptily around the small circle. “Honestly, I…I don’t understand most of what he writes. Philosophy’s never been my thing.”
The group chuckled politely, but I saw it—Oliver’s jaw tightening. His smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore. He looked away, sipping his drink, and I felt the shift like a cold wind. His grip loosened around my waist, that possessiveness hidden now, and I—
I quickly tried to recover. “But I think it’s amazing how he makes people think. He’s brilliant.”
Too late.
The damage was done.
Later, as we sat at our table, I felt his silence like a weight. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t look at me. Just watched me with that unreadable, empty expression, his fingers tapping against the stem of his wine glass.
I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong.
I’d dressed up. I’d smiled. I’d tried. I always tried.
I’d tried for a baby.
I’d grieved June quietly, without making it about me.
I’d spent every day being a mother to Rowe, a perfect housewife, a woman who cooked and cleaned and made sure Oliver’s life at home was seamless.
I’d even gone to therapy. I’d told the therapist about the blackout that nearly ended my marriage. About the gaps in my memory. About the way my childhood still haunted me. About how sometimes I reacted without knowing why.
I was doing everything I could to be better.
So why did I feel like I was failing? And for what? For not knowing about metaphysical realism or whatever the fuck?
Oliver hadn’t spoken to me since we left the group. He was stewing.
I tried to meet his eyes, but he looked away.
I didn’t know how to fix it.
I didn’t know what part of me was broken this time. What was wrong this time? What did he need me to fix? I would do it, but not if he didn’t help me understand.
Panic swirled inside me. All my insecurities brimmed to the surface, reminding me what an imposter I was.
I didn’t know how many more things I could fix before he recognized what June warned me about.
That he liked the idea of me. When that idea began to shatter, he would see the loser hiding beneath the surface.
It was already happening.
I was losing him.
And I didn’t know how to stop it.
I watched helplessly as he was called up to read before the audience. That empty expression was immediately replaced with that charming smile that melted me.
Only…it wasn’t directed at me.
He gave that smile to everybody else, leaving me bereft and panicked.
I could fix this, though.
I would.
I would do whatever it took for him to love me.