We Can Believe

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Devin Martinez

“One gin and tonic,” Niall tells the bartender, then shifts his weight against the polished wood bar, studying me with that particular brand of concern I’ve gotten used to seeing in people’s eyes lately. “And one…” His gaze drops to my hands, wrapped around nothing but air, waiting. “Tonic?”

I laugh, the sound coming out lighter than I feel. The holiday lights strung across the pizzeria’s exposed beams catch in the glassware behind the bar, throwing little rainbows across the dark wood. “I’ll take a sparkling water with cranberry juice.”

The bartender nods and turns away, bottles clinking as he works.

“Sorry.” Niall grimaces, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the bar’s surface. “I should have remembered that.”

“No.” I roll my eyes and let my grin widen, hoping it reaches my eyes. “You don’t have to. It’s been, what, months since we last went out for drinks?”

“Feels like ages,” he says, then his attention shifts as a familiar laugh ripples across the pizzeria, carrying over the din of conversation and Christmas music.

Maya’s in the corner of the restaurant, her head thrown back in genuine delight, laughing with some of the sports medicine doctors from the practice.

Dr. Brennan’s making some elaborate gesture with his hands, probably telling one of his infamous emergency room stories, and the whole table’s leaning in, captivated.

Seeing her having such a good time instantly fills me with warmth, loosening something tight in my chest. When I invited her to the holiday party I’m throwing for my physical therapy practice, I was a little worried that she wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. Luckily, it looks like I was wrong.

The bartender deposits Niall’s and my drinks on the bar with practiced efficiency, the ice in his gin and tonic catching the light.

Condensation’s already beading on my glass, and I wrap my fingers around it, grateful for something solid to hold.

Niall picks his up, raising it toward me with a crooked smile. “To another kickass year completed.”

I lift my mocktail, the cranberry juice swirling like liquid rubies in the sparkling water. “And to yet another one in the year to come.”

We clink glasses, the sound sharp and bright, and drink.

The tart sweetness floods my mouth, and it feels like a punctuation mark on the last twelve months—ones as full of challenges as they were triumphs.

My hand unconsciously drops to smooth my compression socks through my leggings, a new habit I’m still getting used to, and while it’s getting easier, I’m not sure I’ll ever become a master.

“How are you doing?” Niall studies me over the rim of his glass, and I know he’s thinking about what I am: the POTS—Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome—the curveball that hit me right in the face about six months ago.

“I’m okay.” I look into my drink, watching the bubbles rise and pop at the surface, wishing I could at least have one shot to take the edge off this conversation.

With my latest health turns, though, it’s not a good idea.

“I didn’t think I would be wearing compression socks before seventy—but hey, here we are. ”

He hooks an elbow on the edge of the bar and turns to face me more fully, his body creating a little pocket of privacy in the crowded room. “But they help, right?”

I fiddle with the tiny black straw in my glass, pushing it through the ice. “I’ve only fainted a couple times in the last couple of months, so yeah.”

My chest constricts, but I hold back the sigh. Tonight is more than just a work party, and it doesn’t feel like I’m just celebrating a break for the holidays. Anything having to do with work is a big deal.

This is the practice that I started all by myself when I came to Pine Island with nothing but a dream and a U-Haul full of IKEA furniture.

I don’t want to think about the things that slow me down—Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and POTS, which can make me pass out if I get up too suddenly or stand in one spot for too long.

I want to focus on everything I’ve achieved, and that list is substantial.

With government help, my practice provides low-cost care to people who might not otherwise get it. I’m teaching tailored yoga classes just like I always wanted to. I have a kickass group of friends. I live on a cute island that’s probably the east coast’s best-kept secret.

I kind of have it all.

Except for a partner to share it with, but that’s become less important over the years. With the limited energy that comes with a chronic health condition, I don’t have the strength to maintain a relationship anyway.

“What about you?” I jut my chin at Niall, eager to shift the focus. “Your friend should be here soon, right? The new high school teacher?”

“He’s going to be a coach, actually. Oliver.” Niall checks his phone, the screen illuminating his face in the dim bar lighting. “He’s on his way here now. He said he’d drop his moving trailer off at the house then head over.”

The name hits like ice water in my veins, my fingers going numb around the glass.

Oliver. I knew an Oliver once, five years ago that simultaneously feels like just yesterday but also another lifetime.

It’s become that name for me. The one that tugs at my heart while also making my stomach churn in disgust. I could never date an Oliver again, couldn’t even be friends with one.

The mail man who comes to the practice is named Oliver—nicest guy I know, yet I have to actively remind myself that his name doesn’t define him.

“Cool.” I adjust on my stool, the vinyl creaking slightly. “How does your wife feel about him crashing on your couch?”

Niall chuckles. “We fixed up the apartment over the garage, so there won’t be any problems there. She likes him, anyway. They’ve always gotten along.”

Over Niall’s shoulder, the pizzeria’s door opens and a man steps in. He’s not much more than a silhouette in the porch light, but there’s something about his build that catches my attention. It’s so familiar, tugging at the corner of a forgotten memory.

The door closes behind him, and he steps fully into the restaurant, the light around the hostess stand illuminating his face. I blink, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. He looks so much like—

No. It couldn’t be.

Oliver.

Yep. That Oliver. The one who began my strained relationship with the name. Niall follows my gaze, turning around to see who I’m staring at.

“That’s...” I’m trying to explain that I’m staring at my ex-boyfriend, who I haven’t seen in five years, and certainly never here in New Hampshire, when Niall raises his arm and waves at Oliver.

Seeing him, Oliver’s face lights up with relief. He takes a few steps toward the bar, then spots me.

It’s like watching a car accident in slow motion.

Oliver grinds to a halt, his mouth dropping open.

First his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to bring me into focus, questioning whether he’s actually seeing me.

Then recognition dawns and color floods up from his collar—not just red but blotchy, the way it always got when he was caught off guard.

His eyes dart to the door he just came through, then to the hallway leading to the bathrooms, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet like he might bolt.

His jaw works, that muscle in his cheek jumping the way it always did when he was stressed, before he seems to accept there’s only going forward.

My hand tightens around the glass tumbler until I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, and suddenly the room feels like it’s tilting—not the POTS tilt where everything goes gray at the edges, but something else entirely.

My skin prickles with awareness, every nerve ending remembering exactly how those hands used to touch me, how that mouth used to—no.

What the hell is Oliver doing here? Wait—is he the friend Niall and I were just talking about?

Since when is he coaching high school? Should I run?

Make an excuse about having left something turned on at home?

The time for panicking is over, however. Oliver has reached the bar, and there’s nothing left to do but face the music.

The tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, blond music.

“Hey, man.” Niall claps Oliver on the back, and they embrace. “How was your flight?”

“Good.” Oliver’s Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow, and his hands flex at his sides—another tell I remember, what he’d do before crucial plays. “Uh, good.”

“Oliver, this is Devin.” Niall turns to introduce me with a broad smile, and I must be doing a good job of hiding my shock because he doesn’t seem to notice anything is up.

“We know each other,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Really?” Niall’s eyes light up, then dim as he looks between us, taking in Oliver’s flushed face and my white knuckles, the charged air between us that could probably power the Christmas lights. “Oh. Oh.”

“Yeah.” Oliver clears his throat, the sound rough. His gaze flicks to me, holds for a heartbeat—and in that moment I see a flash of something raw and unguarded before he looks away. “It’s been, uh, what, five years?”

“Something like that.” But who’s counting?

And why does he look so damn good? Age is supposed to wear people down, but he looks strong (albeit a little thinner, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced), with soft lines around his eyes that only add character.

His blue eyes are still bright, still sharp, like they can see right into my soul.

He shouldn’t be here, in my area. In my life. At my party.

“Excuse me.” I stand way faster than I should.

The world doesn’t just tilt—it swoops, my vision fracturing into prismatic colors before narrowing to a tunnel.

My legs feel like they’re dissolving, that horrible sensation of my blood pressure plummeting, pooling in my feet instead of reaching my brain.

I grip the edge of the bar, my knuckles screaming, counting three breaths before I trust myself to let go. “I forgot to tell Maya something.”

I leave without saying goodbye, my vision swimming as I wind through the crowd.

My heart isn’t just hammering—it’s doing that irregular flutter-skip that makes me feel like I’m drowning in my own chest. Maya’s still sitting with the group she was with earlier, but upon seeing my face she gets up and rushes over.

“What is it?” She touches my arm gently, already scanning for signs of a medical emergency—she knows the drill, knows to look for the gray pallor that means I’m about to hit the floor. “Do you need to sit? Water? Are you feeling ill?”

“Act cool. My ex is here.”

“Your...” Maya frowns in confusion, and of course she should. I haven’t really dated since moving to Pine Island. I’ve had a few flings with men I was never really that interested in to begin with, but dating is just something that doesn’t work for me.

After a moment, her eyes go wide—not the gentle concern from before but something fiercer, protective. “Oh. Oliver? The Oliver who—wait, here? At your party?”

“Yeah, one in a million chance, right? I need to sit down.”

We take refuge in a booth in the corner, away from the bar’s view. For the first time since Oliver walked in, I draw a deep breath that actually reaches my lungs.

“What is he doing here?” Maya leans in, her voice taking on that no-nonsense tone she uses when she’s ready to fight someone. “Did he know you’d be here? Is this some kind of ambush?”

“What? No. He’s Niall’s friend. Randomly. He’s, uh, coaching at the high school. He’s...” It dawns on me as the words come out. “He must be the new assistant ice hockey coach.”

Which means that I’ll be seeing him there, since I’m helping train some of my interns who are putting in hours there this season. We’re working with all the sports teams at the high school, but there’s one sport that has every other sport beat when it comes to its number of injuries.

Hockey.

I close my eyes. “Shit.”

“Shit, what?”

“He’s moved here.” I open my eyes and stare at her. “He lives here now.”

“He’s a pro hockey player, right?” She looks confused again, then something shifts in her expression. “Why would he move here?”

“He must not be playing anymore. I guess he’s only coaching now.” I bite my lip. Why would he quit? Did he have an accident?

I’ve made it a point to not follow his career over the years, and I hate how intensely curious I am about it now.

“You okay?” Maya asks softly, but there’s steel underneath it.

“No.” I press at the corner of my eyebrow where tension is gathering. “I’m going to have to see him at the high school.”

“Oh.” She chews her bottom lip. “Can you get out of working over there?”

“No, not without asking one of my colleagues to take over the supervision, and I can’t ask that of anyone. I volunteered to do it.”

“Hmm.” She drums her nails on the table, painted red and green for Christmas. “What do you want to do tonight? I can create a distraction while you escape. Set off the fire alarm. Fake a medical emergency. Start a flash mob. Your choice.”

“No.” I sigh. “Thank you.”

“You sure? Don’t you still need to finish that intarsia sweater for your mom?” Her eyes light up. “Or you could text Joe. See if he’s available.”

I drop my head back against the booth. Usually, a few hours with Joe is exactly what I need to shake things up. He’s a fun guy, but we also don’t have much in common, so we have a good time together without any risk of me really falling for him. Which makes it perfect.

Right now, though, the thought of leaving the pizzeria makes me almost as sick as the thought of staying. This is my party, my town. And if I leave, I’ll look like a wimp. I’ll look weak.

It’s the last way I want Oliver to see me.

Despite the way he treated me when we were together, I don’t want to give any indication that he’s broken me in the slightest. I’ve built an amazing life since I moved out of our New York apartment, and I’m not going to tuck my tail between my legs and run away.

“I’m staying.” I stand, firm in my decision.

“What are you going to do?”

“What I’ve been doing for the last five years.” I raise my chin. “Live my life. Forget about him.”

Even as I say the words, I know it’s not that easy. The thousand tiny cuts have healed, but the scars are still there. Every time I look in the mirror, I see them, hear the echo of words telling me I’m not good enough, that I’m doing things all wrong.

I’m not living after Oliver. I’m living in spite of him, as much as I hate that even that gives him some power over me.