Chapter 22
"Can you please pick up your stuff?" Oliver's voice, laced with irritation, drifted from the closet. "I'm tired of finding your clothes on the island."
I flinched at his tone, the words cutting deeper than they should. In the week since we'd lost our baby, our relationship had turned glacial. Sex was off the table for at least another week, but Oliver hadn't so much as touched me. At this rate, even that seemed like a stretch.
"Excuse me. I'm so sorry," I snapped back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
Stomping into the closet, I snatched up the ivory blouse and white bra I'd left on the island the night before. These days, I usually came home alone, Oliver insisting he had work to do late into the evening. We both knew it wasn't work – he was avoiding me, and it hurt more than I cared to admit.
Oliver cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "I won't be home until late tonight. I have a dinner meeting with Callan Ryder."
My head snapped up. "Is this about the San Francisco project?"
"Yes," he replied, not meeting my eyes.
"Then why wasn't I informed?" I demanded, hands on hips. "I thought I was taking co-lead with you?"
Oliver's jaw clenched. "I changed my mind. You have enough to deal with on this side of the country."
The implications hit me like a slap. "Does that mean you'll be traveling to the west coast without me?"
"More than likely," he said, his voice maddeningly calm. "You still have the two brownstones in Brooklyn and the building in the financial district to worry about."
I stepped closer, my voice rising. "I can handle all of them with room for another project. They're all on schedule."
Oliver finished knotting his tie – a shade that almost matched his eyes – before finally looking at me. "The answer is no. You handle what you have."
"You're ridiculous," I spat, spinning on my heel and storming out to the bathroom.
As I angrily applied makeup, I heard Oliver's shoes clicking on the wood floor, followed by the soft thud of the bedroom door closing. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away furiously. Fuck him.
If he wouldn't pay attention to me, I knew someone who would. It was probably childish, but I needed someone to confide in. Sadie was family, and my other friends lived in Westchester. I needed a face-to-face to pour out my feelings.
The ride to work was excruciating.
We sat on opposite sides of the limo's bench seat, the space between us a chasm. I stared out the window at the bustling pedestrians while Oliver's fingers flew across his phone screen. We might have been mere feet apart, but it felt like we were separated by oceans.
Hours later, the soft glow of The Iron Horse's vintage lighting did little to lift my spirits as I sat across from Tyler, pushing my Caesar chicken salad around the plate. The weight of my confession hung heavy in the air between us.
Ty's face contorted with shock and pain as he processed what I'd just told him. "Jesus Christ, you were pregnant?" he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, my throat tight. "Yes, a little over four months."
"I'm so sorry," Ty said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
I gave him a weak smile. "It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault, though I feel Oliver blames me."
Ty's eyes flashed with anger. "I changed my mind about him. He really is an asshole."
I sighed, twirling my fork absently. “I want to talk to the woman who lost his baby."
I didn’t have to explain since Tyler looked the information up about Lara Harvin’s miscarriage. He knew the story.
Ty's brow furrowed. "Why do you want to talk to her?"
"I want to find out how Oliver acted after she lost the baby," I explained, my voice small.
"Does it matter?" Ty asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.
I met his gaze, willing him to understand. "To me it does. Maybe it's just me. It's like losing our child was like a switch. He isn't the same Oliver. I understand he's hurting, but so am I."
Ty's jaw clenched. "And he should know that if he loves you."
"He does love me," I insisted, though the words felt hollow even to my own ears.
"It sounds like he loves himself more," Ty muttered, then immediately looked regretful.
I reached for my wine glass – my second of the evening and my first taste of alcohol in months – taking a long sip to buy myself time. "I don't know what's going on in his head," I finally admitted.
Ty's expression softened. "I wish I had some insight for you."
"Thank you for listening," I said, managing a genuine smile this time.
Ty's eyes locked onto mine, intensity burning in their depths. "Anytime. You know I love you, even if you don't love me back."
My stomach tightened at his words. "I love you, Ty," I said carefully, "just not the way you want me to."
He nodded, a sad smile playing at his lips. "I know. It's why I didn't sleep with you when you hated Oliver."
I felt a pang of guilt at the memory. "I don't think I hated him. I was just so angry."
As silence fell between us, I found myself caught between gratitude for Ty's unwavering support and an aching awareness of the void Oliver's emotional absence had left. The bustling restaurant faded into the background as I grappled with the realization that healing my relationship with Oliver might be an even greater challenge than healing from our loss.
As things came back into focus, Tyler told me he had to leave for his shift. We paid our bill and walked to the exit. Ty pulled me in for a tight hug and I clung to him, nestling my head in the crook of his neck. It felt good to be comforted.
“Call me,” he whispered before he let me go.
The clock had just struck 10 p.m. when Oliver's key turned in the lock. I was nestled in bed, a tumbler of scotch in one hand and a magazine in the other, trying to distract myself from the gnawing emptiness that had become my constant companion.
As Oliver entered the bedroom, I looked up, hoping to catch his eye. His sandy hair was tousled from the evening wind, giving him a disheveled appearance that would have been endearing under different circumstances. But he didn't even glance my way, heading straight for the closet instead.
"Oliver?" I called out, my voice barely above a whisper.
Silence was my only answer. Swallowing hard, I pushed back the covers and padded to the closet. There I found him, mechanically removing his tie and shirt as if I weren't even there.
"Are you going to ignore me?" I asked, unable to keep the hurt from my voice.
Oliver's hands stilled for a moment before he resumed undressing. "Does it matter? You have Tyler. You don't need me."
His words hit me like a physical blow. "I had dinner with a friend," I said, my tone sharpening. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"That's not what I heard," he muttered, still not meeting my gaze.
"Then what you heard was a lie," I insisted, stepping closer. "We had dinner and talked. I haven't seen him for a while."
Oliver's eyes finally snapped to mine, cold and accusing. "He had his hands on you."
"He hugged me," I explained, exasperated. "That's what friends do, Oliver."
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Would you like me to go out with Lara? How would that make you feel?"
The mention of his ex sent a chill through me. "It wouldn't make me feel good at all."
"Exactly," he spat. "I'm busy working and this is what you do?"
As he angrily stuffed his clothes into the dry-cleaning bag, I found myself mesmerized by the play of muscles across his back. Unable to resist, I reached out, my fingertips barely grazing his skin. Oliver flinched as if burned, and something inside me shattered.
Tears spilled down my cheeks as sobs wracked my body. Oliver turned, his face an impassive mask. "What's your problem? It's not always about you."
In that moment, my grief transmuted into white-hot anger. My open palm connected with his chest before I even realized I'd moved. It was like hitting steel, and the shock of it startled us both. As I wound up for another swing, Oliver's hand shot out, encircling my wrist in an iron grip.
"You bastard," I hissed through clenched teeth. "Why can't you show any emotion but anger toward me?"
Oliver's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he released my wrist. Without another word, I spun on my heel and stormed out of the closet. But I wasn't retreating – I was preparing for war.
Snatching my red gym duffel from the floor, I yanked open my dresser drawer and began shoving clothes inside haphazardly. Each item that disappeared into the bag felt like another nail in the coffin of our relationship, but I couldn't stop. The suffocating silence of the past week had finally reached its breaking point, and I was ready to shatter it – even if it meant walking away.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Oliver's voice cracked like a whip, breaking the tense silence.
I wiped away angry tears with the back of my hand, not bothering to look at him. "I won't live here with you like this," I choked out, stuffing another handful of clothes into the bag. "I can't. It hurts too much to be around you with you hating me."
"I don't hate you," he whispered, his tone softening for the first time in days.
I paused, my hand hovering over an open drawer. "Then what? I'm sorry I lost the baby. It was out of my control."
Oliver's breath hitched audibly. "I'm fucking afraid," he admitted, his voice raw. "Is that what you want to hear?"
I turned to face him, tears blurring my vision. "Don't you think I am too?"
He ran a hand through his hair, his composure crumbling. "I can't go through this again. Once was bad enough, but twice?"
"Tell me what happened with Lara," I pressed, sensing we were on the brink of something crucial.
Oliver's shoulders sagged as if under an invisible weight. "She can't have children again. It was my fault. We had an argument."
I shook my head, confused. "That wouldn't cause her to miscarry."
"I stressed her out," he insisted, pacing the room. "She wanted so much more than I was willing to give her. Maybe in time I could've, but not then."
"It wasn't your fault," I said softly, taking a step towards him.
Oliver's eyes met mine, filled with a pain so deep it took my breath away. "It was, and I'll carry that for the rest of my life. Now I have the loss of our son in my head. I can't go through another lost child. It hurts too much."
"You can't stop nature," I reminded him gently. "The doctor said this happens to women of all ages and at all times."
He nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry. I've been thinking of getting a vasectomy."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My mouth dropped open in shock. "Are you out of your mind? I want children. How can you do something like this without speaking to me?"
"Because it's my choice," Oliver said, his voice hardening again. "You can get out if you like."
A chill ran down my spine. "Get out how?"
"Divorce," he said flatly. "I'll give you a divorce and a decent settlement so you can start over."
Rage and despair warred within me. I grabbed a handful of underwear from the drawer and hurled it at him. "You can't just push me away, Oliver," I cried, my voice rising. "You just can't. I won't let you."
Oliver's face was a mask of determination and sorrow. "You have no choice. I've made up my mind. I'm sorry."
As we stood there, the air between us electric with pain and unspoken words, I realized we were standing on a precipice. One wrong move and everything we'd built together could come crashing down. But as I looked into Oliver's eyes, I saw a flicker of something – fear, yes, but also a desperate need for connection. In that moment, I knew I had a choice: I could walk away, or I could fight for us with everything I had.