“Okay! Love you!”
“Love you more.” The phone goes back to Hannah. We sit in the quiet for a few more seconds. I hear pots clanking in the background. Normal life. The one I built. A family I love. A wife who’s everything. And still, all I can think about are green eyes I haven’t seen in sixteen years, and the ache they left behind. “I’ll call you in the morning,” I say finally.
“Okay. Love you, Ethan.”
“Love you too.” I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling until it hurts. Because grief isn’t always loud, sometimes it’s your mother’s voice fading. Or the girl who once promised forever walking away.
CHAPTER THREE
OLIVIA
He looks good.Way too good, and I hate that I noticed. But I have eyes, okay? And unfortunately, a mind that remembers it all too well. I can’t believe he still has this power over me. I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling. Maybe it's the grief, or nostalgia, even sadness? It’s all tangled together, and I hate it. But one thing is painfully clear: my time here is going to be hell. And not only for Larna’s death.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I remember when this room felt huge; now it’s like the walls are swallowing me. The way he said my name, ‘Liv’, no one calls me that anymore, and I hate that I loved the way it sounded on his lips. Fuck Olivia, stop. Steam fogs the mirror until my reflection blurs, thank God. I don’t want to look at her anymore. That’s the girl who has too many memories in this place. The one who still reacts to him like she’s sixteen. And that’s not me, not anymore.
I step into the shower and let the hot water fall against my shoulders. It’s too hot, but I don’t move. I want it to burn. Maybe this way I can focus on something else that’s not this stupid sadness or whatever I’m feeling.
After a while, I shut off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and take a deep breath until my hands stop shaking. Good, I’m regaining control over myself. I get dressed quickly, just some black leggings, a soft, oversized sweater, and I get my hair in a messy bun, the only mess I’m allowing myself to have right now. I almost look steady again. Almost.
I have the habit of controlling everything, or at least trying to. And I have to say I’m good at it: even my feelings, well,especiallymy feelings. I’ve always been the ‘cold’ one. The one that’s always okay, that person who you don’t need to worry about because you know she’ll be fine no matter what. I hate to admit it, and I will never say this out loud, but sometimes I get tired of it.
Downstairs, the house hums with their slow voices and clinking dishes. Julia’s already at the counter, scrolling on her phone, but she looks up when I enter. Mom—Mooney to everyone else—is at the sink, her hands braced on the edge like she’s holding herself steady.
She doesn’t turn as she talks. “It doesn’t feel real.” Her voice is low, and it just sounds painful. “Forty years of friendship, and I keep thinking I should just call her. Tell her some silly story or ask if she wants to meet me at the farmer’s market. My hand almost reached for the phone this morning before I remembered.” Julia slipsoff the stool and goes to her, resting a hand on her back. “Mom…”
Mom shakes her head, blinking hard. “She was supposed to outlive me. We used to joke about that. How she’d be the one holding my hand at the end, bossing everyone around, making sure they got the flowers right.” Her laugh cracks halfway through. “And now it’s me, planning hers. Do you know how wrong that feels?”
I step closer, sliding in on her other side, my hand finding hers where it clings to the counter. Her skin feels cold, tight. “We know, Mom. But we’re here, you don’t have to do this alone.” Her shoulders drop, but the tears come fast, heavy. Julia wraps an arm around her waist, and I squeeze her hand tighter. For a moment, we hold her, the three of us locked together in the kitchen like we’re keeping her from collapsing.
When she finally speaks, her voice is a whisper. “She was my person—the one who knew everything, before your father, before either of you. There’s no one left who remembers me at twenty. Or who I was before I became a mom.” That lands heavy. I feel Julia press her forehead against Mom’s shoulder. “Then we’ll remember for you. We’ll carry it, too.” Mom exhales, a shudder that sounds like release and ache all at once. She squeezes our hands back. “I don’t know what I’d do without you girls.” And in that moment, it’s clear to me, we’re not just her daughters tonight. We’re the ones keeping her upright. And I need to shut down whatever I’m feeling because even though I’m hurting too, my pain is not the important one.
Dinner was mainly quiet; you could only hear the clinking of the forks, sometimes too loud. When we finished, I stood and started stacking plates. “I got this,” I said, nodding toward the sink. Mom just pressed a kiss to my shoulder, too tired to argue, and headed upstairs. I rinsed the last dish under hot water when Julia grabbed an open bottle of wine and two glasses. She didn’t say anything, just leaned against the counter until I was done, then walked straight out back. I dried my hands and followed.
The porch hasn’t changed much. Same creaky boards, same swinging chairs, same view of the lake that’s been our backdrop since we were kids. But there’s a new couch tucked against the railing, deep cushions that look out of place here. Julia caught me staring. “Bought it a couple of months ago. I got so sick and tired of the crackly chairs,” she said with a shrug. I chuckled under my breath. “Doesn’t surprise me that you wanted to redo the whole place.” We sat side by side, sinking into the cushions. She poured the wine and handed me a glass. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to.
The lake was still. It looks like black glass stretching out under the moonlight. The air bit our skin; it was way too cold to feel comfortable, but neither of us went inside. We just sat there, drinking, staring, letting the silence do the talking. “Well, I just needed that one glass, but you can have the bottle,” Julia says, smirking as she stands. “Oh, I will drink this bottle,” I tell her, lifting my glass. She laughs, the sound thin but real. “Get some rest.Tomorrow’s going to be hell.” I nod, watching her disappear inside.
The night settles around me as I pour myself another glass; the wine is colder now, and I stare out at the lake. The water is so still, so peaceful that for a minute, my mind goes quiet. From here, I can see Ethan’s house. The back porch light is on. The guesthouse windows glow, too. He must be staying there. My chest tightens. Why do I even care? Sixteen years should’ve been enough to stop looking for him in the dark. I shake the thought away and grab my phone. My thumb hovers before I scroll to Recent Calls and tap on David.
“Hey,” David answers on the second ring, his voice low. “Hi,” I say, curling tighter into the couch. “Were the kids okay tonight?”
“They were fine. Beatriz made pasta, and apparently, Mathew is now a self-proclaimed Parmesan addict.” I can hear the smile in his voice. I laugh softly. “That sounds like him.”
“They’re both asleep now.” My chest warms. There’s a pause, gentle, comfortable. “How’s your mom holding up?” I exhale. “Fragile. She tries to keep busy, but… You can see it. The cracks are there. Julia and I are doing what we can, but it’s hard watching her like this.”
“I can imagine,” he says quietly. “And Julia? You two hanging in there?”
“Yeah. We sat outside for a while. She bought this big couch for the porch. Said she was tired of the old swing chairs.” David chuckles, and I smile, staring at the lake. “She’s trying. We all are.”
“Good,” he says, softer now. “And you? How are you holding up?” I hesitate. “I don’t know. It feels heavy.” He’s quiet a moment, then: “You don’t have to carry it all alone, O. Even from home, I’m here for you. Call me if you need me. Call me even if you don’t.” My throat tightens. “I know. I … miss you.”
“Miss you too,” he says. “We’ll get through this, okay?”
“Kiss the boys for me.”
“Always. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I end the call and sit in the quiet, staring out at the lake. I drain the last of my wine and finally head inside. The cold’s gone from sharp to unbearable.
