“I hope everything is okay.”
I step closer, leaning in to kiss her, but at the last second, she turns her head. My lips brush her cheek instead.
Standing to my full height, I carefully examine this woman that has me tied up in knots.
This woman who excites me with just the thought of her.
This woman I want to know better.
Thick tension and unspoken words hang heavy in the air between us.
So much promise. So much longing. So much I want to say.
I should tell her about Bas and why I need to leave now. I want to talk about us, about her children, and reassure her we’ll take this slow. I want to tell her everything will be okay, but now is not the time.
Muddled with worry for Bas, I fear any conversation right now would make matters worse. My instinct is to leave things as they are, for now.
“Night, Sam.” Her voice is soft, almost apologetic.
I nod, even though it feels like the wrong ending to a night that started so right. “Goodnight, Olivia.”
She nods, and something flickers in her expression—a mix of sympathy and distance, like she’s already closing the door between us before I’ve even left.
And maybe that’s what hurts most.
17
OLIVIA
“You’re a jackhole.”
“Drew.” His name comes out as if I’m channeling my mother.
She’d wash his mouth out with soap if she heard her grandson utter such a word. Paige snickers and pours cereal into a bowl.
“Mom, seriously? It’s just a game.” His full attention is on the TV screen where lifelike soldiers shoot the crap out of each other in a video game.
“Exactly, that’s my point.”
I’m not sure if I have a point but feel like I should. I’m straddling a line between being his mother, having the right to question his vocabulary or behavior, and recognizing he’s an adult. Drew shakes his head, ignoring me.
“So, what time is your flight tomorrow?” I ask as she slides the milk back into the fridge.
“Seven thirty.” Rummaging through my bag, I double-check I have everything. “Your dad’s picking you up tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.” She shovels a spoonful of Froot Loops, her dinner, into her mouth, and says, “We’re leaving at noon.”
“Paige.” I roll my eyes at her disgusting eating habits. “Drew, you sure you don’t want to go?”
“Really? We’ve been over this. I have work. Besides, I’ll see Nans and Gramps when they visit me in September.”
“Fine.” I’m resigned to the fact that whatever is going on between Pete and Drew hasn’t been settled.
Pete’s parents are snowbirds who spend winters in Florida, and we used to vacation with them. We’d fly down just before it was time for them to come home, spend a weekor so, then drive their car back.
This year, his parents have gone for a few weeks in the summer. Pete asked me to come, his millionth attempt at reconciling. I don’t know why he refuses to get the hint. We are over.
He needs to move on. As much as he thinks he wants to repair our relationship—and perhaps some part of him truly does—he’s mostly afraid of moving on. I get it. What we had was far from perfect and, at times,downright painful, but it was comfortable and safe.
