Amidst my soft, delicate kisses to her jaw and lips, she peeks at me through the fan of her dark lashes. Lifting her, I carry her to the bedroom where I show her how much I love her, how important she is to me.
She may not have said it, but the love is in her eyes. I feel the love in the way her body responds to me, in the way she gives herself to me, welcomes me into not only her body but also her heart and soul.
She’s stolen my heart, and every time she leaves, she takes it with her.
I need her to stop leaving.
I need her to stay.
33
OLIVIA
Scanning the yard of my old home, I can’t help but notice how things have slipped since I left. The flowerbeds are overgrown, the lawn could use a trim, and the shutters that once gleamed with fresh paint now look a little tired. Some small part of me aches at that.
Even with the divorce, this house still holds pieces of me. Memories I can’t quite shake. I suppose that’s the thing about homes—you leave, but part of you always lingers in the walls.
I pull into the driveway, my mind already on what’s next. I’m excited—nervous, too, but mostly excited. Sam’s flying in this morning, and I can’t wait to see him.
It’s been just over two months since Bas’s funeral, and every day since, I’ve seen him inch his way back to the world. Slowly, carefully. Each smile, each laugh, feels like another piece of him coming home.
When he told me he loved me that night, I thought things might shift—that the weight of those words would somehow change us. But they didn’t, at least not in the way I feared. We’ve been good. Better, even. We see each other almost every week, and the rhythm we’ve found feels natural, easy.
And I do love him. I know I do.
I’m certain Sam knows too, even if I haven’t said the words out loud yet. It’s not hesitation born from doubt—it’s fear. Saying it makes it real, binding, and after everything I’ve been through, that kind of vulnerability still scares me.
It shouldn’t.
Not with him.
Because everything about Sam feels right.
Steady. Safe.
Still, the words sit heavy on my tongue, waiting for the right moment. Maybe today will be the day. Maybe I’ll finally find the courage to say it back.
I smile at the thought as I put the car into park and get out, though the timing couldn’t be worse. Stopping here—at Pete’s house, of all places—for Paige’s uniform means I’m running late. Again. The joys of parenting a teenager.
Paige has been better lately. The sharp edges between us have softened. She’s stopped throwing the divorce in my face every time I so much as breathe near her. There are still moments—small flare-ups where she tests my guilt, just to see if she can—but the constant tension is gone.
This morning’s little detour is one of those moments. Her “innocent” reminder that she left her soccer uniform at her dad’s house came with the kind of wide-eyed sweetness only a teenager can weaponize.
So here I am, playing errand girl to my daughter’s guilt trip, telling myself I can still make it to breakfast on time.
I glance at my watch. If Pete doesn’t keep me, I can.
But then again,whenhas Pete ever not kept me?
With a deep breath, a wave of something old and complicated sweeps through me—nostalgia, regret, maybe a tinge of defensiveness.
I remind myself this is just a quick stop. A few minutes, grab the uniform, and go.
Sam’s waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, I can’t wait to get back to someone.
When I’m mere feet from the front door, Erin steps out, shrugging on her suit jacket. I gasp, stopping dead in my tracks. She’s the last person I expected to see.
