Olive’s hand rests on my knee, casual, grounding. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I watch the slow crawl of Sunset for a beat before hearing myself say, “God, I’d love a drink right about now.”
“Yeah, I can imagine,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. No judgment, just understanding.
“I haven’t had a drop in three years,” I admit, almost absently.
Her head tips, eyes warm. “That’s amazing, Ash. You should be proud.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you miss it?” she asks softly.
"Sometimes I miss the switch,” I admit. “The instant off. I don’t miss the mornings after. I don’t miss the apologies. I like remembering the whole night. I like writing the next day and not hating the guy in the mirror.”
“Was it really that bad?”
I watch a line of taillights blink red, then release. “It wasn’t great, that’s for sure.”
She turns toward me, all attention. “When did you notice it was a problem?”
“I think it was the first time I forgot a lyric I’d known since I was nineteen. Everyone else already kind of knew. Scott was the one who dragged me to my first AA meeting—and made me move in with him.”
We pull up to the restaurant. Olive’s hand slides to my knee, warm. “Did you ever slip?”
I think about lying. I don’t. “Once. A year later. Post-show high, empty hotel room, someone sent up a ‘congrats’ tray with a bottle I used to love. I told myself I’d just smell it.” I swallow. “That’s the oldest lie I know. I had two. Called Scott before I could have three. He made me pour the rest out while he listened on the phone.”
Her fingers tighten. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” I say, and it surprises me how true it feels. “I learned what the edge is—and how to back away from it. I woke up, texted Scott, texted Liam, went to a noon meeting in a strip mall next to a nail place. Picked up a twenty-four-hour chip like it was my first day again. Humbling is good for me.”
I pause, then add, “I know I’ve told you before that I had a problem with alcohol. But I want you prepared tonight—dinners with my parents are a challenge. I don’t want you managing me. I just… want you to know what you’re walking into.”
Her hand slides down to lace our fingers. “I don’t need to manage you,” she says. “But I can have your back.”
I smile, grateful. “And if you want a drink—have one. Please. This isn’t about policing the room.”
“Copy.” She squeezes once. “Then let’s get this over with.”
***
The restaurant is all glass, gold accents, and hushed conversation—the kind of place where forks have five tines and the waiters look like they moonlight as secret agents. I spot them immediately—my parents—seated in a booth near the window.
Dad, in his usual navy blazer, sits like he’s back in a boardroom: spine straight, hands folded, eyes calculating. Mom wears pearls and a tight smile. She looks like she’s trying not to touch the tablecloth, in case it’s not Egyptian cotton.
I hesitate for half a second, but then Olive takes my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze back and we walk over together. As soon as we reach the table, my dad’s eyebrows twitch upward in recognition. Not of Olive—of me bringing anyone.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, voice even. “This is Olive Hart. My fiancée.”
Silence.
My mother blinks once. Twice. “Your what?”
“My fiancée,” I repeat, slipping my arm around Olive’s waist. “We’re getting married next month.”
More silence. A waiter appears, drops off water, vanishes like a ghost.
Dad finally speaks. “This is… sudden.”
