“I love you too, Olivia.”
And I do. In every way a man can love. In ways I don’t know how to say without terrifying her.
She curls back into me, her cheek pressed against my chest once again. I stroke along the length of her spine, watching the way the sunlight catches her lashes.
But even in the golden hush, I feel it—the now-familiar ache of all the things I haven’t dared to press her for.
TEN
olivia
Castor& Wyatt got back to me last week.Waitlisted. A kind rejection wrapped in admiration—they told me they were impressed, that if someone withdrew from the overseas offices, I’d be the first call. It was flattering. And final.
A year ago, it would have gutted me. I’ve built so much of my ambition around that firm, around what it would mean to get in, to bechosen. Now, all I feel is a strange, hollow kind of relief. Not because I didn’t want it. I did. Maybe I still do. But it means I don’t have to choose.
And I hate how grateful I am for that, to be spared the impossible decision of whether I could really leave him—or worse, stay and wonder what I’d given up.
It resolves a dilemma I haven’t had the courage to look at head-on—that I still haven’t told Nathaniel the job was abroad, and I don’t know what I would have done if it had been offered. I never figured out how to explain it to him—why I wanted it, and why I didn’t. Why his interference had unsettled me more than I was willing to admit. In his mind, this was his way of loving me. But in mine, it was something else. A line crossed too easily.
However, with Castor & Wyatt off the table, that conversation can stay buried.
And now, as if the universe had been waiting for the signal, the other offers have started to come in. One from Baxter & Company’s New York office—prestigious, coveted, entirely on my own merit. No hidden levers pulled. No invisible fingerprints. It wasn’t the dream I once had, but it was still a dream. One I could step into without hesitation or guilt.
However, I haven’t told Nathaniel about this either. I guess I just want to keep it for myself a little longer.
He may already know—it wouldn’t surprise me. But if he does, he hasn’t said anything. And I haven’t asked.
For now, it appears as if we’ve both reached an understanding. The tension no longer coils quite so tightly beneath every glance, every touch. There’s space to breathe again.
But just as one weight lifts, another replaces it—and this burden is one that I am all too familiar with.
My mother’s been calling again. Not often—just enough to let me know she’s thinking of me, and not in a way that feels comforting. First it was a casual check-in. Then a pointed question about whether I plan on coming home for spring break.
Such is the dynamic of our relationship. My parents don’texpectso much as theydemand, and I’ve always delivered. I’m the eldest daughter with her head down and sleeves rolled up. I’ve known how to carry responsibility since I was old enough to reach the register, and even now—after everything—I still feel the reflex to step back into that role the second they ask. Or more accurately, the second they assume I will.
Last winter was the first time I didn’t return to Ashby. Instead, I spent the break in New York, immersed in Nathaniel’s world. That time exposed more than either of us were ready for—his secrets, his fault lines, the new depths of feeling between us… But even amid the unraveling, there were stretches of stillness where I felt, maybe for the first time, what it was like to beunburdened. There were no family obligations to attend to, or reminders that I’m not doing enough. I got to experience long mornings, peaceful evenings, and the unfamiliar permission to simplyrest.
But of course, my mother made sure I knew exactly what she thought about that decision. Her disapproval doesn’t need to be loud to be heard. It lives in the silences between her words, in the carefully chosen pauses, in the way she never fails to remind me of everything they’ve done for me.
“You know we wouldn’t ask if there were anyone else.”
“Your father’s back is acting up again. I’ve been taking double shifts.”
“Your brothers are only fourteen and should spend time with their friends, we can’t expect them to help out.”
“It’s just hard, Olivia.”
When Nathaniel asked me about spring break, I knew instantly what I wanted.Him.This.The warmth I feel when we share a bed, the peace I get when I don’t have to anticipate someone else’s needs before my own. I want to spend it by his side. But instead of saying that, I deflected. I just didn’t want to see the look on his face when I admitted I’m not sure I can choose him. Not because I don’t want to—but because something in me still believes I don’t have the right to.
After all, they raised me to be useful. And I’ve always been. I folded napkins and cleaned grease traps and picked up my brothers from school. I filled in the gaps so seamlessly that no one ever stopped to ask what it cost me.
I can’t seem to quell the anxiety it all stirs in me. The truth is, I don’t know how to not feel responsible. Even whenI hate it.Even when I know it’s broken me in ways I’m still recovering from. Even when the person I want most is standing right in front of me, willing to shoulder everything I’ve spent my life carrying alone.
That’s exactly why I’ve started spending all my nights with Nathaniel again. When I am with him, he makes it feel possible that I could be something more than a resource. He looks at me like Imatter—not for what I can do, not for what I offer—but simply because of who I am.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like I’m failing anyone.
The smellof garlic and basil fills the kitchen as jazz plays softly through the speakers—Laufey, one of her newer tracks that Nathaniel added to our playlist.
