Maybe she missed the notification. That’s fine, I’ll just text her again.
If you want to leave, call me. I’ll come get you.
Still nothing.
A slow, simmering frustration burns beneath my skin. My muscles coil, tension creeps up my spine.
Then—fuckingfinally.
OLIVIA
Sorry! Just arrived. Getting out of the car now.
The relief is instant. But it isn’t enough.
I press call before I can stop myself.
She picks up after two rings. “Nathaniel.” Her tone is warm and amused.
“You know I hate waiting.”
“I was getting out of the car.”
A beat of silence. Then, so gently, she asks, “Are you okay?”
No.I’m not fucking okay. I need her like I need my next breath.
I force a low exhale and mutter, “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
I can imagine her expression on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you later, okay?” she coaxes, her voice soft.
The words should reassure me. They don’t.
She sounds so certain, like the thought of leaving me hasn’t even crossed her mind. But that’s the thing about people—they can change their minds.How can I make sure that she won’t?
“Promise me,” I say.
“I promise.”
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the phone. “Okay.”
She lingers for a second longer before whispering, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I reply.
Then I hang up before I can ask her to say it again.
My hands clench into fists.
I’m being irrational. I know that.
But knowing does little to change the way itfeels.
I force myself to move, to dosomethingother than spiral. I make my way to the closet, pulling out a dress shirt and slacks to meet my father for lunch.
It feels like preparing for war.
My father is expecting me to show up, to be the polished, controlled version of myself that I’ve spent years perfecting. The same version he picked apart at dinner, comparing me to the ghost of the brother I can never be.
