And for the first time in a week, the house didn't feel quite so empty.
Chapter 12
Olivia
Iwas up at dawn.
The alarm wasn't set. My body just decided it was done with sleep. The meeting was at two, and Ben was picking me up at one, which gave me seven hours to get through, and the silence in the house was already deafening.
I lay in the gray light of dawn, staring at a water stain on the ceiling I’d never noticed before. I tried to rehearse what I would say to Lucia. Every script I ran through in my head sounded wrong—too angry, too pathetic, or too much like a lawyer cross-examining a witness.
Finally, the anxiety forced me up.
I showered until the hot water tank emptied, then stood under the freezing spray until my skin went numb. It was the only way to stop the buzzing under my skin. I dried off and stood in front of my open closet, shivering in a towel.
What do you wear to meet your dead husband's mistress?
I stood in front of my closet for ten minutes before I grabbed the black cashmere sweater Ryan had bought me for my birthday. I didn't know why. Maybe because it was his—his choice, his gift, proof that I'd once been someone he wanted to dress.
Or maybe I just wanted to hurt myself a little more.
By nine, I was pacing the kitchen. I made coffee I couldn't drink and toast that turned to sawdust in my mouth. I checked my phone. No messages. I checked the clock: four hours to go.
The knock came at nine-thirty.
I assumed it was Ben, early and anxious, and I opened the door without looking through the peephole.
It wasn't Ben.
Ruth stood on my porch, clutching a large Tupperware container with both hands.
Ryan's mother looked smaller than I remembered. Grief creates a specific kind of shrinkage; it had hollowed out her cheeks and bowed her shoulders, making the oversized navy sweatshirt she wore look like it was swallowing her whole. It was Ryan’s old college hoodie, the cuffs frayed.
"Olivia." Her voice was thin, cracking on the vowels.
"Ruth." I stepped back, my hand still on the knob. "Come in."
She walked past me, bringing a gust of cold air and the scent of her perfume—white lilac and something dusty, like dried flowers.
She set the Tupperware on the counter. "I made too much," she said, staring at the lid. "I keep cooking like I'm feeding a full house. Old habits from when his father was alive. I forget..." She trailed off, her voice tight. "I forget they're both gone now."
"Thank you," I said. "You didn't have to?—"
"I needed to get out of the house." She turned to me, eyes wet and rimmed with red. "The silence over there is... it's too much. I just needed to see you. You're all I have left of him."
The words landed like a physical blow. I was the keeper of Ryan’s secrets, and she thought I was the keeper of his legacy.
"Sit," I said, pulling out a chair. "I'll make tea."
She sat, pulling the sleeves of the sweatshirt over her hands, tugging at the fabric. A nervous tic I recognized from Ryan. Ifilled the kettle, grateful for a task that allowed me to turn my back.
"How are you holding up, Livvy?" she asked.
"I'm managing," I said. It was the standard lie.
"I can't sleep," she whispered. "I keep expecting him to call. Sunday nights. He called every Sunday night, right after dinner. Just to check in." She let out a shaky, wet breath. "I picked up the phone yesterday and dialed his number before I remembered."
"I know," I said softly.
