Olivia
Isat on the couch in the dark, still wearing my coat. I hadn't turned on a single light since Ben dropped me off. I hadn't taken off my boots. I had just walked inside, sat down, and let the paralysis take over. The windows were black mirrors, reflecting nothing back at me but the faint, ghostly outline of a woman who was losing everything.
Ben had been silent on the drive home. His hands had been white-knuckled on the wheel, his jaw working like he was chewing on glass. When he pulled into my driveway, he had turned to look at me, his mouth opening to speak, but the words had died in his throat.
"Get some rest," was all he managed.
Then he was gone, his taillights fading into the gloom.
Now it was just me, the silence, and the cold seeping through the walls because I still hadn't touched the thermostat. I knew I should get up and eat something. Have a shower. Perform the basic maintenance tasks required to keep a human body functional.
Instead, I sat.
Lucia's face kept surfacing in my mind—the way she'd saidsix monthslike it was a death sentence. The bank. Theforeclosure timeline. Ryan standing in that clearing, pointing at those massive yellow pine beams, dreaming of a version of himself that didn't include me.
I thought about a sheriff knocking on this door.
Eventually, the cold forced me to move. I stood up, my knees stiff and popping, and walked to the kitchen. I flipped the switch, and the overhead light flooded the room—harsh, exposing every smudge on the granite.
Ryan's laptop was still on the counter where I'd left it.
I opened it and spent the next hour inviting the panic in. I tried to calculate the trajectory of my own ruin. The math kept changing, but the answer was always the same. Six months until the loan matured. But how long until the foreclosure notice? How long until the eviction? How long until I was packing eight years of marriage into cardboard boxes and moving into... what? An apartment complex by the highway? My mother's spare room?
I typed phrases into the search bar with trembling fingers:construction loan default,foreclosure timelines Massachusetts,how to finish a house without money.
The internet offered millions of results, all variations on a single theme:You are screwed.
I closed the laptop and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars exploded behind my lids. My head was pounding a dull, rhythmic thud. My mouth tasted like copper and stale whiskey. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten anything that wasn't a pity casserole or a sympathy bagel.
The knock on the door sounded like a gunshot.
I jumped, my hip hitting the counter. I looked at the microwave clock:10:47 PM.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs, panic flooding my chest. No one knocked at a quarter to eleven on a Wednesday.Not unless something was wrong. Not unless someone else had died.
I walked to the hallway on legs that felt disconnected from my body, the blood rushing in my ears drowning out the hum of the fridge.
Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, I could make out a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Even through the frosted glass, I recognized the stance.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Ben stood on my porch.
His jacket hung open despite the wind. His hands were buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. There were dark circles under his eyes, stubble along his jaw. His hair was damp—he'd showered since dropping me off, but it looked like he'd just run a towel through it and left.
He was holding a manila folder tucked under his arm.
"I couldn't sleep," he said. His voice was rough.
I stared at him, my hand gripping the edge of the door for balance. "It's almost eleven, Ben."
"I know." He shifted his weight, the folder crinkling. "We need to talk."
The words sent a cold spike through my chest.We need to talkwas the precursor to every disaster I’d faced in the last week.
But I stepped back anyway, pulling the door wide.
He walked in, bringing the cold with him, and I closed the door and followed him down the hallway.
