“Maybe.”
For a long moment, she looks away, her gaze unfocused. Almost as if she sees something I can’t.
With a deep inhale, she turns back to me, her expression gentler, somehow steadier. “Rina, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Her sudden candidness surprises me.
My mother has never been one for confessions.
“In hindsight,” she begins carefully, “your father and I never really fit. I’d thought I was doing what was expected by getting married, having a child, living the life my parents wanted for me.” A small, sad smile tugs at her lips. “But it was never right.”
Confusion ripples through me. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
She reaches across the couch, her hand wrapping around mine. “Maryanne and I are more than friends. We’ve been together for a while now.”
I falter. “You… and Maryanne?”
She nods. “And for the first time in my life, I feel like myself. The person I was always meant to be. I spent years trying to fit into a version of happiness that was never mine. Always doing what I thought I should, never what I wanted. Once I stopped pretending, everything got lighter. Easier. And I realized how much of that fear—the need to protect myself, to control everything—I passed on to you.”
For just a moment, I see myself in the woman sitting across from me.
The same tight control, the same fear of wanting too much. It hits me that I didn’t just inherit her eyes or mannerisms. Maybe I inherited her fear too. The belief that love has to be managed and kept at a safe distance.
Her admittance sinks deep, right where I’ve been trying not to look. Because she’s right. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been keeping Oliver at arm’s length, pretending distance equals safety, pretending I can live without him when all it does is cause pain.
Mom squeezes my hand, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. “You can’t live your life being afraid, Rina. I spent too long doing that. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t walk away from love just because it scares you. Or because you saw me and your father fall apart.”
A memory of Dad’s suitcase sitting by the front door before he walked out of our lives surfaces. I was thirteen, and I told myself I’d never need anyone that much ever again. I blink hard as tears blur Mom’s face. Maybe this is what healing looks like. Not erasing the past but finally sitting with it and coming to terms with it.
Terrified is exactly what I am.
And yet, beneath all that fear, something quieter blooms.
A knowing.
A truth.
That maybe Oliver isn’t the danger I keep telling myself he is. Maybe he’s the one thing I shouldn’t be running from.
Later that night, when I finally crawl into my childhood bed, the house settles around me with its familiar stillness. For years, it was my refuge. A place to hide, to heal, to convince myself I didn’t need anyone.
But tonight, it feels different.
Emptier.
Like something has shifted, like the fog I’ve been living in has lifted and I’m seeing everything—maybe even myself—with startling clarity.
46
Oliver
The penthouse feels too large in the quiet. Every sound carries. From the faint buzz of the fridge, the low whir of the heat cycling on, the soft tick of the clock on the wall. Each noise fills the space where she should be.
The air still carries her perfume from this morning. It’s a sultry scent that’s all her. Clean, with a hint of smokiness that used to make me lean closer just to breathe her in. Now it lingers like a ghost I can’t bring myself to exorcise.
I drag a hand across the back of my neck and continue pacing, bare feet silent on the floor. My phone feels heavy in my palm. Her location hasn’t changed. She’s still at her mom’s house in the suburbs. I tell myself I’m just making sure she’s safe, but the truth is much darker. It’s the only thing that keeps me from doing something impulsive.
Like driving over there and pounding on the door until she lets me in.
