I straighten my posture until my back is resting against my headboard. “Why not?”
“Because you’d be some higher-up at UNICEF.”
“True,” I admit. “And you never would’ve married someone else.”
“You can’t hold that against me,” she chokes out, and while I hate that she’s upset, she has every right to be for my overstepping.
“I don’t. But it doesn’t change the fact that if things were different as you suggested, you’d be my wife, and we would’ve spent the last fifteen-or-so years together.” My sister would scold me for saying any of this, but I still add, “It doesn’t matter that we haven’t spoken in over a decade, the time we spent apart is irrelevant. If there’s even a small chance that you and I could be together, I guarantee I wouldn’t make the same mistake I did last time.”
She gasps. “What did you just say?”
“You and I both know you’d be my wife, Livy.”
“No. What did you say about our time apart?”
“That it’s irrelevant.”
“What the fuck?” she whispers to herself, then tells me, “I’m sorry, I need to go.”
“Liv—”
She hangs up on me, and I groan, resting the back of my head against the padded headboard. I pushed too hard, too fast. Scouring my memories for any possible reason she would freak out over those little words, I come up empty.
Even with her quick departure, two things are certain: Livy still has feelings for me… and if I have any say in it, she will absolutely be my wife one day.
9
Olivia
“Deep breath in, slow breath out.” I follow my own instructions, closing my eyes as I adjust my posture in child’s pose.
The nerve—the fucking audacity—Isaac had, tugging at my heartstrings like that. I spent years trying to get over him, and in less than a week I’m right back where I started. What game is he playing? After all this time, why now?
It’s bullshit.
No amount of yoga or breathing exercises will quiet my mind tonight. Wine is out of the question—I can’t afford the hangover in the morning. Once I’m ready for bed, I take a melatonin gummy and slide under the covers, wiggling to get comfortable. I should apologize to Isaac for hanging up on him like I did, but he opened up a very painful wound, implied we would be married if things were different, then said that shit about time being irrelevant, like he was spying on me while I fucked myself the other night. Maybe he said something like that when we were younger? How else could he be channeling the Daddy Isaac I conjured for masturbation inspiration?
I plug in my phone, dozens of notification previews gracing the screen. My eyes snag on a text from Isaac. Debating on opening it, my thumb hovers over the little box. I always keep my read receipts off, but I’m more worried about the risk to my heart by clicking on it.
Isaac
I won’t apologize for what I said, because it was the truth. But I am sorry that it made you uncomfortable.
It was sent twenty minutes ago, so there's a good chance he’s in bed. I begin typing out a text to let him know there’s nothing to apologize for, when little dancing dots appear. Quickly deleting my message, my heart thumps wildly against my ribcage. The little dots are gone as quickly as they graced my screen. Two agonizingly slow minutes pass, and I brave typing my reply again.
I’m the one who should be apologizing for hanging up like that. Moving forward, maybe it’s best if our communication is just between our staff?
Is that really what you want?
“No,” I whisper to myself, trying my hardest to rein in my emotions, but failing. I type outyes, but then delete it. There’s no use in lying to him; we should be open and honest with each other.
No, but it’s for the best.
You don’t think we can be friends?
Do you actually want to be friends?
No. I want you, Livy.
