“Yeah.” The truth of it sinks in slowly, like water into dry soil. “You’re right.”
“I think you should go for it. People change. Look at Alexis and Noah. She wrote an article that helped kill his restaurant and he replied by writing a response tearing into food reviewers.” She laughs, the sound filling the kitchen. “He absolutely hated her and she wasn’t really fond of him either. Now they live together and are having a baby. They’re disgustingly happy. Anything can happen.”
A little bit of hope bubbles to the surface, fragile as soap film, but I’m still not completely sold. In an ideal world, everything Maya is saying would be true. People would change, forgiveness would be simple, and second chances would always work out. But I’m worried I can’t hold myself to that perspective shift, worried that old patterns will resurface the moment things get difficult. And I’m even more worried that if I take the leap and chase after Oliver, if I let myself be vulnerable again, he’ll end up hurting me even worse than he did before. This time, I might not recover.
Also... “I don’t know if I forgive him,” I tell her, the admission sitting heavy between us.
“That’s fair. You only just reconnected. Can you see yourself possibly forgiving him in the future?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly, testing each word. “Yes, heapologized, but I need more. I need to know why he did the things he did back then. And I need to see that he’s really changed, not just in words but in actions. In how he responds when I have a bad day, when plans have to change, when my body doesn’t cooperate.”
“For sure, and that takes a while. You have to spend more time together to see if he’s truly different. Real change shows up in the small moments, not the grand gestures.”
The timer on her phone goes off, its cheerful chime cutting through the music. She gets up to check on the pizza, and I’m left with my thoughts, feeling a little lighter somehow. My breaths come a little easier, as if the confession has created more room in my chest. Maya is right—I don’t need to rush into anything with Oliver. I can take it slow, get to know this new version of him, test the waters carefully before diving in.
I just have to be careful, because falling for him again is risky. The days when I could turn my heart over to someone simply out of love, without thought or reservation, are gone. Those days ended when Oliver walked out five years ago. I’m too cautious now, too shuttered, too aware of all the ways a heart can break.
I want more, of course. I want to tear down those rotting, splintered shutters and let some light in. I want to feel the warmth again. I want to open up to a man again, to share lazy Sunday mornings and whispered midnight confessions, to build something real and lasting.
And if it’s going to be any man, I really do want it to be Oliver.
Chapter Twelve
Oliver
“Want to go down Benson?” Niall nods at the street to the left, where a row of Victorian-era houses catches the morning light.
I nod back and we jog along the crosswalk, our breath forming small clouds in the crisp winter air. The sidewalk is clear but edged with dirty snow from last week’s storm. Colorful mill houses stand shoulder to shoulder—butter yellow, sage green, dusty blue—their gingerbread trim making them look like something out of a storybook.
Not for the first time, I wonder where on Pine Island Devin lives. The question has been nagging at me since I first saw her at the pizzeria. Is she in one of those modern apartments near the waterfront? Those condos near the bridge? Or a house like one of these restored beauties?
We pass a green house with a light pink door, and something about it makes me slow my pace for just a second. The combination is bold but somehow soft, unexpected but perfect. It seems like exactly the kind of spot she would pick. There’s a windchime hanging from the porch, and I can almost picture her choosing it, testing each one in the store until she found the perfect tone.
In New York, she always pressed her face against the window whenever we took the train out of the city. Her eyes would track every house we passed, and she’d create entire lives for the people she imagined living in them. “Look at that one,” she’d say, pointing to some cottage with a picket fence. “They definitely have a golden retriever and make pancakes every Sunday.” Then she’d lean back against me with this wistful sigh and talk about how she couldn’t wait to have a yard with a dog in it and a garage to put her bike in. Not just any bike—she had her eye on this vintage mint-green cruiser with a basket on front.
I couldn’t wait to give her those things. In my head, I had it all planned out. We’d buy the house with more room than we needed, with a big grassy yard that had space for a pool and maybe even a swing set for the kids we might have one day. By the time I finally bought a house, it was bigger than I had ever imagined. Six bedrooms, four and a half baths, a massive kitchen with an island.
It was also lonelier than I ever thought it would be. I was alone then, Devin long gone from my life, my days and nights revolving around practice schedules and game tape. The other side of my bed forever cold.
“I’m going to bake some sourdough.” Niall’s voice cuts into my thoughts, little puffs of white leaving his mouth as he talks. His cheeks are red from the cold and exertion. “What do you think? Want to learn? The owner of Rye Again gave me some starter and I have his book. Noah—that’s his name—he wrote this whole guide about how to make sourdough when you’re just starting out baking.”
My heart leaps at the opportunity to bring up the person who’s constantly on my mind. “Sure.” I try to keep my voice casual. “Devin and I went there yesterdayfor coffee.”
There’s a brief pause where Niall’s footsteps falter. “No shit?”
“Dude, don’t sound so shocked.”
He snorts and slows the pace even more so it’s easier to talk without gasping. “Come on, after the pizzeria...”
“Okay, that’s fair.” The cold air burns my lungs, but it’s a good burn, cleansing.
“So how did it go?”
“Good.” I slow down even more, a stitch forming in my side like a needle threading between my ribs. “I apologized for the past. The way I used to talk to her, it wasn’t right.” The words feel inadequate even as I say them. How do you apologize for systematically undermining someone’s reality?
I feel his gaze on me, heavy and evaluating, but I don’t look over to meet it. I keep my eyes on the cracked sidewalk ahead. I feel too exposed talking about this, but I also can’t keep it all in.
“What did she say?”
