I stare at him, stunned. “But—” My voice cracks. “I can’t just show up.”
“Yes, you can,” he snaps.
“What if he hates me?” I blurt, the fear spilling out before I can stop it. “What if he—what if I ruined everything?”
Marco pauses, his expression shifting from irritation to something sharper, more serious. Then he asks, very quietly, “Do you love him?”
The question stops me cold. A lump forms low in my throat. “Yes.”
“Do you want to make this work?”
“Yes,” I say, voice rough. “More than anything.”
Marco nods once, satisfied. “Then get your ass into the car and stop overthinking.”
I hesitate, heart hammering, terror and hope battling in my chest.
He opens the door wider and tilts his head. “Also,” he adds, deadpan, “if you don’t do this, I’m going to start calling you Oliver Bartolomeu instead of Ollie, and I promise you that will feel worse than a PR meeting.”
A startled laugh punches out of me.
Marco grins wildly, triumphant. “There he is. Romance. Grand gestures. You’re welcome.”
“This is not a rom-com,” I mutter, climbing into the car.
He shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in with the confidence of someone who has already decided the plot. He starts the engine and glances at me. “Seat belt,” he says.
I fumble for it automatically. As he pulls out of the garage, he hums under his breath like he’s enjoying himself far too much.
“What are you doing?” I ask weakly.
Marco glances over with a grin. “Being the supportive best friend you apparently needed two years ago.”
I swallow hard, staring out at the ramp leading up to daylight. My heart is pounding. My eye throbs. My life feels like it’s balancing on a knife-edge. But Marco is driving.
Toward Rafe.
Toward the truth.
19
The house looks smallerthan I expected. Not in a bad way. Just… contained. Grounded. A single-story place set back from the street with a neat front yard, a tree whose branches have been trimmed carefully over the years, and a porch that’s been repainted recently—enough that it still smells faintly of fresh varnish. The lawn is green but imperfect, patches a little thinner than others, like someone cares but doesn’t obsess. There’s a faded welcome mat by the door.
Rafe’s parents’ car is parked in the driveway. It’s at least ten years old, maybe more, the kind of car that’s been maintained instead of replaced. No shine. No statement. Just practical, reliable, still here.
My breath falters. I feel like an intruder. My eye throbs dully, a reminder of everything I’ve fucked up in the last twenty-four hours. I’m exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix. Bruised. Raw. Late.
Too late? Only time will tell.
Marco kills the engine and looks at me. He doesn’t say anything right away, just studies my face like he’s taking inventory, making sure I’m still upright. “You don’t have to do this,” he says finally.
I shake my head immediately. “I do.”
“You sure?”
“No,” I admit. “But he deserves it.”
Marco nods once, satisfied. “Okay then. Let’s go meet the in-laws.”
