"Why?" He turns, voice breaking on the single word.
"Why can’t you accept it? I’m here becauseyou and Iare in this together.I’min this because I want to be in itwithyou." I take a cautious step toward him, then another, and finally I’m within arm's reach.
He pulls me closer and crumbles against my chest. His cries pierce my heart in ways nothing ever has before. "I’m sorry, Olive. I’mso fucking sorry."
"We’re going to fix this. I promise." I pull back just enough to wipe his tears with my thumbs.
His teary eyes search mine, desperate for hope, for release, for anything. "How?"
"With a press conference."
Chapter forty-six
Avery
ThemomentOlivesetfoot in my apartment, everything changed.
I’ve known I was in love with Olive Herring for a while now, but watching her rush to me, be there before anyone else, sealed it.
And yet, I can’t ask her to put her life on blast. Can’t ask her to do what Iknowshe wants to. She hasn’t said it yet, but I know how Olive thinks.
So I try to change her mind. I tell her about that night.
How I could’ve killed a man for what he did to my sister.
She listened—really listened—waited until I was done. Then she kissed my tears away. Told me it was okay.
That she would never judge me for doing whatever it took to protect the people I love.
That’s just the type of person I married.
Selfless.
Olive Herring.
When she suggested the press conference, I flat-out refused. Told her there was no fucking way I could show my face in New York anytime soon. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
She shoved me into the shower, laid a suit out on the bed, and by the time I stepped out dressed and ready, I was floored by what I saw in the living room.
All I wanted was to be alone. To live in my thoughts until they wore me down and forced me to leave it all behind.
But she knew I couldn’t. Not right now.
My entire family. Hers too. Ryder. Orlando. All of them standing there, showing up for me in ways no one ever has.
Olive, her mom, her sisters, and her niece—all wearing my jersey. My number. The name Jones across their backs. My mom and Noelle blended in with them like they belonged. Like we were already one big, messy, supportive family.
Even though they’ve never met, they look like they’ve known each other a lifetime.
Hank Herring and Harley Wingrove are both wearing Raptors bomber jackets, my number stitched on the front, with my dad, Isaiah Jones, matching them.
I blink once. Twice. A third time, trying to force the tears away. But with every flutter of my lashes, another one falls. And the more they fall, the less I care who sees.
My dad is the first to pull me in. The man I’ve looked up to my whole life. The one who taught me at four years old that it’s brave to show emotion. To cry if I needed to.
He grips my shoulders, pulls me into his chest, and says, "You’re the best man I know." That’s when I let the rest of my tears fall. Because he taught me it wasn’t weak.
When he lets me go, my mom and Noelle step in, one on either side. Mom wraps her arm around my neck, Noe around my waist. One kisses my temple. The other kisses my cheek. Not a single word between us—but none are needed.
