I want Caleb Ward to march down to Derek's office and punch him in the face and make that miserable, evil man leave me alone.
Because I want Caleb Ward.
I miss him so much it aches in my chest, and I hate that I miss him, and missing him in spite of the things he's done is the worst part of all of this.
I wipe my face with a dish towel, blow my nose, and sit at the table until my breathing steadies. Then I wash my face at the sink, put on a pot of coffee, and pull my laptop out to type up an email to my own lawyer about all of this. Ethan gets home from camp in six hours, and when he walks through that door, I need to be smiling.
20
CALEB
Ispend most of the morning on a Zoom call with Reilly, going over everything he pulled together so far, and the picture gets uglier every time he adds a new piece to it. By the time the call is over, I feel like I've been staring at a crime scene for three hours. They're still working on pulling information on his previous cases, but we have substantiated proof that he alone made every complaint about Olivia.
After stopping by the library to print all of Reilly's findings and stuff them into a folder, I head back home. I've got to get this information to her so she can provide it to her lawyer. Alone, it may not be enough to stop the judge from granting more rights to Derek, especially with CPS showing up at her house, but it's a good start. We still have a few weeks to go, too, and I know if we keep digging, there will be more.
I turn onto our street to see Olivia's SUV parked in her driveway with the hatch open. She's leaning into the back pulling grocery bags toward her as Ethan runs toward the house with a gallon of milk clutched against his chest, taking the porch steps sideways.She says something to him that I can't hear and the screen door bangs shut behind him.
We've barely spoken, though after she requested that I pick up the paint supplies when I was done sealing the fence, I know we're at least on speaking terms, which is good. I imagine living next door to someone who hates me would be a tad discouraging, and just when I was settling in, too.
The news I'm about to share with her probably won't come as any huge shock, but having the proof of it should be somewhat comforting. The lawyer she's working with could probably present a case to the judge that Derek is harassing her, at the very least, if not defaming and slandering her. I really want to help her fight this, though it won't alleviate the guilt I feel, but it's a start.
So, taking my folder, I slide out of the truck and shut the door. Before I'm even on her property, she looks up, watching me strut across the property line, and her arms tighten on the bag. It's a quick glance, but it comes with a fleeting expression of nerves before a smile locks into place on her face.
"You need a hand?" I ask as I step up beside her. It appears she's going to try carrying every one of those bags at once. I've seen her actually do it before, but this load looks a bit large for that circus trick.
"I've got it."
"That bag is ripping."
She looks down at the bottom of the paper bag where condensation has soaked through and the whole thing is about to give way, then she sighs and shifts it to her other arm. "I'll make it."
"That bag won't make it." I take it from her before she can argue and grab two more bags from the hatch with my free hand. She steps back with a jug of juice and a carton of soda in hand and sighs again, dropping her shoulders.
"Thank you," she says, but it comes out polite and distant. It still bothers me that the warmth in her tone around me is gone now. We were really building something before my foolish mistake severed everything.
I follow her inside to the kitchen where Ethan's already abandoned the milk on the counter in favor of his game in the other room. Olivia sets her bags down and starts putting things away without looking at me, and I set my bags, and the folder, on the counter near the sink.
I feel out of place entirely, not knowing where anything goes, not even knowing if she wants me here. She glances at me when I put the eggs in there, but I can't tell what that expression is. She may well be the most impossible woman to read with those plastic smiles and cheerful expressions which I know are fake.
I'm standing there with two loaves of bread in my hands staring at her when she lifts an eyebrow at me. "You can put the bread in the bread saver," she says, nodding at the counter by the microwave.
"I know where it goes," I tell her softly, trying so hard to decide whether I should leave or finish helping. When her shoulders stiffen, I lean toward the former.
"Right. Of course you do." There's an edge to it, but it's tired more than hateful. She turns back to the freezer and arranges the vegetables next to a stack of frozen waffles that I'm guessing are Ethan's. "You know where everything goes in my housebecause you spent two months memorizing it." God, that hurts. But she's not wrong.
"Olivia…"
"I'm not starting a fight." She closes the freezer and faces me. "I'm stating a fact."
She folds the empty bags and tucks them under the sink, then leans against the counter with her arms crossed. The kitchen feels more cramped than it used to, or maybe it's that the last time I stood in here we were different people to each other, and now every foot of space between us carries the weight of what I did.
"Do you want coffee?" she asks. It sort of catches me off guard because I thought she was angry with me, but maybe this is her way of bridging the gap, being neighborly.
"If you're making some."
She turns to the coffee maker and fills the reservoir and measures the grounds and hits the button, and the machine starts gurgling. Then she pulls two mugs from the cabinet and sets them on the counter. The simple act of sharing coffee shouldn’t feel this tense, but I really messed things up. I'm not sure if we'll ever get a familiar closeness back between us, but I'd like it. At least if I intend to stick around.
Walking over to where she's standing, making coffee, I set the folder on the counter and rest my hand on it.
