Page 113 of Oliver
Maybe I’d say I missed him. Maybe I’d say nothing at all. Maybe the moment would split me open, and I’d just sit there, waiting for him to read the pain in my eyes and offer a steadying hand like he used to.
This was desperate. Maybe even a little crazy. But all I could hear was his voice on that message—raw, unraveling, the painbleeding through each word, and utterly defeated, as if he’d given up, given in.
Then I thought of the photos Elena had shown me, the truth captured in stolen moments.
It felt surreal. A cosmic loop I hadn’t meant to complete. A few months ago, I booked Oliver Beck out of stubborn hope. Now I was booking him again because... Well, still out of stubborn hope, but what I was hoping for was vastly different.
Tomorrow morning, 8:30 AM.
One last chance.
One last gamble.
I sat back in my chair, wrapping my arms around myself like that might hold the pieces together. The office around me had gone still. Even the hum of the overhead lights had faded, as if the whole world was waiting to see what he'd do.
I didn’t pray. Not exactly. But I did whisper his name once—Oliver—like it might carry through the ether. Like it might reach him wherever he was and remind him that someone was still waiting.
That someone still believed in him.
That maybe, somewhere beneath all the rules and grief and silence, he still believed in us, too.
Because if he showed up, if he looked at me with those weary, guarded eyes and still chose to stay?—
Maybe, just maybe, there was still a future worth fighting for.
Thirty-Three
OLIVER
The rideshare pulledto a stop outside Café Lucid, fifteen minutes before my scheduled meeting with Katherine Reynolds. I stared through the window at the familiar storefront, memories surfacing like debris after an asteroid impact.
This was where it all began. Where Zahra had first proposed her fake relationship scheme. Where the foundation of my undoing had been laid, brick by careful brick.
"You getting out, man?" the driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
I nodded, gathered myself, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of coffee and fresh pastries. Seattle continued its rotation regardless of my personal gravitational collapse.
I hadn't wanted to accept this booking—hadn't wanted to accept any bookings. But I'd done it anyway.
Not because I expected anything good, but because it was routine. Because muscle memory was easier than grief.
Last night I'd finished my day at the university—lecture, office hours, faculty meeting—and returned to an apartment that felt emptier than space itself, despite Emmet's occasional presence. I made myself a bowl of cereal for dinner, not tasting a single spoonful, and at precisely 7:12 PM, opened Foxy's dashboard on my laptop.
A new booking notification had blinked at the top of the screen.
Katherine Reynolds. Introductory coffee date. 8:30 AM tomorrow. Café Lucid.
A small glimmer of hope sparked inside me, then faded before it became a flame.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been booked for an intro there; clients seemed to like the ambiance, but every time was just as sharp and painful as the last.
A glimmer of hope, and then—not Zahra.
Of course, it wasn’t Zahra.
It was never Zahra.
Another shattered breath had slipped out of me. Another quiet little death.
