Page 6 of A World Without You
“Well, lucky for you. It won’t be much longer!” he shouts, pointing a hand at the papers.
“Stop, Graham. I don’t want to pretend that we just needed a few days apart to miss each other. I don’t want to hear you think the work being ‘hard’ is my reason for being sharp with you when you know damn well we’ve been pissed at each other for months,” I say, then correct, “years.”
“Olivia, I love you,” he says. His crisp green eyes are tender yet filled with apathy. I remember the man I fell in love with five years ago. I remember that once upon a time, he was the one I wanted. The one I chose. The one who made me turn my back on Colin and the life I thought I was going to have. The life, if I’m honest, I still wonder what it would be like to live.
Colin was ambitious. He cared about the contracts. He cared about his career. He cared about mine too. He’d pay the rent on our skyrise apartment and tell me to put my half of the rent in investments. He’d tell me—on several occasions—that money could be used to market my work as a photographer. There were moments I felt like he only cared about money. Now, I realize he just cared about my dreams.
Until I accidentally fell upon this little nothing town and fell in love with a boy. Isn’t that how all dreams die?
Now, here I am, only a two-hour drive and five years from the life I used to have, and wondering if this is the life I wanted when I gave up the city for the country boy with dimples who knew the true meaning of Christmas.
I don’t tell him often—ever—but I miss my life in the city. I miss not mowing a lawn. I miss UberEats, good sushi restaurants, the buzz of the city, and, at the top of the list, I miss my career.
Sure, I gave it up for love. Sure, I thought running the local monthly newspaper would fulfill me to the bitter end, but it went out of business two years ago. Print is dead and this old town wouldn’t switch to digital fast enough for the funding to replenish. I thought I could turn it around—save the paper and save my dignity. But I lied to myself. I lied because I was whipped and in love with a man who promised me he would always see me, and always know my heart. He wouldn’t ever let the chaos of the city interrupt what he felt for me because he was a good man. He loved three things: God, Country, and me.
Then I realized country meant hunting, fishing, his farm, football on the television, clean bathrooms, and a home-cooked meal on the table when he gets home.
I swear, sometimes I watch him eat his roast beef with so much contempt I contemplate poisoning the Tabasco sauce just to see if I can get away with it. I watch enough true crime documentaries, I’m certain I could.
So anytime I hear,“I love you, Olivia,”anger like I’ve never known boils in my gut and roils up my chest, so I spew, “Love is subjective.”
“What the hell does that mean?” he argues, stomping toward me and throwing up his arms. His expression is full of insinuation.
“Exactly what I said,” I retort, meeting him step for step. “Love is subjective. Once upon a time, this was love. This was what we chose. This was what we wanted. Now...” I falter, my breath shaking as I try to compose my words. “This is something else.”
“What...” he asks, his face three inches from mine, “What is it then?”
“This was me changing my whole life for you, and you making zero adjustments for me.” I rear back, throwing my hands in the air. “You’re all, buck up, honey, and enjoy the ride!”
“That was the deal! You signed up for this!” he yells back.
“I thought the deal was love!”
“It was love!”
The room grows so quiet I can hear the echo of his voice in the kitchen.
I draw in a shuddered breath, glancing at the floor and then meeting his eyes. “No. This was convenience. This was the consequence of our actions. This” —I gesture between us— “was a love that burned bright and fast one night in December but hasn’t quite caught fire since.”
I clench my teeth tight together, unfaltering.
It’s true. We were always oil and water—which is fun to try and shake up at first, until you realize oil and water will never mix no matter how hard you try.
My emotions are pulsing in the joints of my jaw, and I’m certain he can see, but I don’t let up. I want him to realize it. I want him to understand it. I want him to admit this was all a big mistake. We were hopped up on mulled wine and sugar cookies, hoping infatuation would drive us home to happily ever after.
Huh. Happily ever after died sometime after we started turning our backs to each other and curling up under the covers on our opposite sides of the bed to sleep, like the two strangers we’ve always been.
Graham doesn’t speak. He grabs my hand, rubbing gentle circles in my palm, buying time he doesn’t have.
“You don’t love me,” I state, breathless.
His eyes widen and the circles he’s rubbing on my palm stop. “Olivia, I have loved you since I saw you at the pub that one night in Decem—”
“Right,” I cut him off. “That one night. But not anymore. I think you stopped about two years ago.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It isn’tnottrue!” I bite back. The blood is pulsing through my ears and each heavywhoosh-whooshis shuffling toward my next words. “I have loved you, Graham. Truly loved you. And you know that. I stepped into this life knowing I’d have to catch up, knowing I’d have to find space for myself. Yet, here I am, still searching. Still wondering where the hell I fit. Because I loved you so much it hurt. But I don’t love you enough to not walk away from this life. I would rather be completely alone than married to you andfeelcompletely alone.”
