Page 138 of Fault Lines
We sat for a while, listening to the hum of the fridge and the occasional thump of upstairs neighbors. I let myself drift, imagining what it would feel like to just float, not carrying or being carried by anyone. It was terrifying, and it was also a relief.
Eventually, Rachel broke the spell. “And Nate?” she asked, voice casual but eyes sharp. “How’s Prince Charming holding up?”
I snorted. “He’s—he’s Nate. He wants to be everything I need, but he’s also kind of a mess. When Cam came up at the club, he lost it. He was so possessive. Said some things I didn’t like. It wasn’t like the Nate I know, like when he drinks—he’s someone else entirely. Someone dark. Maybe even dangerous.”
Rachel’s lips pursed, but she didn’t speak.
I picked at the edge of my napkin, unraveling it thread by thread. “After the club, he called me—you know that—like, eight times. Sent a novel’s worth of texts. Said he’d quit drinking if I wanted, said he’d do anything. He was so desperate I almost… I almost said yes.”
“To what?”
“I don’t even know.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “To him. To being his, full stop. To moving in together, to pretending we’re already a couple instead of two people trying to outlast their own disasters.”
Rachel gave a low whistle. “He really is all-in, isn’t he?”
“He is.” I looked up, and she was still watching me, steady and unwavering. “But I don’t know if I can be all-in with anyone right now. Not without screwing it up.”
Rachel took my hand, squeezed it once, hard. “So don’t. Take your damn time, for once. You always do what everyone else wants, and look where that’s got you.”
I tried to smile. “In your kitchen, drinking stale tea?”
“In my kitchen, free of a cheating husband and with a hot, if slightly unhinged, man waiting for you to figure your shit out.” She grinned, white teeth flashing. “Could be worse.”
I shrugged. “Could be better.”
Rachel’s face softened again. “What do you want, Livi? Like, for real. Not what you think you’re supposed to want, not what Cam or Nate or your parents or me wants for you. If you could snap your fingers and get anything, what would it be?”
I let the question settle. The answer was so obvious and so unreachable that I almost laughed again.
“I want to feel like I’m enough,” I said, voice so quiet I barely recognized it. “Just… enough.”
Rachel’s grip tightened. “You are. You always have been.”
I tried to believe her. I tried as hard as I could.
The sun was sliding lower now, painting the walls in a softer light, making the kitchen feel less like a confessional and more like a place where maybe, eventually, a new story could start.
Rachel stood and poured herself a second cup of coffee, offered me a refill, but I shook my head.
“I should go,” I said. “Nate wants to talk later.”
She didn’t argue. Just hugged me tight, her hair still wet against my cheek, her heart beating steady and unbreakable.
“Call if you need me,” she said.
“Always,” I promised, and this time, I meant it.
∞∞∞
A few weeks later, I let myself into Nate’s apartment with the key he’d pressed into my palm after our third consecutive weekend together, back when things still felt like a string of cozy mornings and not an open field full of landmines. The door was sticky with late-summer humidity, and the hallway was heavy with the smell of takeout—green curry, maybe, and something fried and sweet that clung to the walls.
Nate was at the window when I walked in, half-hidden by the drooping shade. His phone was in his hand, but he wasn’t looking at it—just staring out over the city, thumb flicking the screen in nervous bursts. The blinds were drawn halfway, leaking afternoon sun in parallel stripes across the old wood floor.
“Hey,” I said, dropping my tote on the bench by the door.
He didn’t turn, but his shoulders flinched like I’d just dropped a stack of plates. “Hey,” he echoed, voice thin.
I went to the kitchen, opening the fridge for a seltzer. The takeout containers from last night were stacked in an uneasypyramid, and behind them, a lopsided birthday cake in a plastic box—Rachel’s handiwork, a half-joke she’d brought to my “started a divorciversary” dinner three days ago. I didn’t touch it. I wasn’t ready to be celebrated for surviving, not when I still felt like I was treading water.
