Page 142 of Fault Lines
I nodded, numb. I felt stripped bare, every defense burned away by the steady flame of Lacey’s confession. I couldn’t decide if I was angry, or relieved, or just tired.
“Thank you,” I said, the words mechanical but sincere. “I’m glad you told me.”
Lacey blinked, surprised. “You don’t want to yell at me? Or throw your coffee in my face?”
I considered it. “I thought about it. But I’m too tired.”
She laughed, just once, then picked up her sunglasses and slipped them back on.
“I’ll leave you alone now,” she said, pushing herself up from the table. “I wish you the best, Olivia. I really do. The baby’s father and I are moving soon, so you won’t have to worry about seeing me again, no matter what you choose to do.”
I watched her go, the weight of everything settling on my shoulders like an old, familiar coat.
I sat for a long while after she left, staring at the traffic outside, letting the noise and the light filter through me until I felt steady enough to stand. I didn’t text Rachel. I didn’t call Nate. I just walked, aimless, through the city until my legs gave out and I found myself back in Rachel’s kitchen, holding a mug of lemon tea and staring out at the gold-washed counter like nothing had changed.
But something had. I could feel it, sharp and hollow and real: the sense that maybe, finally, I could let go.
∞∞∞
The next few days vanished in a soft blur—like I’d dialed the contrast on my life to zero, all the sharpness bled out. I drifted through Rachel’s apartment on autopilot, moving from couchto bed to bathroom in a slow, predictable circuit. I showered when I remembered, ate only when someone put food in front of me. The only constant was the buzz of my phone, which I kept silenced and face-down on the coffee table, ignoring every call and text that came through, especially the ones from Nate. I called in sick to work so he wouldn’t catch me there. Thank God we’d hired an extra employee recently who was eager to take my hours.
I told myself it was mercy. That it would be worse for him to see me like this—flayed open, nerve endings exposed, not a drop of patience or affection to offer. He’d always needed more from me than I could give, but now I had nothing at all, and it was better for both of us if I just let the silence grow thick between us. Just until I pulled myself out of this slump.
Rachel respected the hush, or maybe she was just relieved that I’d stopped crying in her kitchen every night. Jackson was sweet, always bringing wine for Rachel and doughnuts for me. He’d leave them on the counter, and disappear into the back room to fix her leaky sink or change the batteries in the smoke detectors. I liked that about him: the way he seemed to understand that comfort wasn’t always about words.
My only indulgence was walking. I’d bundle up against the lingering winter, hands shoved in pockets, and wander the blocks around Rachel’s place for hours. Sometimes I’d pass the bookstore and catch a glimpse of Mr. Porter in the window, stacking hardcovers with that careful, reverent touch, and I’d imagine myself back inside, warm and purposeful, losing hours to the slow rhythm of work. But I never went in.
Nate’s messages built up in my inbox, alternating between casual: Miss you, hope you’re eating real food. And desperate: Please call me, Livi, I need to hear your voice, I’m so sorry for everything. Sometimes he called after midnight, leaving voicemails that started with apologies and ended in heavy,guttural silence. Once, I played one of them through twice in a row, just listening to his breathing on the other end, trying to puzzle out how so much longing could survive inside a single person.
It took me almost a week to answer. Even then, it wasn’t a plan. I was walking home from the drugstore, the sun already gone behind the city’s low, jagged skyline, when I found myself outside Nate’s building. My body had made the decision for me, dragging me three blocks out of my way with no input from my head or my heart.
I let myself in with the key he’d given me months ago. The hallway was dark, but I knew the way by memory—up two flights, third door on the left, the one with the scratched “302” and the welcome mat he’d always insisted was ironic. Inside, the place smelled sour and thick, a churn of old booze and the sick-sweet rot of fruit left too long on the counter.
I stopped in the doorway and waited for my eyes to adjust. It was worse than I’d expected. The couch was buried under a blanket and an uneven mountain of dirty clothes; the coffee table was a graveyard of empty beer and liquor bottles and the occasional chipped glass. The only light came from the kitchen, where the fridge hung open, its bulb casting a sickly yellow across the floor.
Nate was stretched out on the couch, one arm dangling to the rug, his face pressed into a throw pillow. I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or unconscious, so I called his name once, then again, louder.
He stirred, groaned, but didn’t open his eyes.
I hesitated, hovering in the entryway, not sure if I should stay or go. Then I stepped over the tangle of shoes and bottles, nudged the blanket aside, and sat on the edge of the coffee table. Up close, he looked even worse—skin sallow, dark hollows underhis eyes, a cut on his lower lip that had scabbed over and split again, probably from a fall.
“Nate,” I said, gentler this time.
He blinked, confused, then focused on me. For a second he looked like he might cry, but he didn’t. He just stared, silent and shamed.
I reached out and pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, tucking it under his chin the way my mother used to do when I was sick. Then I stood and started cleaning, moving methodically through the living room, clearing the bottles, stacking the dishes, folding the laundry into messy piles that at least looked less like a landslide.
I worked for a long time. Maybe hours. At one point I found a photo of us on the fridge, stuck there under a novelty magnet: me laughing, hair windblown and wild, Nate kissing my cheek like he thought he’d never get another chance. I almost took it down, but left it. I figured he needed the reminder more than I did.
When I finished, I sat on the floor beside the couch and leaned my head back against the cushion. Nate’s breathing had evened out, slow and deep, and I let myself drift on the sound of it, letting the exhaustion wash over me until I fell asleep.
I woke to the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen. I blinked, stiff and aching, and saw Nate standing by the sink, rinsing out a mug with the slow, deliberate movements of someone who’d made a promise to himself not to fuck up again.
He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “You didn’t have to clean,” he said, voice hoarse but clearer than I’d heard in days.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Somebody had to.”
He finished with the mug, set it on the drying rack, and turned. For a long minute, neither of us said anything.
