Page 174 of Fault Lines
I wanted to reach for her hand, but she kept both wrapped around her mug. “The store suits you,” I said. “You look happy there.”
She shrugged. “I am. I think. Is it weird that it feels like a bigger commitment than marriage?”
“Not at all,” I said. “You can’t divorce a bookstore.”
She snorted, but there was no edge to it. “You can sell one.”
“You won’t,” I said, certain.
She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw the exhaustion in her eyes. The grief, the anger, the slow, steady hope that maybe life would let her off the hook this time. She set her mug down and folded her hands in her lap, a gesture so deliberate it felt like a prelude to bad news.
“Are you going to sign the papers?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She flinched, just a little. “I haven’t decided.”
“Do you want to?”
She shook her head, but didn’t say anything.
“I want you to stay,” I said. “Not just in the house, but here. With me. For real.”
She squeezed her hands tighter. “I know.”
“I’m sorry for all of it,” I said. “For before, for after, for every time I made you feel like you weren’t enough. I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot, but I’m trying.”
She smiled, and it hurt to see how sad it was. “You’re not the only one who messed up, Cam. I did a lot of lying, and truth skirting.”
“I know,” I said. “But if you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
She closed her eyes, took a breath, and when she opened them again, they were shining.
“I want to believe you,” she said. “I want to try. But I’m scared.”
I reached across the table, just close enough that she could take my hand if she wanted. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
She nodded, and for a long time we just sat there, the candles burning down, the coffee going cold, the future stretching out in front of us, bright and terrifying and real.
After she went to bed, I stayed up, clearing the dishes and wiping down the counters, a ritual I’d picked up when things got bad. The kitchen felt empty without her, but it was a good empty—a space waiting to be filled.
I stood in the doorway, watching the moonlight spill across the tile, and let myself hope.
I picked up my journal and filled in the last page.
Chapter Forty-Five
Couple’s therapy, for me, had always conjured images of tissue boxes and broken coffee mugs and one partner glowering in the corner while the other cried for ninety minutes. In reality, it was more like waiting for a flight you weren’t sure you wanted to board. There were two chairs, a small side table, a clock with an aggressively loud second hand, and Cam beside me, legs crossed, eyes fixed on a potted fern like he was memorizing its genetic structure.
We sat in the waiting room for ten minutes, not speaking, until the receptionist announced that “Dr. Stiles is ready for you.” The therapist’s office was spare but not cold, heavy on the earth tones, full of soft lamps that didn’t quite reach the corners. I wondered how many doomed relationships had dissolved on this exact couch.
Dr. Stiles herself was brisk and athletic-looking, with the kind of easy posture I envied in women who did yoga but didn’t talk about it. She greeted us both with a handshake and a slight smile, then slid into the armchair across from us, clipboard resting on one knee.
“I’m glad you could make it together,” she said, looking at me for a beat longer than felt strictly necessary. “Cam has told me a lot about you, Olivia.”
I managed a polite smile. “I hope only the good stuff.”
Cam snorted, a noise that came from deep in his chest, but didn’t elaborate.
Dr. Stiles adjusted her glasses and leaned forward, businesslike but not unfriendly. “You know, most couples don’t come in together until the last possible minute. Usually there’s already a lawyer on retainer. So, I have to say—this is an encouraging sign. You coming in even after filing means you still have hope. And hope is everything.”
