Page 67 of Light My Fire Three Times
Almost.
But I can’t. Not when my chest is collapsing, not when Richard’s words are still echoing in my head, not when the line between what I want and what will ruin me is already blurring.
So, I do the only thing I can manage.
I leave.
The cold evening hits me. A slap the second I step outside. Sharp, clean air that smells faintly of woodsmoke and pine, the kind of winter day that should feel magical if you weren’t currently spiraling into an existential crisis.
Instead of magic, all I feel is… static.
Loud, relentless, crackling through every nerve.
I tug my coat tighter and shove my hands into the pockets, walking fast as if I can outpace the chaos in my head. Past the porch, down the path dusted in frost, onto Main Street, where the whole town is wrapped in garlands and fairy lights.
It might as well be something out of a Hallmark fever dream.
I want to love it, I really do.
But right now? Everything is in soft focus. Too bright, too loud, too cheerful for the storm chewing through my brain.
You can’t live without this.
Richard’s words curl like smoke in my head. And maybe he’s right. Maybe this whole new life thing was a fantasy. Maybe I’m not cut out for quiet mornings, latte art, and pretending I don’t want to throttle people who ask for half-caf oat milk with extra foam.
I pass a chalkboard sign outside the bakery:
Fresh gingerbread men! Santa’s favorite!
The letters are looping and cheerful, dusted with fake snow.
My throat tightens. I wanted this so badly.
A life where my most significant stress was running out of whipped cream on a Saturday morning. A life that wasn’t twelve-hour workdays and Sunday night dread, and a boss who thought family emergency was code for lazy.
But now? One string of desperate texts from Richard, and I feel like I’m right back where I started—tangled in the old version of me. The one who fixed everything. Who was indispensable. Who bled herself dry for the company, because what was the alternative?
Failing.
And then there’s Leo.
What the hell am I going to do about Leo? And Karl? And Jesse too…
I actually stumble on a patch of ice.Smooth, Olivia. Real graceful.
I grab a lamppost and suck in a breath, my pulse hammering way too hard for someone just… walking. But it’s not the ice. It’s the thought that what just happened wasn’t some casual lapse in judgment.
It meant something. To me. Maybe to him. And that's even scarier than the texts.
Because if I let myself truly want him, then what?
What happens when it blows up? When Karl finds out? When I inevitably ruin the one thing in this town that feels steady?
“Olivia?”
The voice cuts through the fog in my head, warm and achingly familiar.
I whip around, and there he is. Karl. Standing a few feet away on the sidewalk, bundled in that worn Carhartt jacket, snow caught in his beard as if he stepped straight out of a Christmas card.
