Page 230 of Money Reigns
Heat slams into my cheeks. “Sorry,” I stammer. “Thought you were someone else.”
The man blinks, polite and puzzled, before turning back to the machine.
I spin away, mortified, my throat closing around a laugh that never comes.
My feet drag me back to theater, the room is washed in the blue glow of another montage. A song swells. Two actors kiss. A few people in the audience sigh.
I scan the rows anyway as I walk to my seat, certain I’ll catch a flash of him, certain I’ll smell him again like smoke curling through the dark.
“Stop being weird,” Ella whispers, tugging me down into my seat.
I let out a shaky breath, fold into the cushion, eyes fixed on the screen.
But my pulse doesn’t settle. My skin still hums. And my heart—
Myheartis sure he’s near.
Even if he isn’t.
Chapter fifty
Olivia
Wednesday
The morning drags. Every tick of the clock feels louder than it should, like it’s mocking me. I try to read. I try to help Mom with laundry. I try to lose myself in Ella’s chatter over breakfast. Nothing sticks. My skin feels too tight, like I’m waiting for something without admitting it.
By late afternoon, I give up. I pull on boots, a thick scarf, and my old coat, tucking my hair into a messy knot before stepping out into the brittle cold.
Brokenwoods in February feels like a photograph drained of color. Frost clings to the curbs, salt streaks the asphalt, and every breath hangs white in the air. The trees are bare skeletons, their branches scraping against a dull gray sky.
Every street is a memory, the cracked sidewalk outside Mrs. Whitmore’s house where Ella and I used to ride bikes, the patch of grass on Maple where I fell rollerblading at eleven and Logan carried me home, blood streaking down my knees. Every block holds some version of us frozen in time.
I turn the corner and hear it before I see it: the grind of machinery, the splintering thud of wood, men shouting over the noise.
The park.
It’s being gutted. Half the fence is down. The benches are overturned, the play structure half-disassembled. Piles of wood and metal lay scattered like bones. Even the air smells different, cold dirt, sawdust, and rust.
I stop at the corner, my pulse quickening.
My eyes go straight to the far end.
The swing set.
Gone.
My chest hollows. The space where it stood is nothing but churned earth and splintered planks tossed beside the dumpster.
A memory hits so sharply I sway.
Ella and me, twelve years old, racing barefoot through the grass. She gets there first, throws herself onto the left swing, hair flying like fire in the sun. I grab the right one, push off, both of us shrieking with laughter. Our initials carved into the frame with a pocketknife Chase swore we’d get grounded for touching. Cherry popsicle stains on our fingers. The creak of the chains, the dizzy rush of summer.
We used to tell each other everything on those swings; crushes, secrets, stupid dreams. It was our place to be infinite, like nothing outside the park could touch us.
Now it’s nothing but dirt.
I stumble back, pressing my hand to my mouth.
