The wind tugged persistently at the edge of Olivia's coat as she made her way across Tremont street, its icy touch curling around her knees like inquisitive fingers. Boston in late fall always carried a biting chill, the kind that turned your breath into visible puffs and set your mind racing. Her black trench coat, snugly fastened at the waist, had a fur collar that brushed against her chin. Beneath it, her thick, plum-colored turtleneck dress fit her like protective armor, while her velvet thigh-high boots hit the pavement with a soft but determined rhythm.
The Boston air nipped at her cheeks with sharp little bites, invigorating her more than any coffee ever could. Olivia raised the fur-lined collar of her black trench coat higher against her neck, nestling further into its comforting warmth. Her deep purple turtleneck sweater dress was thick and forgiving, its hem falling just above her black velvet thigh-high boots. She appeared as if she belonged in Boston, as though she might reside in a brownstone on Marlborough Street, complete with a fancy espresso machine that conversed with its owner. But in truth, she was just a visiting ghost.
Her boots tapped softly along Commonwealth Avenue, muffled slightly by the occasional gust of wind that snuck under her coat. She'd spent the morning wandering the Boston University campus, a spontaneous detour that had tugged at her heart more than expected. The bookstore at Boston University had been a comfort. The air there smelled like paper, pencil shavings, and overheard conversations. She'd wandered through the aisles slowly, dragging her fingers along the spines of thick academic texts and overpriced university merch. She'd picked up a weathered copy of Letters to a Young Poet—something about the way the spine cracked in her hand felt like a sign. The poetry section had been smaller than she remembered, but it was the only place she'd felt entirely still. She bought Letters to a Young Poet because the cover reminded her of a time when she didn't know what heartbreak felt like—when everything was possibility and the worst thing in the world was a B-minus on an organic chem test.
That felt like someone else's life now. She'd stood there for nearly fifteen minutes, reading until the world outside the windows felt blurry and irrelevant. Until his weight crept back in. It's been less than twelve hours since she hit send on that voicemail. Less than that since she followed it with the text. And already, she felt like she'd been hiding all week. Because truthfully, she had. She hadn't called Grayson, hadn't texted him. Not because she didn't want to, but because she didn't trust herself. Because Grayson was in everything now—folded into her morning coffee, laced in the silence between songs, even layered in her damn bookstore choices. He was everywhere. And not hearing from him after that voicemail? It made every second feel like a question she didn't want the answer to.
She arrived at the Haley Building shortly after midday. As she neared its sleek, contemporary exterior, she attempted to let go of everything on her mind. The structure was bright and clean, all steel, glass, and money. Its panels reflected the cloud-covered sky, and its revolving doors looked too expensive to push.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled like new furniture, citrusy cleaning supplies, and someone's gourmet lunch being warmed up somewhere it shouldn't be. The floors were glossy marble, warm cream with soft golden veins running through them like nerves. It was the kind of lobby that felt intimidating even when you knew exactly where you were going.
Which she didn't. She walked past tall potted plants and toward a sleek information desk beside a digital directory. The font on the touchscreen was modern and narrow, impossible to read at a distance. Information desk, her fingers brushing the edge of her coat pocket as she scanned the wall-mounted directory. The lobby buzzed faintly—phones ringing in the distance, the slap-click of heels against stone, the occasional ding of an elevator arriving or departing. She squinted up at the small block letters and ran her finger down the glass, trying to remember the name of Haley's accounting firm. She leaned in, searching for Haley's accounting firm. Was it under "S"? Or "C"? Suns, something? Chew? Why couldn't she remember?
A figure stepped beside her. She noticed him only distantly, thinking he was just another office worker looking for a client meeting.
"Excuse me," a smooth, deep voice said. "I work in this building. I might be able to help you."
"I found it," she said instinctively, smiling as she turned.
And froze. Olivia's blood ran cold.
Paul.
For a second, the world didn't exist outside of her ribs. The sounds around her dulled, like she'd ducked underwater, and her eyes locked on the last person she ever expected to see again.
Her stomach dropped. The corners of her smile fell before she could mask it, and her whole body stiffened, instincts firing off in warning. "Asshat," she muttered, coughing into her fist. "Paul." She pivoted sharply, walking toward the elevators without another glance.
His shoes squeaked obnoxiously as he followed. Same cheap shoes. Same forced confidence. His shoes squeaked annoyingly against the marble as he followed—still too loud, still too present.
"Oooolivia," he drawled, drawing out her name like some private joke. "It's been too long."
"Not long enough," she said, stabbing the elevator up button like it owed her money.
"Hey, I'm just trying to catch up. See how you've been," he said with a smirk that hadn't changed. His suit was too tight in the shoulders, and his cologne was the same cheap, overconfident mix of cedarwood and desperation.
"I'm trying really hard not to punch you in the face," she replied, her smile sarcastic and sharp as a switchblade.
"Hey, don't be like that. I thought we ended things amicably," Paul said with a confident smile, his eyes searching her face for a hint of agreement.
Although we haven't kept in touch, why the hostility?"
Olivia stood there, dumbfounded, her fingers anxiously pressing the elevator button in a desperate attempt to summon it faster.
"Paul, you really don't know?" she asked, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and frustration, as though she were looking at a stranger rather than the man she once knew so well.
"Know what, Olivia? I told you I found the love of my life. We had some good years, but what else was there to say?" he replied, the shrug in his voice almost tangible, as if dismissing the weight of their shared past.
"We had some good years…?" Olivia whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the words were lodged in her throat. She felt like she was being pushed to the edge of a cliff, the ground beneath her crumbling. "Paul, what are you doing in Boston?" she finally managed to ask, her voice quivering slightly.
"I was transferred with my promotion," he announced, puffing up his chest with pride. But before he could continue, their conversation was interrupted. A sweet, melodic voice floated through the air, accompanied by the rhythmic click of heels against the polished marble floor. "Honey, I thought you said you were coming to get me for lunch?" The voice, lilting and warm, caused Paul and Olivia to turn toward its source.
And there she was—his wife.
A breathtaking woman enveloped in a crisp white pea coat, exuding an ethereal glow. Her belly, round and full of life, was beautifully accentuated by a burnt orange maternity wrap dress that seemed to radiate warmth. Her hair, kissed with blonde highlights, cascaded in soft, luxurious curls around her shoulders, framing her face perfectly. Her eyes danced with innocent curiosity as she glanced between Olivia and Paul, seeking to understand the scene before her.
"Yes, baby," Paul responded, his smile meticulously warm and inviting. "I was. But I ran into someone from my past. Started catching up." His hand found its place on her hip, fingers gently caressing the curve of her belly.
Inside Olivia, something shifted, twisted painfully, then cracked open like fragile glass. The elevator lobby continued its steady hum, yet it all faded into an indistinct background noise. The rhythmic pounding of her heart overshadowed everything else, echoing in her ears like a relentless drum.
"Oh? I thought I knew all your friends." The woman turned her attention to Olivia, offering a smile so kind it could melt the iciest of hearts. "Hi, Lily."
Olivia blinked, momentarily lost in the unexpected warmth of the exchange.
"Olivia," she corrected automatically, extending her hand to meet the woman's warm grasp. The touch felt like an elaborate facade. Her lips stretched into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, a mask of politeness she didn't truly feel.
"Sweetheart," Paul interjected smoothly, his voice a soothing balm. "Just someone from my past."
Olivia's eyes darted to his, wide with disbelief, her heart pounding with unspoken questions. His eyes held hers, sharp and daring, as if issuing a silent challenge.
He rubbed Lily's belly again, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring each moment. Sweet, beautiful Lily touched his hand, her laughter ringing out like a melody. Olivia glanced down at his hand, feeling the weight of what she saw. Lily caught the look on her face and commented with a bright smile.
"I know, right?" She said, her voice bubbling with excitement.
"We're so lucky. This is our second back-to-back! This one's a girl. Paul says he wants a whole fleet if he could."
"W… wow." Olivia's voice was hoarse, barely recognizable as her own. "Two kids already, Paul."
"Yeah," he replied with a broad grin. "I was lucky. Found the one for me. Lily's so perfect. I still can't believe I have her."
The elevator's ding was like a lifeline thrown in a storm, a sound of salvation amidst her swirling emotions.
Ah. Relief washed over her as the elevator doors slid open with a mechanical hum, and Olivia stepped in with urgency, as if escaping a fire that threatened to consume her.
They followed, stepping into the confined space with her. Trapped. A box of hell.
She jabbed the button for Haley's floor with a sense of purpose. They pressed a button for a floor below, sealing their fate to ride together for a while longer.
As the elevator doors whispered closed, cocooning the three of them in a capsule of fluorescent lighting and perfumed air.
Olivia stared straight ahead, hands shoved so deep into her coat pockets that her knuckles ached. Next to her, Paul rocked on his heels, the awkward energy radiating off him in silent, invisible waves, and
Lily was still talking, something about how much more complicated her second pregnancy was, all the while looping Paul's arm through her own, his hand never leaving her belly. Olivia thought, distantly, that the baby must be some anchor between them, the only honest thing in the entire tableau. Paul looked like a man who'd been given everything he ever wanted and still felt a gnawing lack, as if the universe owed him some extra measure of satisfaction for all his unacknowledged suffering. Maybe it was that sense of entitlement Olivia had always found both irresistible and repulsive, except now it just felt like a punchline she'd been too slow to get.
"Paul, since you haven't seen her in such a long time, you should invite her to the baby shower! I'm sure she'd love to see it, and she hasn't even met Junior yet!" Lily's voice was bright with enthusiasm, and her eyes sparkled with the thought of a joyful reunion.
"No!" they both exclaimed simultaneously, their voices sharp and immediate, echoing too loudly in the confined space.
"I can't," Olivia stammered, her voice faltering as she glanced at the polished floors. "I don't live here, I'm just visiting my best friend, and I'll be out of town." Her words flowed in a hurried stumble, like pebbles scattering down a hill.
"But… you don't even know when the shower is yet?" Lily asked, her brow furrowing in confusion, eyes flicking back and forth between them, seeking answers.
"Doesn't matter," Olivia snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a knife as the elevator doors began to part. "I'll always be out of town." Her tone was final, like the closing of a chapter she refused to revisit.
Paul offered a benign nod in Olivia's direction, his expression a practiced mask of indifference, as though the last decade of their shared history was as flat and irrelevant as the lobby directory beside them. She stepped into the hallway, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. "It was nice to meet you. I hope to never do it again." Her words were a cold farewell, laced with a biting finality.
The elevator doors closed with a soft whoosh, and the car gave a hydraulic sigh, as if relieved to be free of the tension. And with that, Olivia marched toward the double glass doors, their reflective surfaces etched with the elegant
script: Suns | Chew | Expos Accounting Group.
Her silhouette was a determined stride, framed by the late afternoon light streaming through the glass. The office smelled like lemongrass and professionalism. Warm taupe walls framed a sleek front desk staffed by a smiling receptionist with bright lipstick and perfect posture.
"Can you please tell Ms. Chazwick that Ms. Webber is in the lobby?" Olivia asked, voice still shaking.
"Of course. Please have a seat." Minutes later, Olivia was escorted down a softly carpeted hallway to Haley's office, the third door on the left, as the receptionist stood at the confluence of sun and style. When Olivia crossed the threshold, she was enveloped by an unspoken warmth that contrasted starkly with the chilled, metallic elevator ride she'd just fled. It was more than the temperature; it was a carefully curated refuge. Olivia realized she'd started to crave such spaces in the days since she'd left for Boston for reasons she barely admitted to herself.
The space was an exercise in subtle abundance: sunlight poured across the berber carpet, illuminating the gradations in the sand-colored wallpaper and coaxing every chromatic note from the oversized florals that danced across the canvas above the sofa. The art was somehow both invigorating and calming, raucous bouquets in glass jars splashed with color, like laughter she hadn't heard in years. Opposite the couch, a neat line of books marched across shelving that appeared, at first, to be perfectly organized. But on closer inspection, it was the chaos that was organized: accounting guides and legal tomes stacked between glossy cookbooks, a lone poetry anthology paired with a battered copy of Gray's Anatomy, and, inexplicably, a bright orange binder labeled "Emergency Ducks." Olivia's lips twitched, Haley's sense of humor and preparedness, forever entwined.
Personal touches layered the office in comfort. Haley's diplomas, one from Boston University and one from MIT, and a third in a language Olivia couldn't decipher, were hung in tight formation above a delicate, glass-topped table. A small, acrylic award for "Emerging Business Leader of the Year" presided over a family of succulents in geometric planters, their green arms reaching in hopeful directions. Pictures, some professional, some distinctly not, occupied every available surface. There was the classic shot of Haley and Olivia, arms around each other, both looking wild-eyed and victorious after their first half-marathon. Olivia remembered that morning: the giddy, sweat-sticky collapse on the finish line, the taste of oranges and cheap prosecco, the way Haley had grinned as if the world was new and waiting just for them.
There was also a candid, clearly taken on a phone picture of Haley on a beach, hair up in a messy red bun, holding laughing babies with both hands as if she planned never to let go. The babies, Olivia knew, it was her niece and nephew, but the look on Haley's face, a kind of satisfied, world-conquering joy, made Olivia ache, though she wasn't sure for what.
Near the large window, a candle flickered steadily and sure, sending out a scent that was instantly nostalgic and dizzyingly sweet. It wasn't just vanilla; it was vanilla with something like lavender and crushed cardamom, layered with a warmth that reminded Olivia of Christmas mornings and spring teas and every sleepover that had ended in whispered secrets and giggled promises of forever friendship. She breathed in, the tension in her chest loosening slightly, as if she'd stepped into a place where past and present could coexist without the threat of combustion.
Haley was there, of course—where else would she be at 2:15 sharp? After all these years, she still made punctuality look effortless. She was on the phone, coppery red hair twisted into two French braids that shimmered under the soft halo of recessed lighting. Her outfit—tailored white pantsuit, gold hoops, flats with some kind of blue-and-white pattern—was so Haley it hurt, an impossible blend of efficiency and rebellion, as if she'd accepted all the world's rules but reserved the right to break them on a whim. She was deep in conversation, gesturing with a pen in quick, precise movements as she jotted something onto a notepad.
Without looking up, Haley pointed to the plush chair in front of her desk—a silent, familiar invitation. Olivia sat, grateful for the sanctuary, and tried to steady her hands, which had started trembling again.
"What do you want to do for lunch?" Haley mouthed, not looking up from her monitor as the staccato burst of keystrokes resounded through the office, each tap measured and merciless. Her lips curled upward in the half-smile she reserved for inside jokes and minor provocations, a signal that she was simultaneously present and not—an Olympic-level multitasker even in social matters. Olivia blinked, refocusing on her friend, and realized Haley was balancing a phone between her shoulder and cheek while skimming a spreadsheet with the other hand. The phone shone blue against her jaw.
"No, Bob," Haley said, her voice syrupy and lethal all at once. The numbers on the left show that the EBITDA is missing this past month's earnings." A beat passed—a universe of analytical silence—before she continued: "Yes, that's why your quarterly forecast looks like a failed science experiment." She rolled her eyes for Olivia's benefit, then made a sweeping gesture across the desk, as if welcoming her in for a front-row seat at the ongoing circus.
Olivia still hadn't moved. She watched the steam rise from the mug on Haley's desk, the coffee cooling too quickly in the overzealous AC. The cup was branded with a meme-font proclamation: I May Be An Accountant But I Can't Fix Stupid People. It was so on-the-nose that Olivia briefly wondered if it was a plant, a prop for this very moment. The mug's message alternated with another, more delicate script underneath: You're doing great, Sweetie!—the effect of having been through one too many rounds in the dishwasher.
She heard her name through a wall of static, then again, softer: "Liv?" Haley was looking up now, concern pinched into her brow. Her hand held a pen like it might be needed for first aid or self-defense. She leaned forward, one elbow on the desk, the other keeping the phone in place as she muted it mid-conversation. "Liv…" The softness in her tone was unnerving, like a parent's voice the moment before you found out someone died.
Haley unmuted the call with a flourish, "Bob, I'm going to crunch these numbers and call you back in twenty. No, I will not give you a discount because you went to high school with my cousin. Bye, Bob." She clicked the mouse with unnecessary force and set the phone down. "Liv, you're scaring me. Did something happen?" She'd always had a way of shifting emotional gears with the speed and precision of a muscle car tearing around a curve.
Olivia scanned the office again, needing something mundane to anchor herself. There was the old photo—a staple of Haley's office decor—of the two of them at a Red Sox game, faces painted and tongues blue from sno-cones, both wild with triumph. There was the framed quote from Eleanor Roosevelt ("Do one thing every day that scares you"), and the potted succulent sprouting a pink Post-It from its soil: "Water me or I'll die!" The room was a shrine to function and affection, but the air felt tight as a drum in this moment.
She didn't know how to articulate what had happened—how the sight of Paul had thrown her into a memory she thought she'd incinerated years ago, how the word "fleet" tumbling from his wife's lips made her stomach burn as if she'd swallowed lit matches, how the entire encounter felt staged by some cruel cosmic joke. Instead, Olivia said, "I need a drink," using the voice she saved for breakups, funerals, and horrible news. "Tequila. Or bourbon. No—definitely tequila."
Haley didn't flinch. "Why do you need a drink, Liv?" she asked, her voice calibrated to maximum warmth. Her eyes were scanning Olivia's face for clues, for signs of hemorrhage or hysteria.
Olivia stood so abruptly that her chair shrieked against the carpet, its legs catching on a stray power cord. "I'm going to get shit-faced. Are you coming?" The words hung in the air, suspended between threat and invitation.
Haley opened her mouth, closed it, then walked around the desk, pushing aside the glass-topped table with a gentle nudge of her hip. She took Olivia's hands in both of hers. For a second, Olivia remembered every sleepover they'd ever had—every whispered horror story, every time Haley had patched up a scraped knee or offered a tissue before the tears started. This was Haley, Olivia's oldest and most faithful friend. "Liv, talk to me. What happened?"
The question pulled something loose, and Olivia could feel her composure fraying at the edges, the threads unraveling faster with each breath. She tried to say it, but her mouth seemed to have forgotten how to form words. She was still staring at the stupid, truth-telling mug, as if it might intercede on her behalf and declare her incapable of being fixed.
"OLIVIA, STOP!" Her voice echoed slightly in the enclosed room, a sharp contrast to her next words, softened almost to a plea, "What's going on?" She glanced around the room, relieved that at least the door was closed, but concern etched deep lines in her brow. "Liv, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's happening." Haley reached out, her fingers wrapping around Olivia's arm gently but firmly.
"THE ASSHAT!" Olivia exploded, her voice cracking with anger. "DID YOU KNOW HE WORKS IN YOUR GODDAMN BUILDING?" Her shout reverberated off the walls, leaving an almost tangible tension in the air. Haley's hands flew to her mouth in shock, her eyes wide with disbelief. "What... When... NO!" she stammered. "Liv, I wouldn't have told you, and I would never have asked you to come to lunch here if I had known he worked here, let alone in Boston. Why is he in Boston?"
Olivia's eyes bored into Haley's, searching for any hint of deceit, her gaze intense and unwavering. Gradually, her fury ebbed, leaving behind a simmering frustration. She exhaled deeply, the heat in her chest subsiding just a fraction. "I still need a drink. So I'm leaving. Now." Her voice was steadier, but the determination in it was unmistakable.
With a swift turn, she stormed out, leaving Haley calling after her, "Liv—wait, damn it!" The urgency in her voice was palpable as she hurried to catch up.
As the elevator chimed softly, signaling its arrival, Haley reached the door, her coat and briefcase clutched tightly in her hands. The descent began, and with practiced efficiency, she repacked her bag—sliding her laptop, files, and phone into place—before snapping it shut and donning her coat like a suit of armor. The elevator doors slid open, and Olivia stepped out, still walking like a woman on a mission.
To the nearest bar.
The bar had the perfect kind of dim, warm overhead lighting softened by amber sconces and old framed black-and-white photos that leaned into the exposed brick. The floor creaked in the right places. Classic rock played from speakers hidden in the ceiling, just loud enough to hum underneath the buzz of lunchtime conversations. It smelled like grilled burgers, aged bourbon, and something fried—but in a comforting way. The kind of bar that didn't care if you were overdressed or underdressed, just so long as you tipped.
Olivia walked in first, eyes sharp, steps purposeful.
She didn't even bother putting her purse down.
Her heels clacked across the worn floorboards as she beelined for the bar, shoulders still drawn tight from the storm she'd just left behind. The bartender—a man in his mid-forties with salt-and-pepper stubble and kind eyes—looked up with a practiced smile.
Olivia spotted the name tag.
"Ian," she said flatly, pulling two crisp hundred-dollar bills from her wallet and sliding them across the bar. "I'm going to need tequila shots. For my friend and me, whenever she gets here, keep them coming. If you do, I'll double your tip before I leave."
Ian's brows raised just slightly, but the easy smile never faltered. "Sure, ma'am. I've got you if you're not driving and staying safe."
He turned, reached for the top shelf, and selected a bottle of silver Patron like it was a ritual. Two shot glasses. A confident pour.
Olivia picked one up immediately and threw it back.
The burn was instant, sharp, but clean. She exhaled roughly, slammed the shot glass on the bar, and finally slid onto the stool behind her, shrugging off the weight of her purse like it had been a hundred pounds.
A minute later, the front door swung open with a gust of cold air and a hurried set of heels.
Haley.
She walked in, scanning, phone in one hand, wild red braid slightly windblown, the other already reaching for the bar.
Olivia gestured toward her. "Haley, this is Ian. He's going to keep me very lit all day. Ian, this is Haley—she's my best friend and walks slow as shit."
"Liv!" Haley hissed, pulling off her coat. "You crossed the street right as the light turned red. There are like six bars on this block. How was I supposed to know which one you power-stomped into?"
Olivia just stared at her. "Are you drinking, or not?"
Ian returned, smoothly refilling the shot glass just as Olivia tossed back her second without missing a beat.
Haley sighed in surrender. "Of course, bestie. We are in this together."
She took her first shot, wincing as it hit. "Woo… girl… Patron? At noon?"
Olivia peeled off her coat with her third shot in hand. "You swear you didn't know he worked in your building?"
Haley's mouth fell open, her face growing serious. "Liv, you're my sister. I promise never to lie to you."
Olivia searched her eyes. Deep. Like she was trying to read a headline underwater. After a beat, she exhaled and nodded. "Okay."
Ian, ever the bartender-therapist hybrid, poured the fourth shot without a word. But just as Olivia reached for it, Haley's hand landed gently on hers.
"Liv… maybe eat something first?"
"Yeah, probably," Olivia said. "But right now, I need to be numb. So food's not an option."
She moved Haley's hand and took the shot, her lips barely forming a grim smile before she tossed it back.
Haley, loyal as ever, followed suit.
The fifth shot was poured. But Olivia didn't take it.
Instead, she stared at it, shoulders slumping ever so slightly.
The noise of the bar carried on around them—lunch orders shouted, silverware clinking, the low murmur of mid-day gossip. But it was quiet in their little corner of the world—a suspended silence between friends.
Then Olivia broke it.
"That fucker said I was an acquaintance." Her voice was low, but the anger in it sharpened every syllable. "A fucking acquaintance."
She picked up the shot and drank it. Hard.
Haley blinked. "Wait—what? Liv, say a full sentence, babe. Start from the top."
Ian returned, this time with a plate of steaming cheesy breadsticks. He set them gently in front of Olivia and gave Haley a quiet nod.
"Thank you," Haley mouthed, then turned back to her friend.
"Take your time, Liv," she said softly. "But tell me what happened."
Without thinking, Olivia grabbed a breadstick and bit into it mid-thought, her words slurring slightly as her mouth stayed too full and her heart too raw.
"I… I pu' up w' that asshaa' fer shhheven yearshh… an' he—he in'in'duced me ashh a… 'quaint'nshh? Wha' th' hell…"
She was chewing aggressively now, tearing each piece apart like it owed her something.
Haley blinked at her and shook her head with a grin. "Liv, if you think I understood any of that, you are wildly underestimating the power of our friendship."
Olivia groaned and reached for her next shot, then paused. "I said," she clarified, swallowing, "I put up with that asshat for seven years… and he introduced me like I was just some rando he once passed on the train. Just someone he knows."
She sighed—deep and heavy—then threw back the shot in front of her and slammed the glass on the counter.
"Liv, babes, I'm sorry," Haley said, rubbing her back.
"I don't love him anymore, Hals," Olivia said suddenly, her voice quieter now, steadier. "I know that now. I don't think I really wanted to own that part how much of it was my mistake? I loved my freedom, my independence, traveling… and he didn't, or wouldn't, allow that part of me to exist."
She let out a breath like it had been caught in her chest all morning. "If I'd seen him in Chicago, I think I would've handled it better. Hi, I would have had my armor on, my comebacks loaded. But here? In Boston?" She shook her head. "It blindsided me."
"And then she shows up."
"Who?" came Ian's voice, leaning slightly closer as he wiped the bar with a rag, clearly caught in the story.
Olivia glanced sideways at him, surprised and a little amused. "Oh, you're in it now, Ian. Buckle up."
She turned back to Haley, eyes still wide with the surrealism of it all.
"His wife," Olivia said slowly, letting the weight of the word sit in her throat. "Lily. Beautiful. Sweet. Pregnant. Glowing. I swear, Hals—I wanted to be her friend. Like, deep in my bones, I liked her. And then he—" She huffed out a bitter laugh. "—he puts his hands on her belly like it's a goddamn rom-com. Right in front of me. Rubs it like she's the prize at the end of some perfect, heartwarming montage. And then he tells me they're having their second. Second, Haley! Like they're just casually popping out a fucking baseball league."
Haley's mouth dropped open, eyes wide.
Ian, halfway through pouring a drink for someone else, actually paused.
"I swear to you," Olivia continued, "my brain just shut down. Beep-boop. System error."
The breadstick in her hand remained still as she stared at the bar, chewing slowly. The warm cheese melted on her tongue, but she couldn't touch the tightness in her chest. Five shots in,the tequila wasn't even dulling it anymore.
Olivia swallowed. Hard.
"That's not what hurt," she said softly. "Not the baby. Not the family. Not even seeing him."
She shook her head slowly, whispering now. "Nope. Nope. Noppy."
Haley leaned in, listening intently.
"It's when Lily looked at me and said she thought she knew all of Paul's friends," Olivia continued, voice cracking at the edge. "And then he says I'm someone from his past. That's it. No name. No ex. No history. Just… just someone."
Her hands came up to her temples and rubbed them with her fingertips, as if she could erase the memory by sheer force.
"I have never," she whispered, "felt so erased in my life."
That's when the tears started slowly at first. A single drop rolled down her cheek. She sniffed and tried to wipe it away with the back of her hand, but another followed. Then another.
Ian reached under the bar, pulled out a box of tissues, and set them down gently beside her with a freshly poured glass of water. He didn't say anything. He just offered her a quiet nod and went back to pouring drinks for the rest of the room.
Haley, still close, took Olivia's hand in both of hers firm, grounding.
"You are not someone," she said fiercely. "Not to anyone who matters. Not to me."
Olivia blinked, looking at her through watery eyes.
"And remember," Haley added, her voice softening into something hopeful, "I'm going to introduce you to Preston in a few days. I swear to you, he's going to be a thousand times better than that asshat."
A faint smile broke across Olivia's tear-streaked face. It didn't erase the ache, but it held it lightened it just enough.
"You better be right, Hals."
"I'm always right," Haley said, bumping her shoulder. "And even when I'm wrong, I still bring tequila and carbs."
Olivia laughed a real one this time. Small, but real.
The bar had shifted since the afternoon. Gone were the suits and lunch meetings, replaced by loosened collars, flushed cheeks, and the golden haze of evening drinks. The air now pulsed faintly with laughter, the bass of the old karaoke machine in the corner thumping just enough to rattle the low cocktail glasses on the tables. Somewhere near the kitchen, the sharp scent of sizzling jalapeño poppers drifted into the open space, mixing with tequila and cheap beer like a badge of honor.
Haley was tipsy, cheeks flushed, and practically glowing with chaotic friendliness as she leaned over a high-top table, talking animatedly to two women she'd only just met. Her hands were flailing as she proclaimed loudly that Henry Cavill had once been in her kitchen. "I'm serious! Right there! By the fridge. Shirtless. I spilled coffee. It was a whole thing."
The women laughed. One nearly snorted. Behind the bar, Ian was wiping down the counter with practiced ease when Daniel walked in.
He wore a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled and creased from the day's work, and tailored brown slacks that still held their sharp lines despite the late hour. His eyes scanned the room first for Haley, relaxing when he spotted her laughing in the corner. Then, instinctively, he looked for Olivia and frowned when she was nowhere in sight.
Ian caught his look and raised a hand. "Hey Daniel, right? I'm Ian. I had the pleasure of serving Liv and Haley today."
Daniel nodded, his expression curious and cautious. "You're the one who called from Haley's phone?"
"Yes, sir," Ian said, with the easy politeness of a man who'd wrangled emotions and cocktails for years. "Liv's okay. She's in our break room sleeping it off."
Daniel's brow ticked up.
Ian grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "After she sang 'Bartender' by Lady Antebellum, rallied the whole bar into a dance circle, and then tried to duet with the karaoke machine without the mic—I figured it was time she took a little break."
Daniel glanced toward the corner where the small karaoke setup sat, lit in a rotating swirl of purples and blues. "Yeah… that tracks."
"She's a firecracker," Ian added with a laugh.
Daniel chuckled. "Let me get Liv first, then I'll come retrieve my future wife."
Ian's brows rose. "Future wife, huh?" A wide grin pulled at his mouth. "Well then—look, I don't normally do this. I don't tell people who I am. Most folks assume I'm just the bartender. But this place is mine. And after spending the last four hours watching those two women light up this entire room with their history, their chaos, and their loyalty… I'd be honored if you used my bar for the proposal. When you're ready."
Daniel paused, stunned by the sincerity. "That's incredibly kind, Ian. Thank you."
"I mean it." Ian's voice was genuine, eyes shining. "Something about those two? It made me believe in things again. Call me sentimental."
"Call me intrigued," Daniel replied. "I have no idea how I'm going to pull it off yet, but… yeah. This place? It would be perfect."
"Then it's yours." Ian clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon. Let's go get your lightweight and talk more about this Henry Cavill story, because now I'm invested."
By the time they got Olivia bundled into Daniel's car, coaxed Haley off her new bar friends, and—very kindly—uninvited all the guests Haley had somehow invited to a "post-bar party," it was well past midnight.
Daniel carried Olivia up the stairs bridal-style, even though she protested with a sleepy mutter of "I am not luggage." He smiled and navigated through the house with ease, finally laying her gently on the guest bed.
Haley followed close behind, whispering instructions like a half-drunk nurse. "Her pajamas are in the overnight bag. No, not that drawer. That drawer. The comfy pants, not the silk ones. She hates silk when she's drunk."
Together, they managed to change her clothes between giggles and affectionate eye rolls. Olivia mumbled something about cheese fries and betrayal but ultimately gave in, limbs heavy.
Haley brought her a glass of water, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "I love you, dummy," before switching off the light and closing the door softly behind her.
Olivia sank into the sheets, the tequila haze morphing into sleep. But something stirred.
She blinked against the darkness and reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, momentarily too bright.
No new messages.
She stared at it for a long time. Rude, she thought. What another jerk.
She meant to text him—something, anything snarky. But her fingers never moved.
Sleep found her before the words could. And her mind went blessedly blank.