He said not to follow him, but I have to, right?
But what would I say? What could I possibly say that would make this better?
My phone is in my hand before I realize I’ve grabbed it. No messages. Of course there are no messages. He doesn’t have my number and he doesn’t know I’m GracieLou.
Still, I open our chat thread like it’s the only tether holding us together.
All those months of conversation. All those moments of connection.
And I ruined it.
I ruined both versions of us in one terrible revelation.
The train rocks gently as we speed through farmland. I watch my reflection in the window—blotchy, tear-streaked, pathetic—superimposed over the gray winter landscape.
When I close my eyes, all I can see is his face—that devastated, betrayed expression before he walked away.
“And then you let me fall for you without saying a word,”he said.
He’s right. I let him fall as fast and hard as I did. And I said nothing.
What kind of person does that?
My mind jumps back to moment after moment from the last few days—diners, songs, debates—but then it goes one day further to the day before I met Oliver. To the day I blew up my life and took another family with me.
What kind of person does that?I ask myself.The same kind who tore another family apart.
By the time the conductor’s voice crackles over the intercom calling Rochester, two and a half hours have passed.
My face is swollen, my throat is raw, and my lungs feel wrung out from crying. I’ve tried to imagine a scenario where it’s going to be fine, where he’s going to forgive me. But I don’t believe it.
I don’t expect to see him again, but somehow, he appears above me when the train stops. He silently hands me my crutches and shoulders both bags before I can protest—a small sweetness he can’t seem to stop himself from giving me.
“Oliver,” I say, but he cuts me off with a single shake of his head.
“Don’t. I’m not doing this because I care. I’m doing this becauseI’m not the villain.”
And with that, he stomps forward through the crowd and off the train.
As soon as he sees that I’ve disembarked, too, he sets down my bag.
Gives me one look—one devastated, betrayed, broken-hearted look that’s worse than anything he could say to me—and then he turns on his heel, striding too fast for me to catch up.
“Oliver!” I call. “Wait!”
But the crowds are too thick, and soon, I see him approaching two men, the older of whom looks livid. I’m sure it’s his granddad.
And I’m equally sure I’ll never hear how it goes.
I’m shell-shocked as I watch him get into the backseat of the vehicle.
When my phone buzzes with the notification that my ride share is waiting, it takes every ounce of strength I have to make it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FLETCH
“So that’s why you couldn’t bother getting back to us yesterday,” Granddad says when I reach the car. The exhaust from his Lexus comes up in plumes as thick as his suggestive tone. I’d prefer his blatant disappointment to the way his eyes are on Poppy as she climbs into the Uber.
