"You were trying to help," I say. "And if I was in your position, I probably would have done the same if it meant protecting her."
“You know,” He looks down at his beer. “Some days I think this would be easier to handle if you hated me for it.”
“I don’t hate you Ollie. And anger never got me anywhere either, so just leave it alone.”
“I wish I could go back and?—”
“That’s just it Ol, you can’t. I can’t. None of us can.” There’s a hint of frustration in my voice now. “We can only move forward, so please. Just let it go.”
He doesn’t. Because it’s Ollie and I know the guilt of what happened still eats him alive.
“I was trying to control the outcome. And look where that got us. You lost her anyway."
The admission sits between us, weighted with everything we're not saying. Everything she still doesn't know.
"The past is the past, Ol," I say finally. "There's no going back, yeah?"
He nods, respecting the boundary, but the damage is done. The guilt is back, settling under my skin where it's lived for five years.
Because he's right. I did lose her anyway.
And she never knew why.
She never knew that I was trying to protect her from the truth—that telling her everything would've destroyed her relationship with her brother. That I chose her family over her heart because losing one brother was already more than anyone should have to bear.
She thinks I just stopped caring.
That I got clean and realized we were toxic together. That she was part of the reason for every downward spiral I had. That recovery showed me how broken we were.
She doesn't know I was screaming into the void while she heard only silence. And maybe that's the worst betrayal of all.
"I can't do that to her again," I say finally. "Can't ask her to believe me when last time?—"
"Last time I complicated things," Ollie interrupts gently. "Butthis time, it's just you and her and whatever truth you're willing to tell."
He pauses.
"And if the truth is that you still love her, maybe she needs to hear that."
"Or maybe she needs to make her own choices without either of us complicating things."
Julian's laughter pulls us back to the present—he's doing some ridiculous impression that has the whole table in stitches.
The moment passes, and Ollie shifts back into the group conversation like we weren't just excavating old wounds. But his words stay with me.
Settle under my skin where they'll fester until I do something about them.
I drive home later,the road slick with night dew and thoughts I can't quiet. The boys caught rides with each other, Julian giving me a knowing look as he left that I pretended not to notice, Ollie clapping me on the shoulder and saying,"Think about it, yeah?"
Her cabin is dark when I pass it.
She's asleep, probably, or reading, or doing whatever she does when she's alone with her thoughts.
I park and head into my own place—the cabin on the other side of the studio, more isolated than the rest.
The same one I've lived in for three years because it's easier than going home to an empty house every night.
Strip off my jacket, run a hand through my hair, try to shake off the conversation with Ollie and the weight it added to everything I'm already carrying.
