Page 70 of Based on You

I remembered.

I'd started a logistics company in my early twenties. Small delivery bikes, a project I'd been excited about. It had failed early on, and I'd packed up the office, walked out the door, and refused to start another single thing until Elena came to me with the blueprint for what became Beckett Media.

I'd briefly dated Lara. She had a terrible personality and the relationship ended, and even then, I'd stopped trying to date. I'd liked Violet for a long time, and I'd never tried. And now, the second she'd lied to me, I'd sent her away.

"You didn't even try with Olivia," my father pointed out. "You took that grieving girl into your home, and you never tried to reach her. A fictional book did that work for you."

"I tried," I rasped.

"Was it not an author who finally reached her?" He paused, letting the trap close. "And who was that author, Simon?"

I stared at the empty chair across the table. "Violet."

"If you want to remain a coward for the rest of your life, then so be it," he said. "I'm not telling you your feelings of betrayal aren't real. I'm telling you to open your eyes and look at every other part of this. The parts you're terrified to look at."

The phone went dead.

I sat alone at the dining table and stared at the dark screen in my hand.

I didn't know what to do. I eventually wandered upstairs, went into my bedroom, turned off the overhead light, and lay down fully clothed.

The bed was freezing. I'd grown used to her beside me, and now the other half of the mattress was empty. I lay there in the dark and felt the cold of her absence. I'd never known how much I hated sleeping alone until I'd finally stopped doing it. Now I knew.

I lay awake a long time.

In the morning, I trudged downstairs for coffee. Marta was busy at the stove, and Olivia sat at the island. The second she saw me walk in, she grabbed her mug and turned to leave.

"Olivia."

She stopped. Slowly, she turned back around.

"Why are you avoiding me?" I asked.

"I'm not avoiding you," she muttered, staring into her mug. "I just don't have much to say to you right now."

"You called your grandfather."

She finally looked up. "I had things to say to him."

I looked at her, exhausted. "What did I do wrong here, Olivia?"

She exhaled a sharp breath. She set her mug down on the marble counter, her chin dropping, her shoulders sinking with it. "You were impulsive." She shook her head. "A huge fight would've been understandable. I would've taken walking around this house with tension everywhere over just losing her like that." She looked at me, her eyes accusing. "Why was it so easy for you to send her away?"

"It wasn't easy," I defended, but there was no fight left in me.

"That's not true." She shook her head. "It was pretty damn easy for you. You forced her to leave because, deep down, you didn't think it was going to last anyway." She paused, her voice breaking. "Just like Mom didn't last. So your best solution was to end it right now, before it could actually hurt you."

I didn't have a single word to say in my defense.

"I was angry at her lie, yes," she admitted, her eyes shining. "But it also felt amazing to know that my favorite writer in the world was my friend now." She looked at me, her chin leveling in judgment. "You took that away from me."

She grabbed her mug and marched out of the kitchen.

She was right. Maybe not about every detail, but about enough of it. I'd enjoyed every minute I'd spent with Violet. Every one. And yet the moment she'd said something that even touched the edge of love, I'd changed the subject. When she'd asked, in the back of the car, when we'd officially gotten together, I'd deflected with a sarcastic joke about marriage. I was always keeping one foot outside the room, so that when the room inevitably hurt me, I could leave.

Letting myself be vulnerable meant it would eventually end. Elena's death had wrecked me, and this one would finish the job. So I'd sent Violet away before it could.

I stood in the kitchen while the early sun laid everything bare across the marble, my coffee going cold in my hand, and I couldn't find a single counter-argument. The evidence was stacked on one side.