Page 93 of The Story Between Us

“Can I tell you something?” she asked after a while.

He turned to look at her. She was picking at the arm of her chair, not meeting his eyes.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“I know what it’s like. The pressure. The expectations. The feeling that you’ll never be enough no matter what you do.” She took a breath. Let it out slowly.

“My parents were high achievers. Both of them. My dad was a corporate lawyer—partner at his firm by thirty-five. My mom was a CEO. They worked constantly, both of them. I was a latchkey kid. Let myself in after school, did my homework at the kitchen table, made my own dinner. I learned early to not need things. To not ask for things. To be easy.”

Another breath. Her voice was getting smaller.

“The gold star was love, in my house. Praise came for wins, not effort. So I got really good at winning. At fitting in. At anticipating what people needed and giving it to them before they had to ask. Because that’s how I belonged. By being useful.”

Finn lifted his head, whined softly, then settled back down.

“After my mom died…” She shook her head and wiped her hand across her cheek. “I tried so hard to be what my dad needed. Quiet. Competent. No trouble. I thought if I could just be easy enough, helpful enough, he would finally see me…”

“Livvie—”

“But that’s why I came to visit my aunt that last summer. Because he was dating someone, and he didn’t want me in the way.”

Oh, Livvie.

“He didn’t marry her, but he did remarry within a couple years of Mom’s death. Katherine. I never even went to the wedding, and we’ve barely spoken since. Suddenly I had this stepfamily that wasn’t really mine. And my dad…” She finally looked at him, and her eyes were bright with tears she was refusing to shed. “He barely talks to me now. Not out of anger. Not because I did something wrong. I’m just not important enough to think about. I’m not on his radar. I never was.”

The words hung in the cool morning air.

“That’s the worst part,” she said quietly. “If he hated me, at least that would mean I mattered enough to hate. But I’m just…not significant. Not to him. I never was.”

Something fierce and hot rose in Nate’s chest. Something that wanted to find her father and shake him. And maybe everyone who made her feel invisible.

Including himself, maybe.

“Your father is an idiot.”

She startled. “What?”

“I’m serious.” He looked at the water, jaw tight. “He has this incredible daughter—someone who sees people, who believes in them even when they’ve stopped believing in themselves, who makes beautiful things happen just by caring—and he doesn’t even call?”

“Nate—”

“You are not invisible, Livvie.” He turned to face her, and the resignation in her expression made his chest ache. “Your father just isn’t looking. But I am.” His voice dropped, rough at the edges. “I’m looking. And I see you.”

She didn’t speak. Just stood there, her gaze locked in his. Something enormous pressed against his ribs as the moment stretched on, but just as he began to wonder whether it would crush his lungs, she reached over and laced her fingers through his. Just that. Just the warm press of her hand against his, steady and certain in the brightening air.

He didn’t pull away. His thumb traced a slow circle against her knuckle, and the lake held its breath.

“Aunt Lila was the one who saw me,” Livvie continued. “I barricaded myself at her place in New York on the weekends and spent summers here, and she was the one who introduced me to the publishing world. Told me I was worth more than the space I didn’t take up.” A small, sad smile. “But I’ve never really believed it. Not down where it counts. I’ve spent my whole career being useful. Being easy. Being invisible.”

She looked at him. The first light was strengthening, her face half in shadow, but he could see her clearly. The freckles. The tear tracks. The hurt she was trusting him with.

And he just wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her that she was safe.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you about the deadline,” she said. “I was trying to be useful. Trying to manage the problem so you wouldn’t have to deal with it. Because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done. Made myself necessary by solving things no one asked me to solve.”

He reached over with his free hand. Touched her arm. Just briefly—his fingers on the soft wool of her cardigan—and she stilled.

“Why aren’t you running that agency?”