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He blinked. “From me? Georgie—”
“I love you, Ollie, but whenever I see you, I want to get lost in you—in us—but after today, I-I can’t let myself do that, at least not right now. I need to figure things out, make the right choices based on what I need, and not on what might or might not happen with us. Because if I don’t, I’ll end up pulling you down too and”—she clasped his hand as tears raced down her cheeks—“I can’t let that happen. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Not after everything you’ve been through.”
Oliver’s throat bobbed hard. “I was only able to get through it because of you.” He threaded his fingers through hers. “My beautiful girl, I love you so much, I’ll do whatever you want…even if it means staying away.”
She let out a shuddering breath. “It won’t be forever, just until I can make sense of what happened and where I’m going.”
Oliver looked down but wasn’t quick enough to hide the glint of tears in his eyes, which made Georgie’s stomach pinch. “I can’t help but worry, though.” He cleared his throat. “In my experience, temporary absences have a tendency to become permanent.”
Of course. Why would he think otherwise? Fighting her own fears, Georgie swallowed a sob and pulled him into a hug. “Only if we let it.”
FORTY
OLIVER
A month later, Thursday, April 22, 1993
Leafs final 1992-93 regular season record: 44 wins, 29 losses, 11 ties (in overtime)
Round One of the Stanley Cup Playoffs against Detroit
Leafs record: 0 wins, 2 losses (best-of-seven series)
The conference in Paris couldn’t have gone any worse.
Oliver’s pending antiquity deal with a museum in the Netherlands had fallen through, and no amount of wining and dining could save it. Amalia was going to hit the roof.
Dragging his carry-on suitcase behind him, Oliver found a bank of payphones in Charles de Gaulle airport and pulled a pre-paid phonecard from his pocket. His first instinct was to call Georgie. Normally, she’d listen, be supportive, and then suggest going out for a meal later to cheer him up, but since that night at her mum’s a month ago, they hadn’t spoken, seen each other, or left voicemail. Weekend breakfasts at the Golden Griddle were temporarily off the menu, too, however, Oliver always glanced across the street whenever he left his apartment, hoping he’d spy Georgie through the window (he never did). I’m lost without her. Frowning, he slumped against the payphone partition, loneliness thickening his throat. This is why I avoid relationships. Four weeks on, and he still couldn’t get Georgie out of his head or heart.
He checked his watch—11:15 a.m. With the one-hour time difference, Rafferty would still be in his meeting, so he called his work voicemail instead.
BEEP! “Oliver, it’s Amalia. I’ll be in late tomorrow, so let’s meet for the deal debrief at four instead of nine. Also, the positive feedback on the presentation continues to arrive, so you and Georgina need to start brainstorming additional ideas ASAP. I’ll see you tomorrow. Safe travels. Ciao.” BEEP!
Oliver groaned and hung up the receiver. No antiquity deal. No Georgie. What was the point of boarding his flight back?
* * *
Jet lagged and weaving, Oliver’s half-lidded gaze browsed the contents of his fridge, now devoid of beer. “That’s fucking it?” he sputtered, lunging backward. “This place sucksss!” He left the door wide open as he curled his lip at the three empty cans he’d necked in quick succession, discarded in the kitchen sink.
“Not comin’ here again.” Grabbing the counter’s edge, his sneer strayed past his fridge and the goalie drawing from the fan mail session to the Polaroid of him and Will, taken by Georgie, propped up against the coffee maker. He perked up, threw on a jacket, and stumbled toward his shoes.
* * *
The back door of McNally’s was unlocked, so Oliver lurched inside toward the noise, passing rubbernecking servers and hockey fans bolting to the washrooms during the commercial break. The first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs was in full swing, and with Toronto off for the night, the screens were tuned to Montréal at home to the Nordiques, the Game 3 score a 1-1 tie late in the second period.
Oliver shuffled and pushed his way through to the busy bar and slapped his credit card down in a spatter of orange juice. “Hello! Molll-sun, pleasssse,” he slurred with a flourish of his hand, catching the female bartender’s eye.
“Oops, lemme…” She plucked his card from the sticky spill and cleaned it off, handing it back mid-lean. “Hey, there!” Her gaze lit up as she wiped the bar. “It’s Oliver, right?”
“That’s my name!” He laughed on an exhale, and her expression puckered into a blinky grimace.
“Eww!” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “What happened?”
“I’m sooo thirsty.”
“Yeah, that’s not all you are…” She gestured to a coworker and mouthed something, resulting in a firm hand on Oliver’s shoulder and a calm “Come with me” in his ear shortly thereafter.
Oliver didn’t get a good look at the person steering him through the bar, but the destination was familiar.
