“No.”

He opens his arms.

I crawl inside and the well in my eyes opens. He’s strong and feels warm and so good and he smooths his hand gently down my hair and my back, resting his jaw on the top of my head as I’m tempted to cry for the first time.

He squeezes me tight. “I’m sorry, Livvy.”

“I’m sorry too. It’s okay—my mom said she didn’t suffer, you know.”

“But you are.”

“Well, we had this thing. I could tell her anything, and she would laugh but not in a mean way, in a loving way, sort of like you do.” I sniff. “This wasn’t supposed to happen when I wasn’t here to even say goodbye.”

“You can’t plan the bad things that happen. They just do.”

The next person in line sort of skims around him and embraces me, and as the line continues, I keep stealing glances, watching him as he hugs each of my family members, counting the times I feel him glance in my direction until I lose count.

Black clothing, bodies, heat, flowers, and food flood my parents’ living room hours later, and among all those faces it’s only my nana’s face that I don’t see. People keep talking, their well-meaning sorrys invading my brain, everything going fuzzy. For the first time in my life I have been rendered speechless. I’m this numb.

Veronica and Farrah are fawning over Callan during the reception at my parents’.

“Your boss is so gorgeous it’s not even slightly hilarious.”

“It’s like a GQ parade here.”

“Gina’s engagement ring almost poked my eyes out.”

“Are you and the boss . . .” Veronica wiggles her brows. I almost wonder if she’s asking me if she can go up there and have a go at him.

“Yes,” I say. If I sound possessive, it’s because I am.

I hear their excited giggles as I stand and walk around a while to avoid any conversation. Callan stands with Saint and my brother. Tahoe hasn’t taken his eyes off either of us. Callan is watching me as I head to just sit on a couch thoughtfully. He starts coming over—Tahoe’s eyes narrow, but Callan doesn’t care.

I get to my feet and cross the room to meet him.

“Olivia,” my mother calls to me from across the room, stopping me midway. “Are you okay?”

I nod, feeling a little jolt as I see Callan still approaching. He looks terribly big and terribly strong as he nears me, and he cannot get here fast enough all of a sudden.

“Hey you.” His voice is husky.

“Hey you back.”

He leans closer. “Why is it you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, yet also the loneliest?”

“I’m just . . . processing.”

I feel myself sinking into his eyes when my mother—not appeased by my nod—gently draws me aside and scans my features in concern. “I was going to wait to tell you, but maybe you need to know now so you can start processing everything.” She tucks my hair behind my ear, and I wait in silent dread for whatever it is she looks concerned about mentioning.

“She left a note. She asked me to leave it for you at the tree house.”

“What?” I scowl, and suddenly I’m so mad at Nana. For not letting me say goodbye, for leaving me. For dying. I stomp outside. Tahoe had reattached the ladder after stupid Jeremy tore it away, but I never went up there again. Even though my brother built it, someone tampered with it and it’s no longer safe in my eyes.

But I feel suicidal, I’m so sad and mad.

I stomp down the yard and head to the tree house, climb up there and then just sit and stare at her handwriting.

I open the letter and tears are falling before I even read the words.

A life of fears is no life.

Live it fully, my Livvy.

“Olivia?”

I lift my head and my eyes well.

“I’m up here!” I call.

I swallow the emotion back and tuck the letter into its envelope when Callan reaches the top.

He looks so out of place in a suit, always so perfect and hot, climbing into the tree house that is so the complete opposite of Carma, I’m torn between laughing and crying because the only reason Callan would be in anything like this would be . . . I guess . . . for me.

He struggles to find a spot next to me and folds his knees to his chest. I show him the note. I look a mess and try to wipe my eyes and right myself as he reads it.

Callan is cramped, his big shoulders hunched as he stretches his feet and pats his thigh. This playhouse was made for kids, not fully grown adults.

He lowers the note and hands it back to me. “What are you afraid of now?”

I shrug.

“What is it?” he asks.

You. My plans not going like I wanted. Losing what I love most.

I settle for a simpler answer. A more immediate one. And just as true. “If I kiss you, that you won’t kiss me back. I feel like I’ll end up like Jeremy, go down in a tantrum and leave you up here so you never kiss anyone else either.”

“You kiss me?” He lifts a brow, smiling tenderly. There’s a sadness in that smile, in both our smiles. Because it’s a sad day.

“It’s an idea,” I defend.

“I have a better idea. Me. Kissing you.” He cups my face and kisses my lips softly. I miss him so much, I launch myself at him.

We kiss, and it feels so good to get lost in him and his warm, wet mouth and his slow-moving, gently sucking tongue. I suck a bit too hard, and he groans and I remember his split lip.

When I pull back to breathe, he’s smirking.

I touch his lip with my index finger. “I’m sorry about this,” I say.