But even knowing that, it doesn’t stop the humiliation that’s burning under my skin.

And it only flames hotter when they move through our threadbare living room, messy with strewn shoes and papers because I didn’t have time to straighten up. If things had gone the way I’d wanted, I would have made it look pretty—quaint—with fresh flowers and plumped throw pillows. Not like this.

In his bedroom, they put my father on the bed. I squeeze past Nicholas and get the dark blue blanket off the chair in the corner. I lay it over my father, tucking him in. His eyes are closed and his lips open, but he doesn’t snore. There’s more gray than black now in the thick stubble on his chin. Slowly, I lean over and kiss his forehead, because even though he’s not my hero anymore, he’s still my dad.

Silently, the three of us file back downstairs. My arms wrap around my middle, stiff and tight, and my skin feels prickly—too sensitive. In my head, I can already hear the words Nicholas will say:

I’ll call you.

This was…nice.

Thanks, but no thanks.

He must be relieved to dodge the bullet—probably wondering what the hell he was thinking in the first place. The only baggage a guy like him is used to a woman having is Louis Vuitton.

“I’ll, ah…I’ll be at the car, Sir,” Logan says when we reach the coffee shop’s dining area. He nods my way, then heads out the door.

The silence is awkward. Uncomfortable. I can feel his eyes on me, but I focus on the floor. And I cringe when he finally splits the quiet, in that smooth, perfect voice.

“Olivia.”

But I’m determined to rip the Band-Aid off first. Beat him to the blow-off punch. I’m a New Yorker and that’s how we roll—if someone’s getting kicked to the curb, you can bet your ass we’re going to be the motherfucking kicker.

“You should go.” I nod, lifting my face but still not meeting his eyes. “I want you to go.”

His warm hand touches my bare arm. “Don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry,” I deny with quick, jerking shakes of my head. “I just want you to leave.” My throat clogs, salty and wet. Because I like him so much. My eyes squeeze closed—a last-ditch effort to contain the giant, ugly tears hovering on my lashes. “Please just leave.”

Nicholas’s hand drops from my arm. And I wait—I listen—for the sound of him walking out the door. Out of my life. Where he was never really supposed to be in the first place.

But about thirty seconds later, what I actually hear is something entirely different.

“My grandmother talks to paintings.”

My eyes spring open.

“What?”

“When I was younger I thought it was funny, in a freakish kind of way, but now I just think it’s sad.”

There’s a prodding desperation in his eyes. Earnest, but…vulnerable. Like this is all new to him. Like he’s taking a risk—going out on a limb—but he has to push himself to get there. Because he’s not sure if the limb will hold or snap.

“She’s almost eighty years old and the only person she’s ever been able to talk to is my grandfather. He’s been gone a decade and he’s still the only person she can talk to.”

He pauses for a moment, his brow growing weighted. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, hushed—like these are words he hasn’t let himself think, let alone say aloud.

“My brother has been away on military service for the last two years. He was discharged three months ago and he hasn’t come anywhere close to home. But even before that, he stopped taking my calls. I haven’t spoken to Henry in six months and I have no idea why.”

I think of the video—of the way Nicholas pulled his little brother into his arms, held him close and tight. Protected him, tried so hard to make him smile. And I know immediately how much this silence must hurt him. I can almost feel it in my own heart—the breaking of his.

“My cousins hate me,” he goes on, in a lighter tone. “Like, ‘I think they would literally try to poison me when they come to visit if they thought they could get away with it’ kind of hate.”

His mouth quirks up in an almost-smile and a snort that bubbles from mine.

“They hated my father, too…and all because his mother was born before theirs.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because if you think your family is the only one with dysfunction in it, you’re wrong.” His hand runs through my hair like he can’t help himself, sliding the strands behind my ear. “Mine has that particular market cornered.”

He’s quiet after that. Waiting for me to take my turn—he doesn’t say it, but I know. He wants me to crawl out on that shaky limb with him.

And if it breaks…at least we’ll fall together.

“My father’s an alcoholic.”

The words feel awkward, strange. It’s the first time I’ve said them.

“Not in a mean or violent way…He drinks when he’s sad. And he’s been sad every day since my mother died.” I look around the coffee shop, my voice quivering. “This place was her dream—she was Amelia. If it goes under, if he loses this last piece of her…I don’t know what he’ll do.”

Nicholas nods.

“He barely talks to Ellie. Some days he can’t even look at her…because she reminds him so much of our mom. She pretends like it doesn’t bother her, but…but I know it guts her.”

Quiet tears trickle from the corners of my eyes, and Nicholas brushes them away with his thumb.