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And then it hits like I’ve been dunked into an ice bath.

Holt loves olives.

10

CLOSING CHAPTERS

OCTOBER 2009 – 20 YEARS OLD

Every day, I wait for Holt to show up in Rubble Ridge. I wait for him to fight for her.

I’d understand, honestly, I would.

If he left hockey behind, if he said goodbye to the dream for her, I’d get it. One hundred percent, I would understand. Because she’s worth it.

She’s so fucking worth it that I wake up every god damned morning, afraid that today will be the day he shows up and steals her away. Steals her back.

I’d let him, too. I’ve already made peace with the possibility, as much as it’d mess me up. I’ve crafted the rest of my life around the woman who sleeps every night in my spare room in her single bed. The woman who eats pickles and olives like her life depends on it. The woman who spends hours in the bath with her books and sobs whenever she watches something that makes her happy on TV. The woman who sips her morning tea on the balcony wrapped up in a warm blanket and slippers because she likes to watch the sun rise over the mountains, even though it gets colder every day.

I’d hand her over to my brother if he came home for her. If he made the choice and took the effort to win her back, I’d pack up her stuff and give her away.

Every morning when I wake, I fear it.

Every day, I pray he stays in the city. I pray she stays mine.

And every day the guilt of my darkest hopes eats away at me a little more.

I really thought he’d come the last time we spoke. I called him and told him I’d been spending time with Faye, that I was falling for her, and she was falling for me. That it just happened. That I was going to ask her to marry me…

We haven’t spoken since.

As far as I know, he hasn’t contacted her, either. I hate that I know his silence hurts her. I hate the way my gut twists when her eyes drift to her phone whenever he drifts into her mind. I know every time it happens. She gets this sad look in her eyes and there’s a little hitch to the breath she breathes, like it hurts to just exist.

It guts me.

It’s been a month since I last spoke with Holt. I’ve given him a month to come for her, to fight for her.

He hasn’t come. He hasn’t fought.

He hasn’t even called.

I haven’t made any move on Faye. People think we’re together, but we’re not. Not really. She sleeps in her room, and I sleep in mine. We don’t cuddle on the couch when we watch movies, and I don’t steal kisses.

We’re roommates.

The ring I bought threatens to burn my path to hell as I stare up at the apartment building. I can’t see my suite from the parking lot, but I know she’s inside. I imagine she’s raiding the pickle jar again between reluctant dips into the olive jar.

Fucking hell, but she’s sweet.

I know she doesn’t love me like she loved—loves Holt. Maybe she never will. But I honestly think I might love her enough for the both of us.

My phone feels like a hot coal in the palm of my hand as I stare at Holt’s contact. I’ve never dreaded anything more in my life than I dread the thought of making this call. I could text him, but he deserves to hear this from me. He deserves to hear me say this.

My thumb shakes as I hit his contact.

It rings and eventually goes to voicemail.

“Hey Holt, it’s me, Tate.” He knows who the fuck is calling him, asshat. I continue, “I wanted to let you know that I’m going to propose to Faye. I bought a ring. She’s uh, she’s living with me now, man. We’re happy.” My voice cracks on the last word, because I know these words are going to kill him. They’re killing me slowly just to say. I soldier on. For her. For him. For me. “She’s pregnant, brother. We’re going to have a baby. It’s due late April.”