It was an ass**le thing to say, and yet . . . I wasn’t that far off. All of her kindness, her posing as the agreeable workout buddy, all that cozy reading by the fire, even the kissing—those moments are for my sake, aren’t they? It’s clear to everyone in this room that I need her a hell of a lot more than she needs me.

I risk a sidelong glance at her, and the relief on her face at my father’s offer of a day off is obvious. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

And suddenly, just for a moment, I hate her. I hate both of them.

“Enjoy your day off,” I say, idly tapping my cane against my foot. She turns her eyes to me then, and I go for the kill. “You know, since you have some time to yourself, maybe you should catch up on the social life you left back in New York. Maybe call some old friends? What’s Ethan up to? I bet he could use a little dose of your special TLC.”

I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I may not know what the hell happened with her and Ethan, but I know it’s a painful topic, and I very deliberately dumped salt into that wound.

I’m no stranger to being mean these past few years, but I’m pretty sure I just hopped over the line into barbaric territory. I deserve a slap, but the flash of raw pain in her eyes is so much worse. She’s out the door before I can apologize.

All of a sudden, everything hurts. Leg, nose, head. Heart.

“What was that about?” my father asks, looking nervous. I wonder if he’s starting to realize that his conniving plan to “fix” me using a blond princess might be doing more harm than good.

“Nothing,” I mutter. Just me being a monster, as usual.

My father leaves that afternoon. I don’t know why he bothers coming at all. It takes him longer to fly from Boston to Portland than it does for him to dole out whatever gloomy, sanctimonious message he’s feeling I need at the moment.

I grunt out some half-assed agreement that I’ll “think twice” before going to Frenchy’s in my “condition.” I don’t bother to tell him that walking into that bar after years of solitude was the most human thing I’ve done in a long time. I certainly don’t tell him that I worry it had nothing to do with the bar and everything to do with the girl waiting in the bar.

I don’t see Olivia for the rest of the day. I keep the door cracked so I’ll know if she goes out, but as far as I can tell, she doesn’t leave her room.

My dad texts me from the airport. Don’t forget I gave Olivia the day off. You’re on your own for dinner.

I snarl. Why is it everyone seems to think that I was once fit to defend the country, but now I’m unable to make a sandwich?

I think about telling Olivia about Amanda and Lily. I think about telling her everything: about the war, about how Alex is dead because of me, about how his wife and daughter are all alone . . . But if I tell her now, it’ll sound like an excuse. A sympathy ploy.

And nobody knows about those monthly checks to the Skinners. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. I don’t want Olivia thinking I’m a hero. She’ll only be disappointed.

I’m not much in the kitchen, but I throw together a sandwich and open a can of soup. For the first time since Olivia’s come to Maine, I eat dinner by myself, a sad, lonely affair at the kitchen counter.

After I clean up my dishes, I pour the rest of the soup into a bowl and make another sandwich. Turkey, no mayo, lots of cheese, the way I know Olivia likes it, as well as a bottle of water.

As far as peace offerings go, it’s pathetic. I take the sandwich upstairs anyway. The closed door doesn’t bother me.

But the sound of soft sobbing nearly kills me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Olivia

Paul and I don’t talk about what happened.

It’s been nearly two weeks since his father visited. Two weeks since he lost control of his inner bully and my inner patheticness fell victim to it.

Things are weird. I know he thinks I’m mad at him. After so many years in a relationship with Ethan, I can read the signals. There’s a carefulness in the way he talks, as though he’s bracing for me to lose my shit and call him out on something long past.

But while the signals Paul’s giving off are pretty standard guy, this is different from any spat I ever had with Ethan about how he talked to that super-flirty girl with the huge boobs for twenty minutes longer than necessary, or how he was late to pick me up because he and Michael were playing Call of Duty—again. With Ethan, it was as though he was always bracing for a fight. We both knew a mini-explosion was coming and were putting our respective boxing gloves on.

With Paul . . . there’s a haunted quality to his wariness. Like he’s not just expecting me to lose my shit and throw my eyelash curler in a fit of righteous female rage. No, Paul is braced for something else.

It’s like he’s bracing for me to leave.

We’ve both done our best to pretend that afternoon never happened. We pretend he didn’t belittle my very existence in front of his dad, as though he didn’t say outright that I was a fluffy piece of ass with absolutely zero value to him. I pretend not to care. He pretends not to care that I don’t care.

But like I said, things are weird. Strained. Awful.

Lost in thought, I rinse the lunch dishes and put them into the dishwasher.

“Want to talk about it?”

Startled, I almost drop a water glass. “Lindy! Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

The older woman sniffs. “Probably because you’ve been avoiding me. And Mick.”