I halfheartedly start unpacking a box in the hope that by the time I’ve settled in, I’ll know what to say to her.

But I know it won’t be that easy. When you chose your pathetic solitude over the girl you love—yes, love—you don’t just go knock on her door and tell her you want her back. You need flowers, or a public apology, or . . .

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

My heart drops to the floor, as does the mug I just started to unwrap.

Olivia.

I close my eyes and swallow. I order myself to turn around and face her, but I can’t seem to move.

“You really should lock your door,” she says. From her voice I can tell she’s coming closer. “This is a rough neighborhood.”

Somewhere in the back of my brain, alarm bells are going off at her too-casual tone. In my mind, the best-case scenario was her rushing into my arms. And I thought the worst-case scenario was her slapping me. But I was wrong. This is the worst-case scenario. This indifferent, could-be-talking-to-a-stranger tone is so much worse.

The noose tightens around my heart. I’m too late.

I turn around to face her.

She’s still dressed in what I assume are her work clothes. Black dress pants, plain black heels and a cardigan. Pink.

“Olivia—”

Shit. Shit. My voice sounds like gravel.

She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that I can barely speak. She doesn’t seem to realize that my arms are literally shaking with the need to hold her, my throat aching with the need to tell her I’m sorry.

And that I love her.

No words come out. I’m too scared of f**king it all up. Too scared that she’ll tell me what I already know: I’m not worthy of her.

She finally meets my eyes, and my heart sinks at what I see there: nothing.

No joy, no anger. Not even pain. Her eyes are empty, and so unlike the expressive green eyes I dream about every night.

“So what’s the plan?” she says with a shrug and a little smile. “You were just going to move next door like the creepiest of stalkers, ask the neighbors about me in secret, and then what?”

I don’t know.

I miss you.

I love you.

Please love me back.

“Hi,” I say.

Oh my God, Langdon.

Her eyebrows lift. “Hi?”

I shove my hands into my back pockets to keep from reaching for her.

“Surprise?” I say instead.

This time her eyes narrow.

Okay, definitely not going the way I hoped.

“I meant to do some big gesture,” I say in a rush. “I haven’t figured it out yet. I was maybe going to go to your office to serenade you, except I can’t sing. I was even thinking I could dress up like Andrew Jackson, but that’s only because Ethan suggested a costume, and—”

She holds up a hand. “Hold on. Just stop and back up. Ethan? Is that how you found me?”

“My dad knows his dad—”

“Of course he does. Freaking rich people,” she mutters.

“—and I heard you’re working for Mr. Price.”

“You have my phone number!” she shouts, all semblance of the calm, indifferent Olivia disappearing. She’s pissed.

And she’s not done with her tantrum. “You have my phone number and my email, and you’ve already shown an admirable prowess for stalking people on social media. Stalk me that way!”

“I know,” I say. “I just—”

“Six weeks, Paul. It’s been six weeks since you let me walk out of your life. No, pushed me out of your life. I spent the first two weeks in disbelieving anger, so certain you’d call apologizing. Weeks three and four were spent in tears when I realized you weren’t calling. Last week I was mad. Mad that you chose solitude and loneliness over love.”

“And this week?” I force myself to ask.

Her voice cracks a little, and I can’t help it. I have to reach for her, but she takes a step back. The rejection burns, even though I expect it.

She lifts her chin, and although my heart sinks at the defiance on her face, I also want to applaud. This isn’t the damaged, self-loathing girl who showed up at my house almost six months ago. This is a gorgeous, proud woman who knows what she wants and, more important, knows what she deserves.

And what she deserves is not a coward like me. But I have to try.

“This week?” she asks, her voice calm once again. “This week I’m over it. I’m over you. I don’t know why you came here, Paul, but I wish you would have called first, because I could have saved you the trouble of moving into this shit hole. We are done, Paul. Done.”

No!

The panic that rips through me is somehow so much worse than anything that happened to me in Afghanistan or anything that’s happened since. And I know why. It’s because Olivia hasn’t just taught me how to love. She’s done something much bigger. She’s taught me how to live.

And I don’t want to do it without her.

I move forward, and she moves back. “I came here for you,” I tell her. “I’d go anywhere for you.”

She scoffs. “It took you this long to figure it out?”

“Yes.”

My simple answer seems to throw her off, and I press forward. “I’m not proud of myself, Olivia. Not even a little bit. Do I wish I’d never let you go? Obviously. Do I wish I’d come to my senses sooner? Of course. And maybe if it had taken me just a day or two to clear my head, then yeah, I would have called. But when you f**k up as badly as I f**ked up, for that long, you don’t call. You don’t text. You don’t email. You go to your girl and beg.”