“I think you’re both, but . . . no matter what, you’re still my brother.”
I walk over, and we clasp hands. “Always.”
“Sign it before you go, Oliver. Have one less thing on your mind before you start your treatment. Okay?”
He’s right. I need a clear mind and to be wholly focused on my fight and getting healthy.
“I will.”
When Jack leaves, I grab the envelope and sink onto the couch. It’s been four days since I stormed out of her house, and I’m in absolute misery.
I miss her voice. I want to ask her about her day and tell her the funny stories about the guest requests we got for next week. I want to tell her how fucking terrified I am about starting chemo, and how, despite knowing we caught it early and my prognosis is good, I’m worried treatment won’t actually work.
It’s her I want by my side, not my sister.
I pull out the papers, reading over the legal jargon that will officially end this if the judge grants it.
It lays out all the ways the marriage was formed under false pretenses, and I want to laugh.
It was a lie. All of it. The memories of us that I cherished are fabrications and worthless.
I get to the last page, seeing her signature already there, and then I hover over the signature line, hating that I will be ending what never should’ve been started.
I can’t do it. I can’t sign it. Not now.
I grab the envelope to put the paperwork back in, only to find a folded paper jammed in the bottom.
I pull it free and open it, finding a handwritten list. A list that changes everything.
A list that tells me I really am a fool, and I hurt the woman I love.
Thirty-Three
MAREN
Today sucked.
Every day sucks if I’m being totally honest.
But today was especially sucky. The mission went sideways, causing every contingency plan I had to fall to shit. I’m off my game, and it almost cost someone their life.
After a very long conversation with the two owners, I’m taking the rest of the week off to clear my head.
Only, being home—alone—isn’t really helping. Everything reminds me of Oliver.
I’m going to burn the house down and move. It’s the only option.
Since my flair for the dramatics is in high gear, I decide to do only mundane things, so I grab the phone, hover over his name for the millionth time, and then fail to actually call him.
No, I am following my ex-fiancé’s advice and giving it time.
Who cares that it’s been four days of absolute hell? What does time matter when your heart feels as though it’s been ripped from your chest? Wounds heal, scars fade, and you learn to move on.
I just need that part to kick in.
I throw my clothes into the dryer, go to slam the door, and close the door on my freaking fingers.
“Damn it!” I scream, clutching my hand as I bounce around. “Great. This is just what I needed. Thank you universe!”
After I grab the ice and wrap it around my possibly broken finger, I sit out on the back deck.
“If I get stung by a bee, I’m seriously going to lose it.” I speak directly to nature, hoping it heeds my threat and stays far away from me.
I rest in the swing, letting the rustling of leaves and the faint sounds of the ocean a few blocks away be my companion.
The throbbing in my hand keeps me from falling asleep, but it does give me a reprieve from the ache in my heart.
“Maren?”
I hear Oliver’s voice, but I know that’s not possible. I wonder if pain can make you hallucinate.
“Maren, are you here?” I hear him again. I sit up so quickly that I fall off the swing.
“Ouch!” I complain, rubbing my tailbone. That freaking hurt too.
There’s a banging on the door.
Hallucinations don’t knock, do they?
Probably not, so it seems he’s here. I push to my feet and limp to the door while I cradle my hand and the ice pack.
When I open it and see him, I can’t breathe. He looks better than I remember. His dark hair is falling slightly over his eye, and the stubble on his chin is now a full beard. He looks worn, miserable, and broken, which is probably what I look like.
He looks at my hand. “What happened?”
“I closed it in the dryer door and then I fell off the swing when I heard your voice. If you’re here to tell me how much you don’t love me, could you just finish me off?”
Oliver shakes his head. “I’m not here for that.”
“Here to tell me how much of a liar I am?”
“I deserve that.”
Yeah, he does. “Why are you here?”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a piece of green notebook paper similar to the kind I use when I’m writing my lists.
“I came to go over this with you, but I’m not as good at this as you are.” He steps closer. “I could use some help.”
Words escape me so I just nod.
“Reasons not to sign the annulment,” he reads. “Pro: I love her. I want to kiss her. I want to give her my heart and soul. I don’t want an annulment. I want to spend my life with her. I need her.”
Tears fill my eyes as he glances at me and then keeps reading.
“Con: Blank.”
My lip trembles.
“See, I couldn’t think of one reason to sign it. Not one.” Oliver moves closer so we’re toe-to-toe. “I kept trying to convince myself that it would be better if I did, but I can’t. Give me a reason, Maren. Tell me why I should sign it, why did you want me to?”
Finally, he’s asking me. Finally, I’ll get to explain. “Because I want to choose you. I want you to know, always, that you’re the only man I want. Not because we were trapped or some sort of chivalry but because I want to choose you, Oliver Parkerson. Every day.”
He shakes his head. “I choose us.”
He leans down, kissing me tenderly, and I can taste the salty tears. My arms wrap around his neck, holding him where I need him—with me.
When he leans back, his hands frame my face. “I was a dick. I said things . . .”
“I screwed up. I never should’ve told you that way. There were a million better ways to handle it. I’m sorry that I hurt you.”
“We both did that.”
When I push up on my toes, I kiss him again. “I have been so miserable.”
His hands drop to mine, and he’s careful of my injured finger. “I have to tell you something.” There’s a slight tremble in his voice. “One that may change this whole entire mood.”
“Okay?”
We sit on the couch, and his eyes don’t leave mine. “I’m sick, Maren. I got my test results the day we buried your father, and they said I have cancer.”
My heart stops. I can’t breathe or think or move. No, not him. Please not him.
“Wh-what?”