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Olivia

H e only looks at me once on the drive back. I can’t muster the courage to look back. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure me, as I make my way out of his car and through the market.

Everything is fin e, I repeat as I stumble toward my apartment, ignoring Chesna in favor of locking myself in my room.

My chest is tight. I can barely breathe, and my entire body is cold.

Fine. Everything is fine.

But it doesn’t matter how many times I repeat it. I still feel like I’m crumbling. Somehow, I find the bathroom. I tear my clothes away, glad to be rid of the weight. I flip the water on and don’t bother pulling the pins from my hair or wiping the makeup from my face before I step under the frigid spray.

I focus on the cold. On the thin streams pouring over my back, on the water wetting my hair. My breath is tight in my lungs, my stomach expanding with every lungful. Then I feel it; warmth swelling in my chest.

Calm. Comfort. Safety.

Breathe in four counts. Release- six.

Little by little, the tension eases. The water cascades down my face, soothing away the anxiety, the sadness, the pain…

I watch the water circle the drain for several minutes, my breath steadying.

I take my time getting ready for bed. Toweling off. Washing my face, braiding my hair. I rub soothing circles of cleanser and moisturizer over my skin, watching as my face slowly appears in the foggy mirror.

If it weren’t for his footsteps, I would think Crew has turned in for the night. I hear his slow perusal of the living room, knowing he’s doing his usual sweep before we retire to separate rooms.

Any other night, I wouldn’t bother making tea, but in my bones, I know that sleep won’t come easily. I muster the courage to unlock the door and wander outside. The air is cool as I wander past the living room where Crew is closing the patio door. I flip on the kitchen light, dig out a mug, and throw on the kettle.

I reach into the cupboard for my tea sachets. Only when I pull the tin out, it’s empty.

It’s fine, I urge myself.

I keep a spare tin on the top shelf, but I still have to climb in order to reach it. As I lift my leg and push myself up, I tense when I hear Crew’s voice: “I can help, if you’ll let me.”

“It’s fine,” I sing, pushing my thighs back as I attempt to reach the very back of the shelf. I refuse to look at him. I’m already in a mood, and I just don’t think I have it in me to fake it.

Not tonight.

My fingers are just shy of gripping the tin, but I manage to shimmy it forward an inch. Two. It flies off the shelf, slamming on the ground and sending tea sachets scattering.

“God dammit!” I hiss, climbing down and dropping to my knees as Crew kneels. “I got it.”

But as I gather the sachets and shove them back in the tin, I freeze when I see the slip of paper that fluttered out with it:

For when the going gets tough and you need a bit of Mom’s love:

-1 tsp. honey

-5 drops of lemon juice

-Rose and peach sachets

Love you.

The recipe was one of the last things she ever gave me. The sight of it is like a mat being ripped out from under me. The fear, the anxiety, the exhaustion comes hurtling back.

I can’t stop my tears from falling. They flow, hot and heavy, and I furiously wipe them away so he doesn’t see them.

“Look, please just-“

“Stop-“

“I want to be alone right now, okay? I just…” I’m sobbing now, and despite my attempts to clean the mess, the tea just scatters again. I cry even harder. “There’s so much going on, and I’m going a little crazy. But I don’t have time for this. I have so much to do-“

“Olivia.”

I don’t even realize he’s kneeling in front of me until his rough hands grasp my wrists, stopping me. And I let him, sitting back on my heels as the tears fall. My back hits the fridge, my head in my hands, and I’m sobbing despite every attempt to stop.

My mask falls away, but I'm past the point of caring. I should be upset that he’s the one to see me cry- that he’s the one to watch me fall apart. I’m merely surprised when I feel him sit beside me. He grasps my hand, squeezing as he leans back, bicep against my arm, thigh touching mine.

He just… sits with me.

No expectations. No questions. Just the steadying feeling of his hand holding mine.

I try to catch my breath, to let my lungs expand with cold air, and then release it. Even then, his presence is grounding.

Safe.

The hum of the A/C kicks on, a comfortable silence passing between us. It’s almost peaceful. A gentle lapse in whatever professional boundary we’ve drawn between us.

My crying slowly subsides, my breathing easing as the night carries on.

It's only then that I realize maybe I didn’t really want to be alone after all.