Page 100 of Nine Months to Love

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. I see it from the corner of my eye. But he doesn’t say anything else.

Good.

Silence is better than bullshit.

The city shifts around us. The buildings grow taller, more imposing. Old money architecture with its perfect symmetry and neatly trimmed hedges. This is the Boston my parents inhabit. Everything looks pristine on the outside even as it is rotting from within.

I haven’t been back here in over a year. Or more? Has it really been that long?

I’m about to mention it to Stefan when I remember I’m not talking to him. At least not about stuff like that. He probably doesn’t care anyway.

But it’s annoying how comfortable I am around him even when we’re fighting. How natural it feels to share thoughts with him. I want to point out the window and say, That’s where I fell off my bike when I was sevenorThat’s the corner where I had my first kiss.

I press my lips together and keep my mouth shut.

The brownstone comes into view. Three stories of brick and ivy. Window boxes full of flowers my mother pays someone else to maintain. Everything classy and elegant and exactly as I remember it. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Stefan pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park.

I reach for the door handle. “I’m going in now,” I tell him without looking over. “There’s no need for you to wait around.”

I expect him to argue. Knowing Stefan, the least he’ll do is insist on walking me to the door. Worst case scenario, he tries coming inside with me.

But he surprises me with a nod. “Okay. I have some work in the area. I’ll swing by in a couple of hours to pick you up.”

I nod back and get out of the car.

He waits. I can feel him watching as I walk up the steps. Making sure I get inside safely before he drives away.

I ring the bell. The sound echoes through the house. I wait, counting the seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty.

Then the door swings open.

My father stands there in a cardigan and slippers. Reading glasses perched on his nose. He looks older than I remember. More gray in his hair. More lines around his eyes.

“Olivia?” He blinks at me like I’m a ghost. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to visit.” I force a smile. “Can I come in?”

“Of course. Of course.” He steps back, holding the door wide. “I’m sorry. You just surprised me. It’s late.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him as I step inside. “I’ve been having nightmares for a long, long time now.”

32

OLIVIA

Dad leads me through the house. We wind through the formal living room with its uncomfortable antique furniture that no one ever sits on and past the dining room with its table that seats twelve but has only ever held three. The kitchen is dark. He flips on a light.

“Coffee?” he offers.

“Sure.”

He moves to the espresso machine, the same one that’s been here since I was a kid. I watch him measure out beans, tamp them down, pull the shot.

“Sugar?”

“Sure.”