Page 30 of Olivia’s Only Pretending (Sweet River #3)

Twenty-One

W hen I got home, Gracie’s words lingered in my mind.

I’d voiced my worst fears out loud—the fear I’d let myself love Victor just to watch it fall apart the way first loves often do.

But, instead of agreeing or commiserating, Gracie looked at me with hope in her eyes. An earnest, contagious kind of hope I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in so long.

When she asked what made me think first love couldn’t last, a door in my heart cracked open, just a little. Enough to let the hope in.

The wind was blowing hard outside my window, bringing in a fall cold front. As I wandered into my kitchen in the dark to turn on my kettle, trees clattered against the window. I pulled my robe’s sash tighter, leaning against my kitchen counter as I waited for the water to boil.

I looked down at my fuzzy socks. They were the pumpkin ones from Victor. The night he gave me these, I thought how he was so different from the other men in my life—men who let me down, who didn’t show up, who walked out the door.

Victor showed up. He was something sturdy I could rely on.

A couple of weeks before Ryan showed up on campus, Victor and I had been putting the finishing touches on my downstairs bathroom renovation.

I was in overalls and a burnt orange tank top, with my messy ponytail coming undone.

Victor was in a black T-shirt and ripped-up jeans.

Both of us were a mess, crouching down on the bathroom floor, trying to put the finishing touches on my new sink.

Victor was digging through his toolbox. “Oh, man. I left the wrench we need at my place.” Victor’s place was a quaint brick townhouse on the other side of downtown.

He had an attached garage and a cute front stoop.

I knew this because I’d picked up Watson at his house many times but never been invited inside.

We’d spent so much time together, but never once had I seen Victor’s house. His bachelor pad, as my mom would’ve called it.

“I’ll need to run over there. It’ll be like twenty minutes,” he said, standing up.

“I’ll come, too!” I bounced up.

He shook his head. “You don’t need to do that. It’ll be quick.”

“I want to come,” I said, trailing behind him out of the bathroom.

He was looking around for his wallet and phone. I grabbed them from the entryway table, placing them in his hands. “Oh, thank you,” he said, looking down at his hands, then his eyes lifted to mine. “You sure you want to tag along?”

“I’m sure,” I said, slipping my feet into my sandals. “It’s about time you show me your place.”

H e had plants on his front stoop, and I liked imagining him thoughtfully watering them throughout the week. Victor barefoot on his front porch, checking the soil in the pot.

While I was looking around, Victor unlocked the front door for us. “Well, here it is. My house.”

I ran in behind him. Watson’s paws clicked across the tile floor to greet us. “Hey buddy.” I scratched behind his ears.

I glanced around the living room as Victor messed with something in his kitchen.

A worn-in black leather couch sat in the living room with a round wooden coffee table that looked like a Victor Hernandez original.

Black-and-white family photos hung on the walls.

I walked into his kitchen and spotted a couple of photos hanging on his fridge: pictures of Ireland and Greece.

“Have you visited here?” I asked him, pointing to the pictures.

“Not yet,” he said, grabbing a treat from the jar on his kitchen counter. He held it out for Watson.

I smiled to myself, thinking of the maps hanging in my office.

I glanced around. Minimally decorated, unsurprising for busy Victor.

He was rarely home, and if he was, he was usually tinkering with some woodworking project.

But I soaked in the little pieces of him around the house.

The finger paintings from his nieces and nephews on the fridge.

A work belt slung over a dining table chair.

A tiny Latin dictionary on his bookshelf.

A box of his favorite cereal by the sink.

His leather jacket, which smelled like him, on the coat rack.

The sneakers that were once white kicked off in his doorway.

“My wrench is in the garage. I’m going to go grab it—” he started, but I cut him off.

“I’m coming, too.”

“My messy garage is part of the house tour?”

“It’s the main attraction,” I said, heading for the stairs to the garage.

The garage was really Victor’s work shed.

This place was not minimal. I didn’t have to search for hints of Victor.

The place was full of his touch. The walls had built-ins where he hung his tools and were lined with shelves.

A worktable covered in sawdust. A sander.

Chisels. A table saw. It smelled like smoke and cedar.

I took a few slow steps inside as Victor brushed past me to pick out the wrench. I touched a few different projects he’d recently finished. A maple chair wide enough that I could sit cross-legged. A dark mahogany vase that I immediately wanted. A freshly sanded table that looked like a nightstand.

“You do so many of these. But they must take a while to make?” How was Victor juggling these projects alongside the projects at my house?

“Yeah. Some take longer than others. Some of them can take months, but I don’t mind waiting. I kind of like taking my time.” He scratched his chin.

I pulled open a drawer and looked at the shiny tools I didn’t understand. “You like the long projects, huh?”

“Well, I’m not starting something I’m not sure I want to finish. I don’t like to waste my time.” Victor’s voice was warm, sanded down.

Victor wasn’t just a playful guy. I’d already learned this, but now, looking at his work shed, the place he came to blow off steam and work on his craft, something about him clicked in my mind.

He knew when to be playful, to bring light and laughter, but he also knew when to be serious.

Like for a project, or a relationship, or his family.

I walked over to the cedar chair, running my fingers across it, feeling the raised edges of his ornate carvings. “You’re kind of an artist, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know if I’d say that, Liv.” He ran a finger through his hair, a blush coloring his cheeks.

“What would you say?”

“I’d say”—he took in a deep breath, thinking—“I like to build things.”

“You’re good at it.” I clasped my hands, looking around the shed again. It was dark and cozy in here.

Victor headed toward the switch to open the garage door, ready to head back to my house. I stood back for a moment, watching him.

He was steady and solid, like the things he built. Like the tiny, ornamental details you’d notice when you looked at his creations a little closer, there was so much more to Victor once you looked a little closer.