Page 5

OLIVIA

T he restaurant glows with candlelight, shadows dancing on brick walls as soft jazz drifts overhead. The air is warm with rosemary, garlic, and the hum of comfort.

Beth sits across from me, cheeks flushed from wine. Her eyes crease with amusement—hazel, like Ethan’s. Same golden flecks. Same quiet weight.

Ron’s beside her, steady and relaxed, his arm draped around her shoulder like it belongs there—which, after nearly forty years of marriage, it does.

The way he looks at her—like she’s still the best part of his day was everything I pictured for Ethan and me.

A future we never got the chance to grow into.

“One more glass,” Beth says, topping off mine without asking.

I laugh, shielding the rim. “That’s enough, or you’ll be carrying me home.”

Ron chuckles. “That’s Beth—overpouring and fussing. It’s her love language.”

Beth bumps his arm. “And yours is being a smartass.”

He grins. “Consistent, though.”

They flew in just to see me. Said the weekly Zoom calls and daily texts weren’t enough anymore. Beth needed to see me with her own eyes, needed to hug me, talk to me face-to-face. And as much as I appreciate the love, the weight of it settles heavy on my chest.

Ethan was their whole world, and now I’m what’s left. I love them. I do. But sometimes their care feels less like comfort and more like a tether I don’t know how to loosen.

I’ve mastered this version of myself. The one who nods at the right memories, laughs at the right jokes. But inside, I feel like glass—cracked, strained, always one question away from shattering.

I smile, polite and warm, even though I’m fraying at the edges.

Beth takes a slow sip of her wine, her fingers curling around the glass like it anchors her. “Do you remember that vineyard upstate? The one we all went to for Ethan’s birthday?”

I nod, the memory slipping in like warm sun through a cracked window. “He kept pretending he could taste notes of oak and cherry, but really he just liked that the bottle had a wolf on it.”

Ron chuckles. “Kid could drink a bottle of whiskey and not slur his words, but he could barely make it through half a bottle of wine before he started grinning like an idiot.”

Beth smiles, a little misty now. “I think it was Olivia that had him grinning like that, not the wine.”

I brace for what comes next. There’s always something. A letter he wrote. A voicemail she saved. I never know when the past will drop a boulder on my chest.

Beth reaches into her purse and pulls out a photo, sliding it across the table like it’s something sacred. “I found this the other day. Thought you might want to take it home.”

I reach for it, throat tight. “Thank you.” Ethan in his Army uniform. Smiling. Whole. Alive. I trace the edge of the photo with my thumb but don’t let myself cry. I’ve learned how to fold grief into silence. It’s easier for everyone that way.

“You know,” Ron says, voice gentler now, “he’d be proud of you. What you’re doing. Even if it is with the Annihilators.”

Beth swats his hand and shakes her head.

He shrugs. “I’m just saying, there were better teams to work for.”

I smirk. “What, like the Sharks?”

"Exactly." He points a finger at me and winks.

We all laugh. The kind of laugh that’s soft around the edges, worn in by years of shared memories. Then Beth’s smile fades just a little, her hand reaching across the table to mine.

“You’ll always be part of this family. You know that, right?”

I do.

But sometimes, I wonder if being part of this family means never getting to move on.

Later, when I step outside into the cold night air, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

The stars blur a little as I stare up at the sky.

How do you let go of the past when it’s the only thing keeping you grounded?

I don’t have the answer.

But I know I can’t stay in this emptiness forever.

Sebastian flashes through my mind, uninvited.

God, I can’t stop thinking about the man—and it’s driving me crazy.

That disaster of a one-on-one session a few days ago still loops in my head.

How he started to let go, just a little.

How all his walls slammed back into place the second it got too real.

How he bolted for the door like staying another minute with me might burn him alive.

But he didn’t leave right away. He stopped—just inches from me.

Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Close enough to see the stubble along his jaw, the slight chap of his bottom lip.

And the way my body reacted—tightening, leaning, wanting .

A flush low in my belly. A pulse I couldn’t ignore.

It crossed every line I swore I wouldn’t.

I hate how easy it was to forget myself in that moment. How it felt less like choice and more like gravity.

I’ve been around men like him my entire professional life—soldiers, firefighters, first responders. Men who carry the weight of the world in their bones. Good-looking men. Wounded men. But I’ve never felt my body react like that. Never let my judgment blur this way.

It’s not just attraction. It’s dangerous . A line I’m not supposed to cross, not even in thought. Because if I give in—even a little—it’s not just my job at risk. It's my integrity.

My ability to help him at all.

But God help me,I’ve woken more than once, his touch still lingering in my dreams. My body aching, breathless.

I shove the thought down hard. Seal it off. Lock the door.

Because that path doesn’t lead anywhere good.

I walk faster.

Cold air stings my face, biting into my skin as I cut across the dim side street toward my apartment. My keys are in my pocket. My breath clouds in the dark. Almost home.

I don’t see the two men until it’s too late.

They step out from behind the building like shadows peeling from brick.

“Purse,” one of them says.

I stop cold. Every nerve goes electric.

My chest locks. My legs won’t move. I hold out the bag with shaking hands, fingers stiff with adrenaline. I try to speak, but no words come. Just the rasp of air dragging through my throat.

He yanks it from me, and for a heartbeat, I think that’s it. That they’ll leave.

Then the second one points at my hand.

“Ring too.”

My pulse spikes so hard I nearly black out.

“No,” I whisper, curling my fingers into a fist, clutching it like a lifeline. Not this. Take everything else—my money, my phone—but not this.

“I said, give it,” he growls, stepping into my space.

I flinch backwards, but I don’t move fast enough, his arm swings.

The back of his hand connects with my cheekbone, sharp and sudden and blinding. The world tilts sideways. My knees buckle. I hit the pavement hard, cheek slamming against the cold concrete.

Pain blooms, hot and dizzying.

Blood fills my mouth.

I can’t see clearly—just boots, asphalt, stars spinning above me.

And then I feel it.

His fingers prying at mine.

Tearing away the one thing I swore I’d never lose.

I scream, I think. Or maybe it’s just a gasp. It feels like something inside me tears open.

Then they’re gone. Someone shouts down the block—a voice, sharp and urgent—and the two men bolt into the night like smoke.

I lie there. The sidewalk freezing beneath me. My coat twisted, my knee scraped raw, breath fogging in and out in staccato bursts.

A stranger drops to their knees beside me. Hands hover but don’t touch.

“Ma’am? Are you okay? Should I call the police?”

But I can’t answer.

All I can do is stare at my hand.

At the empty place where the ring used to be.

The last piece of Ethan. The last piece of who I was.

Gone.