Chapter 2
As I got to know Nate better, I slowly got to know Olivia too.
Whenever he mentioned her, his voice was full of admiration. He said Olivia was cheerful, optimistic, the kind of girl who made everyone around her feel brighter.
I added her on Instagram.
Her account was filled with photos of her surfing in Hawaii. With her long limbs and radiant energy, she looked like a white bird skimming across the ocean.
There were photos of her skiing in Hokkaido, others of her writing in a café in London, wearing thin gold-framed glasses, her swan-like neck bent slightly as she worked. She looked gentle, elegant, unattainable.
Even though that first meeting had left a sour taste in my mouth, I still couldn’t help telling Nate, “Olivia really is amazing.”
Nate snatched my phone from my hand. “Wait, why is her profile public now? It used to be locked down.”
That casual little comment made something dark and sensitive inside me start to spiral.
Why had she opened it up right after I followed her?
I kept scrolling, and Nate leaned in so close that his head nearly touched mine. He seemed weirdly excited, urging me to keep going, like every photo was something precious.
Then suddenly, I didn’t want to scroll anymore.
I was jealous.
Half-joking, half-serious, I asked, “Do you have a crush on her?”
Nate laughed. “Who wouldn’t? Rich, pretty, perfect—every guy would. But relax. She doesn’t date. If anything was ever going to happen between us, it would’ve happened years ago.”
He said that lightly.
But his eyes never left her pictures.
I locked my phone.
In the dark reflection of the screen, I saw the look on his face.
It wasn’t playful.
It was disappointed. Longing. The expression of someone staring at something he wanted but could never have.
And then I remembered.
I had probably heard Olivia’s name long before I ever met her.
The night Nate accepted my confession, he’d been drunk out of his mind, slumped over in a diner booth, repeating “Liv” again and again under his breath.
A six-foot-two college guy crying like a little boy.
One of his friends had shoved his shoulder and muttered, “Enough already. Liv just went abroad. She’s not dead.”
They’d called me to pick him up.
I half-carried, half-dragged him home. On the side of the road, he grabbed the hood of my sweatshirt and threw up all over me.
Back then, I was so stupid.
I loved him so much that I didn’t feel disgusted, not even for a second.
When you really love someone, the deepest instinct isn’t anger. It’s pain. It’s wanting to protect them even when they’re a mess.
Through blurred drunken eyes, he looked at me and saw all the worry on my face.
He gripped my wrist so tightly it hurt. His eyes burned like fever.
“You’re the only one who won’t leave me,” he whispered.
Then, as if he were giving me some grand reward, he said, “Let’s be together.”
I had truly loved him.
I gave him everything. Every ounce of tenderness, patience, devotion.
And still, Olivia had always been somewhere in his heart.
I tried not to care. I didn’t ask too many questions. For a while, it even seemed like my love had worked. He started to love me back. Or at least, I thought he did.
Until Olivia came home.
That was when everything changed.