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My stomach tightened at his words. "I love you, Ty," I said carefully, "just not the way you want me to."
He nodded, a sad smile playing at his lips. "I know. It's why I didn't sleep with you when you hated Oliver."
I felt a pang of guilt at the memory. "I don't think I hated him. I was just so angry."
As silence fell between us, I found myself caught between gratitude for Ty's unwavering support and an aching awareness of the void Oliver's emotional absence had left. The bustling restaurant faded into the background as I grappled with the realization that healing my relationship with Oliver might be an even greater challenge than healing from our loss.
As things came back into focus, Tyler told me he had to leave for his shift. We paid our bill and walked to the exit. Ty pulled me in for a tight hug and I clung to him, nestling my head in the crook of his neck. It felt good to be comforted.
“Call me,” he whispered before he let me go.
The clock had just struck 10 p.m. when Oliver's key turned in the lock. I was nestled in bed, a tumbler of scotch in one hand and a magazine in the other, trying to distract myself from the gnawing emptiness that had become my constant companion.
As Oliver entered the bedroom, I looked up, hoping to catch his eye. His sandy hair was tousled from the evening wind, giving him a disheveled appearance that would have been endearing under different circumstances. But he didn't even glance my way, heading straight for the closet instead.
"Oliver?" I called out, my voice barely above a whisper.
Silence was my only answer. Swallowing hard, I pushed back the covers and padded to the closet. There I found him, mechanically removing his tie and shirt as if I weren't even there.
"Are you going to ignore me?" I asked, unable to keep the hurt from my voice.
Oliver's hands stilled for a moment before he resumed undressing. "Does it matter? You have Tyler. You don't need me."
His words hit me like a physical blow. "I had dinner with a friend," I said, my tone sharpening. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"That's not what I heard," he muttered, still not meeting my gaze.
"Then what you heard was a lie," I insisted, stepping closer. "We had dinner and talked. I haven't seen him for a while."
Oliver's eyes finally snapped to mine, cold and accusing. "He had his hands on you."
"He hugged me," I explained, exasperated. "That's what friends do, Oliver."
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Would you like me to go out with Lara? How would that make you feel?"
The mention of his ex sent a chill through me. "It wouldn't make me feel good at all."
"Exactly," he spat. "I'm busy working and this is what you do?"
As he angrily stuffed his clothes into the dry-cleaning bag, I found myself mesmerized by the play of muscles across his back. Unable to resist, I reached out, my fingertips barely grazing his skin. Oliver flinched as if burned, and something inside me shattered.
Tears spilled down my cheeks as sobs wracked my body. Oliver turned, his face an impassive mask. "What's your problem? It's not always about you."
In that moment, my grief transmuted into white-hot anger. My open palm connected with his chest before I even realized I'd moved. It was like hitting steel, and the shock of it startled us both. As I wound up for another swing, Oliver's hand shot out, encircling my wrist in an iron grip.
"You bastard," I hissed through clenched teeth. "Why can't you show any emotion but anger toward me?"
Oliver's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he released my wrist. Without another word, I spun on my heel and stormed out of the closet. But I wasn't retreating – I was preparing for war.
Snatching my red gym duffel from the floor, I yanked open my dresser drawer and began shoving clothes inside haphazardly. Each item that disappeared into the bag felt like another nail in the coffin of our relationship, but I couldn't stop. The suffocating silence of the past week had finally reached its breaking point, and I was ready to shatter it – even if it meant walking away.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Oliver's voice cracked like a whip, breaking the tense silence.
I wiped away angry tears with the back of my hand, not bothering to look at him. "I won't live here with you like this," I choked out, stuffing another handful of clothes into the bag. "I can't. It hurts too much to be around you with you hating me."
"I don't hate you," he whispered, his tone softening for the first time in days.
I paused, my hand hovering over an open drawer. "Then what? I'm sorry I lost the baby. It was out of my control."
