Page 104 of Nine Months to Love
“Why not?”
“Stefan said some… things to me tonight. They weren’t nice, but the more I think about them, the harder it is to say he was wrong.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what I think anymore.”
He drains his coffee and settles back in his seat. His gaze drifts out over the darkened garden, settling on the turned-off fountain. Without looking at me, he says, “Love is the biggest risk you can take, Olivia. Sometimes, it pays off. Sometimes not. But losing doesn’t mean the game isn’t worth playing. Not if you believe in the hope of winning.”
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that gamble,” I whisper.
“Then you have your answer.”
“What answer?”
“If you’re not willing to risk everything, then you need to protect yourself. Build walls. Keep your distance. Don’t let him in any deeper than he already is.”
I laugh bitterly. “It’s too late for that.”
“It’s never too late. Not if you’re willing to make the hard choice.”
“What hard choice?”
“The choice to walk away.”
33
STEFAN
I lied about having work.
The truth is, I can’t leave her. Even when she doesn’t want me around, even when every word between us is sharp enough to draw blood and leave scars, I can’t bring myself to drive away.
So I circle the block. Once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth pass, I park across the street from the brownstone, far enough that Olivia won’t spot me if she happens to glance out a window, but still close enough that I can see the house and all the front entryways.
The lights are on downstairs. I can make out shadows moving behind the curtains. Olivia and her father, probably having the kind of polite, stilted conversation that passes for intimacy in the Aster household.
I pull out my journal and a pen from the center console. The blank page stares back at me.
When did I start doing this? Writing down my thoughts like some lovesick teenager with a diary?
It started after the night at the club, after Mikayla’s failed seduction. Babushka sat me down with honey cake and told me I was becoming my father. I’d gone upstairs to my old room in her house and found myself reaching for a pen.
The words had come slowly at first. Halting. Uncomfortable.
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
That was the first entry. As simple as it was true.
Since then, I’ve been writing more. Not every day. Not even every week. But when my head gets too full, when the thoughts start circling like vultures, I write them down.
It helps. Sort of.
I start scribbling.
She won’t look at me. Won’t talk to me. And I deserve it.
