Page 67 of The CEO's Sweetheart Deal
But I don’t.
Because something in me still isn’t ready to let go, and something in me will never be ready.
CHAPTER 27
ALICE
Iclose my car door and step onto the street, surveying the bars, closed businesses, and condos down the block. According to Google Maps, the address Oscar gave me is for an event space.
A dark event space, apparently.
Did he give me the right address? I double check the card. Double check the address next to the door. They’re both right, though this place looks closed.
Walking up the steps, I smooth my hair and straighten my dress. It’s embarrassing how much time I spent picking out something to wear. I wanted to look good – good enough to make Oscar regret ever letting me go – but also like I’m not trying too hard.
I’d thought the outfit was perfect, but now that I’m here I’m questioning everything from the midi dress with bell sleeves to the tiny gold hoops in my ears. Maybe I should have worn jeans and a sweatshirt. Show him I really don’t give a damn.
At the door, I peek closer at a window and discover the blinds are tightly closed. If there is any light inside, it’s not escaping the building anytime soon.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself as I knock.
A long moment passes, during which my heart threatens to climb its way up my throat. It’s long enough that I consider turning around, getting back in my car, and driving away.
I might do it too, except the door opens, and there Oscar is, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his black hair tousled, his woodsy scent washing over me. My knees tremble, and it takes all my strength to stay standing up straight.
“Hey,” he says, stepping aside to let me in.
“Hey,” I echo, my voice barely audible.
I step past him into the building, and as soon as he closes the door behind us, I understand why the space looked abandoned from the outside.
The windows are blacked out — covered meticulously with thick black curtains and what looks like taped-up craft paper, blocking even the smallest cracks of outside light. But the space isn’t dark. Not really.
Battery-operated candles flicker from nearly every surface — lining the floorboards, tucked into the deep windowsills, clustered in corners, glowing on the edge of the stairs. The golden light casts long, gentle shadows across the open space, softening every edge. It’s warm. Dreamlike.
But none of that is what takes my breath away.
It’s the photos.
Hundreds of them.
They hang from the ceiling on invisible threads, gently swaying like leaves in a breeze I can’t feel. Photos of me and Oscar. From college.
For a moment I don’t move. I just stand here, stunned, while time collapses around me.
My hand lifts slowly as I reach for the nearest photo. In it, I’m sitting on a bench with a notebook in my lap, mouth open mid-laugh, Oscar a few feet away, his face turned toward me.
The next photo is at his parents’ house — I remember that lawn chair. We’re crammed into it together, limbs tangled, laughing like we hadn’t yet learned how badly life could hurt. Then there’s one of us passed out in the campus library, heads leaning together, books scattered across our laps. One more shows us with friends at a basketball game, half the frame blurry, my face turned toward his like he’s the only thing I can see.
I take a few steps deeper into the room. The photos move around me, brushing against my arms, my hair, the tops of my shoulders. It feels like walking through the long green drapes of a weeping willow. Quiet. Surreal. Sacred.
I forgot these moments. Or maybe I buried them so deeply that they stopped feeling real.
Oscar’s voice breaks the silence, soft and reverent. “Sydney told me you tried to burn your copies.”
I flinch slightly but don’t turn around.
“She said you couldn’t stand to look at them anymore.”
