It's One of Us(91)

Olivia can’t take this. It’s an affront. She knows there’s no getting around Park meeting his biologicals, but to invite them over for tea, to invite them into their house, without checking with her first? It’s the final slap in the face, and she is done with this nonsense. She’s so out of here.

She grabs her Tumi carry-on from behind the closet door—thank goodness it’s so light, she can manage it one-handed. She gathers clothes—flowing pants that won’t be hard to pull up by herself, a long skirt, two button-down tops, tanks, and a cardigan. Bras and undies, and on a whim, she grabs her swimsuit from the bottom drawer. That’s what she’s going to do. She knows exactly where she’s going. The crazy cat lady has given her the greatest possible gift—an escape hatch. How Annika knew Olivia would need it, she has no idea, but thank God for the kindness of semi-strangers.

Back to the closet for a cover-up, five minutes in the anemically sterile bathroom gathering necessities, and she’s almost ready.

She goes back into the closet and wrestles open the small stepladder that allows her to get to the top shelf, where her tall boots are stored. There is a jewelry safe on the shelf, locked with a passcode. Balancing carefully, she inputs the code and opens the door. There’s something she doesn’t want to leave behind, just in case.

She removes the travel case she uses for her jewelry, tosses it into the bag. Reaches deeper inside. What she’s looking for is under the set of pearls she inherited from her grandmother, a choker comprised of sixty-five three-millimeter perfectly matched white pearls as exquisite as it is old.

The space is empty.

Her old journals are gone. The photo of Melanie Rich that was left at the Jones build, the one she snuck from her purse into the safe, is gone. And with them, a worn envelope, containing a single-page letter, addressed but not stamped.

Before she can panic fully, Park shows up in the closet.

“What are you doing on that ladder? My God, Liv, get down.”

She slams closed the safe door and presses the Lock button. It bolts securely with a throaty electronic whisper, and she carefully gets down off the small ladder. Her heart is pounding.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Park demands, waving a hand toward her suitcase.

“Leaving,” she replies.

“You’re in no shape to drive.”

This infuriates her even more. Park doesn’t say no, don’t go. He doesn’t say Olivia, please, let’s talk. He simply comments on her state of intoxication—which happens to be low at the moment, the adrenaline making her completely lucid.

“Get out of my way.”

“Why are you so mad?”

She stops dead and stares at him.

“Really? After all these years, you have no idea why I might be upset? God, Park. You really are something.”

She manages the zipper on the bag, but tying her sneakers is a bridge too far. She finds an old pair of Birkenstocks and slides them on her feet.

“Is it Scarlett? Come on, Olivia. You aren’t being fair. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Did you even think to check if I was okay with you hosting a tea party with those strangers?”

“Strangers? Scarlett is my daughter.”

The dagger is brutal and swift, and leaves her incendiary.

“They’re complete strangers. They could be lying. You have no idea.”

“She looks like my mother, Liv. And Lindsey.”

“How nice for her.”

“What’s wrong with you? I’ve never known you to be petty before.”

“Petty?” Olivia laughs. “Yeah, you caught me, Park. That’s what this is, me being petty. After all the lies, you dare to push me even further? Throwing your biologicals in my face? Enjoy them.” She moves past him into the hall, ignoring the ache the weight of the bag is causing in her neck and arm.

“Honey, you can’t just leave. Peyton is out there. It’s too dangerous.”

She pays no attention to him, bumbles down the stairs, the suitcase smacking her left knee. Her purse and keys are on the table in the foyer; she gathers them and heads out, ignoring the startled looks of the two women in the living room. She goes straight out the front door, punches in the code to raise the garage door, pops the trunk on Park’s BMW, and throws in the bag before sliding gingerly behind the wheel. She’d much rather drive her Jeep, but it must be at the shop getting the windshield fixed.

Park stands on the porch, at the top of the stairs, watching, no longer trying to stop her, his expression unreadable. Is he happy she’s leaving? Maybe. He has a new family now. Why would he need her?

She flips him the bird and is off.

Screw Park Bender. She is not going down this road with him again.

The drive takes a little more than seven hours. She frets most of the way. Not only because she’s pretty well certain that her marriage is over. The journals are one thing—it’s possible they’ve simply been misplaced, that they have somehow gotten mixed up with Park’s. She has carried them with her for decades, started when she was little and working her way into adulthood, then marriage. She has one by the bed that she’s been using for the baby making records, but that she could happily burn. There will be no more baby making. She is never going to put herself through that again. She will live her life, free, happy even, eventually, and be childless. The world will not end if she doesn’t have a warm, snuggly, fragrant being to commingle with. It just won’t.