Thief (Love Me With Lies #3)(22)

She turns a little red.

“Tell me why you called me.”

“Who else do I know?”

“Your husband, for one.”

She looks away.

“Fine,” she finally says. “I was scared. You were the first one I thought to call.”

“Because…”

“Goddammit, Caleb!” She slams her fist on the table and the fruit bowl wobbles.

“Because…” I say again. Does she think she scares me with her little temper tantrums? She does a little.

“You’re always wanting to overtalk everything.”

“There is no such thing as overtalking something. Lack of communication is the problem.”

“You should have been a shrink.”

“I know. Don’t change the subject.”

She bites on her thumbnail.

“Because you’re my hiding place. I go to you when I’m messed up.”

My tongue twists, knots, freezes. What am I supposed to say to that? I never expected that. Maybe more swearing. More denial.

Then I go nuts. Really crazy. It’s the tension of wanting her and wanting her to admit that she wants me.



My hands are behind my neck as I pace her small kitchen. I want to hit something. Throw a chair through the glass box that is her condo. I stop suddenly and face her.

“You leave him, Olivia. You leave him or this is the end.”

“The. End. Of. WHAT?” She leans over the counter; her fingers splayed out like her anger. Her words punch. “We’ve never had a beginning, or a middle, or a f*cking minute to be in love. You think I want this? He hasn’t done anything wrong!”

“Bullshit! He married you and he knew you were in love with me.”

She draws back, looks unsure. I watch her walk the length of her kitchen, one hand on top of her head, the other on her hip. When she stops and faces me, her face is contorted.

“I love him.”

I cross the kitchen in two seconds. I grab her upper arm so she can’t get away and lean down until I’m right in her face. She has to see truth. My voice sounds more animal than human; a growl.

“More than me?”

The light drains from her eyes and she tries to look away.

I shake her. “More than me?”

“I don’t love anything more than I love you.”

My fingers tighten on her arm. “Then why are we playing these stupid games?”

She rips her arm away from me, her eyes flashing.

“You left me in Rome!” She shoves me and I stumble back. “You left me for that redheaded bitch. Do you know how much that hurt? I came to tell you how I felt, and you walked away from me.”

Olivia rarely shows her hurt. It’s so unusual I’m not sure how to deal with it.

“She was unstable. Her sister shot herself. She swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, for God’s sake! I was trying to save her. You didn’t need me. Ever. You made a point of showing me that you didn’t need me.”



She wanders over to the sink, picks up a glass, fills it with water, takes a sip and throws it at my head. I duck and it hits the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. I glance at the wall where the glass struck, then back at Olivia.

“Giving me a concussion is not going to solve our problems.”

“You were a f*cking coward. If you had just talked to me that day in the record store, without the lies, we wouldn’t be here.”

Her shoulders — which a second ago had been tensed in battle stance — go limp. A single sob escapes her lips. She reaches a hand up to catch it, but it’s too late.

“You got married … you had a baby…” Her tears are flowing freely, mingling with her mascara and tracking black across her cheeks. “You were supposed to marry me. That was supposed to be my baby.” She drops to the sofa behind her and wraps her arms around herself.

Her tiny frame is racked with sobs. Her hair has cascaded over her face and she bends her head with the purpose of veiling her face.

I go to her. I scoop her up and carry her over to the counter, setting her down so we’re eye to eye. She is trying to hide behind her hair. It’s almost to her waist again, like it was when I met her. I pull the hair tie from her wrist and divide her hair into three pieces.

“Is it weird that I know how to do a braid?”

She laughs in between her crying and watches me. I tie off the braid with the hair tie and flip it over her shoulder. Now I can see her.

Her voice is raspy when she speaks. “I hate that you always make jokes when I’m trying to feel sorry for myself.”

“I hate that I always make you cry.” I rub little circles on her wrist with my thumb. I want to touch her more, but I know I shouldn’t.



“Duchess, it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I thought that if we had a clean slate…” My voice trails off because there is no such thing as a clean slate. I know that now. You just embrace your dirty slate and build over it. I kiss her wrist. “Let me carry you out. I’ll never let you touch the ground. I was made to carry you, Olivia. You’re f*cking heavy with all of your guilt and self-loathing. But, I can do it. Because I love you.”

She has her pinky pressed against her lips as if she’s trying to hold everything in. This is a new Oliviaism. I like it. I pull her pinky away from her lips, and instead of dropping her hand I lace my fingers through hers. God, how long has it been since I’ve held her hand? I feel like a little boy. I fight back the smile that is trying to take over my face.