Page 113 of All Your Dreams

When we separate, his forehead rests against mine. “I'll drive you,” he murmurs.

“You should stay with Tilly.”

“Chase can watch her.”

“Ollie.”

His mouth tightens. “I don't like you taking a car alone when you're upset.”

“I'll call the cab from upstairs and text you when I get there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Neither of us wants to be the first to step away. Finally, Ollie brushes his lips against my forehead one more time. It’s such an achingly familiar gesture that I have to blink rapidly to keep myself steady. Then he takes my hand, and together we go back inside before I call the ride, tears filling my eyes the entire way to our friends’ place.

30

OLLIE

Ispend most of the hours between midnight and dawn lying on my back staring at the ceiling, because every time I close my eyes Peyton's face full of heartbreak flashes behind my eyelids. It doesn't help that I know exactly where it all went wrong and can’t easily fix the mistake.

I made a decision that affected both of us without stopping to ask what she thought. I never meant to make her feel small or overlooked, but intentions don't erase the hurt they leave behind. For one awful moment, I'd stepped into the shadow of the man who spent years making her feel like her voice didn't matter. The realization sits in my chest like lead.

By the time my alarm goes off in the morning, I've convinced myself that space was the right thing to give Peyton, even if every instinct in me wanted to drive across Brooklyn and bring her back home. She deserved time to process. And I needed time to understand where I'd gone wrong.

The shop is loud when I drag myself downstairs after getting Tilly ready for the day with Livia and Chase. Normally the combined smell of oil, metal and primer feels like stepping into a place where everything makes sense. Today it barely cuts through the mess in my head.

I throw myself into work the way I always do when life feels off. I spend my morning sanding a dented panel, measuring the replacement piece and checking the paint shipment info. The motions are automatic after years of doing this. My hands know what to do even when my brain refuses to settle.

But my focus keeps drifting. Every few minutes I find myself replaying the moment Peyton walked out of the apartment after repacking her overnight bag. The way she kissed me goodbye like she still cared so much for me, yet knew she needed to temporarily remove herself. The disappointment in her eyes when she admitted she'd kept waiting for me to acknowledge her. I spent the whole night wishing I could go back to that dinner table and do one simple thing differently.

“You’re going to sand straight through if you keep going like that.”

Heather’s voice breaks through my intrusive thoughts. She’s been running the front desk for three years now and has developed a supernatural ability to read the mood of the entire shop.

I look down. She’s right. “Shit.”

Heather walks over, studying my face. “You look terrible, boss,” she says bluntly. “Bad night?”

“You could say that.”

She crosses her arms, waiting for me to explain myself. When I don’t elaborate, she tilts her head. “Girlfriend trouble?”

“I don’t⁠—”

“Oliver Richard Braxton, if you dare to lie to my face and claim that Peyton isn’t your girlfriend, I swear.”

I let out a slow breath and lean against the workbench. “I wasn’t going to. Chill.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Then I’ll just assume you did something stupid.”

Despite everything, a tired laugh slips out of me. “That obvious?”

“A man like you doesn’t usually wander around looking like a kicked golden retriever unless he screwed something up big time,” she replies.