“I don’t run from you.” Not really. But she kind of did. It was easier that way because when she talked to him, she remembered what she’d missed out on. And then there was the fact that his voice brought back too many memories of her sister. “Look, you have to understand that it’s easier on me to not see you, Con. That’s the honest-to-God truth. It hurts to remember.”

Silence sat on the phone.

“But I miss you, Livy.”

Olivia clutched her chest and closed her eyes because his words were like a knife cutting through the bindings she’d tied around herself. She didn’t want to feel this way, like a fledgling fallen from the nest, naked and eyeing the hawks circling. Because that’s the way she felt when she thought about Conrad and how they never had a damn chance.

After that weekend, one so bittersweet and tinged with laughter and sobbing, she and Conrad had decided that too much stood between them to continue with what they’d started. They’d had one momentous, affirming night, and that was all they would have. Conrad had agreed that being friends was best, breaking her even more than she thought she could handle. So why was he saying things that gave her twinges of hope, things that made her wonder, What if?

“I don’t even know what to say to that.”

Silence sat on the other end of the line for so long that she thought they’d been disconnected. Finally, Con said, “I’ve been thinking about you, about that night.”

Her fingers started trembling. “Yeah?”

“Maybe we’re different now.”

“I’m not different. Same Olivia. But maybe you’re the one who’s different. You’re growing older, and maybe you’re just tired of . . . I don’t know . . . trying to replace grieving with nubile starlets.” She wrapped her hand around the handle of the cart to still the trembling.

“Damn. You don’t hold back. Maybe that’s what I missed—someone who doesn’t take shit off me. But I don’t want you to be my therapist, Livy. I got those.”

“I’m making an observation, not saying that’s your issue. We made a decision long ago, and that was hard on me. I—I wanted to be more, but I agreed that it was impossible. Look, we will always be friends because we’re . . . we’re . . .”

“Family?” he finished for her.

“Yeah, to a degree,” she said, pulling her cart back so another woman could grab shower curtain rings.