Chapter 37

VIVIANNE

The car smells like old fast food wrappers and a faint trace of perfume.

As I drive back home, the ache dulls. Beth’s harsh words fade the farther I get from the city. The skyline disappears behind me, replaced by long stretches of gray road and bare winter trees.

A numbness settles in my chest—quieter than grief but heavier than calm.

When I finally pull into the gravel driveway, the crunch under the tires makes me wince.

The porch steps creak beneath me, and the familiar scent of wood and dust greets me as I unlock the door. It sticks like always, and I have to shoulder it open.

Inside, silence. Not the peaceful kind—the kind that settles in your bones. I breathe deep, trying to make the place feel like mine again.

It feels empty without Momma. Cold air clings to the walls. Even before she passed, grief had hollowed her out.

We didn’t get along much, but I miss her.

I wander the hallway, staring at childhood photos in dusty frames. In most of them, we’re just kids—smiling, unaware. Before everything got bad. Before everything fell apart.

My phone rings. I ignore it. Then it rings again. I nearly throw it out the window.

My stomach growls loudly, and I sigh, letting my head fall back against the couch.

So much has changed. I don’t know where—or how—to begin again. I just left, and I already miss New York. The constant motion, the noise—it was oddly calming.

The phone buzzes in my pocket again. I ignore it. Even if it’s Jenna, I’ll call her back later.

I walk to the kitchen and open the cabinets and fridge, hoping to find something to eat.

I didn’t stop on the way, thinking Becca and I could catch dinner together. But it looks like it’s going to be a late night for her, and I can’t wait.

I pour a double shot of whiskey, downing it too fast.

My head spins. I pour another, this time mixing it with cold Coke.

I think back to Christmases with Momma—how she always decorated, how she always made sure it ~felt~ like Christmas.

I look around the house at the bland walls, and my heart feels heavy.

I walk past the table and head to Momma’s closet where we kept the Christmas stuff.

We always used a fake tree because Momma didn’t want to crawl under it or remember to water it.

It feels like it weighs a ton, but I muscle up and drag it into the living room anyway.

I spend an unreasonable amount of time setting it up and decorating the house, nursing my whiskey the entire time.

A text comes in. Then a dozen more notifications. Becca. She’s on her way home.

I glance around. It’s not exactly how Momma did it, but close enough to bring back memories.

The emotions hit hard—all at once. Too much for a week like this, too much with the buzz still lingering.

I sink into the couch and call the only place nearby that delivers. I want the food to be hot when she gets here.

The pizza takes twenty-five minutes. Becca takes forty. I hear her pull up, then the slam of her car door.

I’m on my fourth glass. My head is spinning when she walks in.

Her eyes go wide at the decorations, the Christmas tree that threw up in here, and the empty whiskey glass.

She sniffs the air, makes a beeline for the pizza, and grabs a slice.

“That good, huh?” she says through her bite, eyeing me.

“What?”

“Whatever brought you here.”

“I can’t come home?” I say, daring her to push.

She does anyway. “Of course you can come over, come visit. But this isn’t home anymore, Vivianne.”

The words land heavier than I expected.

“What do you mean it isn’t home? It’ll always be home,” I say, pouting.

She shakes her head and moves to the kitchen. “No, Viv. This is your childhood home. Your home was and still is in New York.”

A pit forms in my stomach. The liquor sours in my belly.

“It wa—”

“Viv. I’ve never seen you as happy as you were with Liam,” she says, taking a big gulp of her Coke. “It was like you were a whole new person. So, no.”

“No, what?”

“You can’t stay. Visit, stay for Christmas, but then you need to go. Go be a crazy New Yorker. Fix things with him—or don’t—but fix it. Because, honest to God, Viv, he looked at you the same way.”

I debate telling her the truth—everything that’s happened—but I can’t get the words out.

So I say nothing. I’m too tired. Too raw.

We eat pizza. It’s greasy and delicious.

We barely talk, except when she leans against me, rests her head on my shoulder, and whispers, “Thanks for putting up Mom’s decorations. It makes it feel a little like home again.”

Over the next two days, I keep busy. Groceries. Wrapping presents. Planning dinner.

I invite Marcus over—even though he’s annoying—because spending Christmas with my only nephew sounds really nice.

I read. Bake cookies. The warmth of the oven fills the kitchen.

And I try not to think about Liam.

But I do. Constantly.

Becca sits with me in the kitchen. We chat. She tells me about a guy she met, and I tease her.

She’s doing well in her classes—mostly A’s and a few B’s. She’s like me in that way: an overachiever. Just getting by isn’t enough. We always aim to be better.

I tell her about New York, and she asks about the people. I think of Jenna. Of Liam.

After dinner, I step outside. The cold night air stings my cheeks.

I call Jenna. She picks up on the second ring.

“Why haven’t you been answering anyone’s calls?”

I sigh. “Honestly? I’m hiding.”

“I get that, Viv. But you’ve had us going crazy, worried sick about you.”

I don’t miss her meaning—~us~. You’ve~ had ~us~ going crazy.~

“I miss you. I miss New York.”

“So come back.”

The same war wages in my mind for the millionth time since I left.

“I don’t think I can do that for a while. Do you know how long it took to get my last apartment?” I let out a short laugh. “And I had a hard time finding a job when I was living there.”

“That was before you worked at Stryder Corp. That’s gold on your resume. Speaking of Stryder—”

Another sigh escapes me. She’s right. That job’s a golden ticket.

Maybe I’ll apply again—somewhere that doesn’t overlap with Liam. The pay and benefits are good. But deep down, I know I can’t.

I couldn’t work for one of his rivals either—Prudent Investments, Capital Kinetics.

But maybe…I pivot. Work for a firm that rebuilds instead of tears down.

Or maybe I start my own.

Call it ~Revive~.

Help companies find their second chances instead of stripping them for parts.

“I’ll think about it. I’ll call again next week—after everything settles, okay?” My voice comes out on another sigh.

“No. Viv, wait.” She sounds exasperated.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Then just listen. Okay?”

“Fine.”

“He called me. The day you left. He’s so torn up about everything. About Mr. Stryder. About Beth.”

“About himself,” I say.

“He knows he’s not innocent. But it’s not fair to blame him. There are things you don’t know, Vivianne. Things Liam should tell you.” Her voice softens. “I love you, Viv. I hope you know that.”

“I know. I love you too. And merry almost Christmas.”

I laugh, my nerves buzzing. It feels big—bigger than the words themselves.

She’s like a sister to me now, in every way that counts.

After the call, I sit with the weight of it all. The missed messages. The pain I’m still afraid to face.

But something’s shifted.

I’m not better yet.

But maybe, just maybe—I’m not broken beyond repair.