We are not going back

Chapter eleven

I woke up with a tightness in my chest, a heavy weight pressing down on me that I couldn’t shake. I didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was early—too early, maybe—but my thoughts had already started racing, leaving no room for sleep. The cabin was quiet, save for Olivia’s soft movements in the kitchen. I could hear her being careful, trying not to make any noise, as if that would magically make things better.

It didn’t.

I lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, feeling the familiar pull of frustration gnawing at me. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I didn’t want to deal with the Coleman family or Olivia’s awkward attempts to be nice. And I sure as hell didn’t want to think about Kamala—about the way she looked at me, about the strange mix of emotions I’d been shoving down since everything happened.

I threw the covers off, got up, and dressed quickly. My head still ached from the stupid bar, but I ignored it. I had bigger things on my mind. When I walked into the kitchen, Olivia was already there, sipping from a mug, her eyes lighting up when she saw me.

“Morning,” she said, her voice unnaturally sweet. “I made you coffee.”

I didn’t answer, brushing past her to grab my own mug. The air was thick with tension, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

“Eleonora, I was thinking,” Olivia started, her tone hesitant. “Maybe we could take a walk later, or… or spend some time together before we leave?”

I set the mug down on the counter a little too hard, the sound loud in the quiet cabin. “I want to leave. Today,” I said, my voice cold and final. “With or without you.”

Olivia blinked, taken aback. “What? You—”

“I’m done here,” I snapped, not bothering to soften my tone. “I want to go home. I don’t care if you want to stay or if you need more time to… find ways to make me the villian in your perfect little life.”

Olivia’s face fell, and for a second, I almost felt guilty. Almost. “We can go,” she said quickly, her voice soft and apologetic. “Of course, we can go. I’ll pack up our things. Just… give me a minute.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. She already knew I wasn’t going to argue about this. I left the kitchen, pacing the length of the cabin, trying to avoid the wave of emotions crashing over me. I couldn’t stand being here any longer—every corner of this place reminded me of things I didn’t want to face.

Olivia packed our bags in silence, glancing at me every now and then, but I didn’t engage. I kept my distance, kept my walls up, focusing on anything but her.

When we finally finished packing, we made our way to the car. The Colemans came out to see us off, their smiles too warm, too friendly. I hated the way it made me feel. Richard, pulled me into a tight hug before I could stop him.

“You take care of yourself, Eleonora,” he said, his voice full of fatherly warmth. “And if Olivia gives you any trouble, you call me, alright? I’ll deal with her. I love you like you’re one of my own.”

I forced a smile, nodding. “Thank you, Richard.”

The words felt empty in my mouth. I couldn’t handle this right now. I just wanted to get in the car and leave everything behind.

We said our goodbyes, and as I slid into the passenger seat, I exhaled, feeling the weight of it all pressing down harder. The car ride was silent for a while, the tension thick, but Olivia couldn’t stay quiet for long.

“I… I went over to the Harris cabin this morning,” she said after a long pause, her voice careful. “I thanked Kamala and Doug for their kindness. For looking out for you.”

For a split second, something inside me cracked, and I felt the walls I’d built start to crumble. Kamala had done more for me than I wanted to admit, and the fact that Olivia had swallowed her pride to thank her for it—it almost got to me.

But I couldn’t let it.

I clenched my jaw, staring out the window, willing the feelings away. “When we get home,” I said, my voice steady but cold, “I want our bedroom to myself.”

Olivia looked over at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I continued, keeping my gaze out the window, “you can sleep in the guest room. I need space.”

There was a long pause, the kind that made the air feel thick and unbearable. Olivia didn’t argue, didn’t push back. Instead, she just nodded, her voice quiet and sad. “Okay,” she whispered. “If that’s what you want.”

“I do.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Eleonora,” Olivia said, her voice breaking a little. “I love you.”

I didn’t respond. I just stared out the window, watching the trees blur past, and closed my eyes, blocking out the world. Blocking out her. Blocking out everything.

***

In the weeks that followed, the air between Olivia and me was thick with unspoken words and simmering tension. Our conversations were minimal, limited to essential exchanges about daily logistics. We no longer shared a bed, and the physical and emotional distance between us seemed to widen with each passing day.

At work, I threw myself into my responsibilities with a single-minded determination. Legislative breakthroughs became my sole focus, my only refuge from the turmoil at home. My face frequently appeared on the news, always with the same label: Olivia Coleman’s wife. The constant reminder of my diminished identity grated on me, and I felt like a shadow of myself in the public eye.

Kamala’s concern for my well-being was evident, but I avoided her whenever possible. I could sense her unease and the subtle shifts in her demeanor whenever we crossed paths. My avoidance was a defense mechanism, a way to shield myself from the complicated emotions that swirled whenever she was near.

Tyler, too, felt the brunt of my isolation. I’d withdrawn from our usual conversations, and his attempts to reach out were met with curt responses or silence. The once vibrant connection we had now felt distant and strained.

In my attempts to find solace, I visited my parents’ grave more frequently. The cemetery had become my sanctuary, a place where I could pour out my feelings without fear of judgment or reprisal. I would sit on the bench beside their headstones, the large diamond ring on my finger catching the light as I fidgeted with it.

One crisp afternoon, I found myself at their grave again. The leaves crunched beneath my feet as I approached, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. Sitting down, I took a deep breath and began to speak, my voice trembling with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. “I’m sorry for everything. I feel like I’ve lost myself. I’ve been trying so hard to make things right, but I don’t know if I’ve done enough. I’ve given up so much—my surname, the things I used to fight for.”

I paused, my fingers tracing the edges of my ring. “I gave up a lot for Olivia. For us. I thought it was the right choice, but now... now I feel like I’ve betrayed everything we stood for.”

I closed my eyes, the cool breeze brushing against my face. “I’m sorry for not fighting harder for what we believed in. For not fighting for what I believe in. I’m sorry for letting myself be defined by someone else’s identity.”

The silence of the cemetery seemed to absorb my words, offering no answers but providing a space for my grief to be heard. I sat there for a long while, the weight of my apologies hanging in the air.

Later, as I stood up to leave, I took one last look at the grave and felt a pang of regret. I realized that I had to find a way to reconcile with my past while navigating the tumultuous present. I needed to reconnect with who I was, not just as Olivia Coleman’s wife but as Eleonora—the woman who had once been so fiercely independent and driven.

As I walked away, I felt a flicker of resolve. It was time to face the complexities of my life head-on, to find a balance between my personal and professional identities.