“And that’s nice and all, but unless he says any of that to me, it doesn’t really matter, now does it? I haven’t heard from him since I told him to stop sending those cakes. Granted, I’m not sure if any of it would matter at all—I still think we’re too different, no matter how much we both love each other. Maybe if we’d met when we were in our twenties, we’d be able to figure all of this out together, but as it is, we’re just both too old, too set in our own ways to change for other people. And when you add his job to all of that . . . it seems impossible.”

Jamila took a bite of Olivia’s favorite spicy curry and her eyes widened. She jammed her fork into the pile of rice on her plate.

“I’m just saying, don’t be too definite about that, okay? And please stop acting like you’re some old crone, too old to change—you just moved across the country this year! You’re not all that set in your ways!”

Olivia tossed the remote to Jamila.

“And I started watching a show I’ve scorned for years, and now I’m addicted to it. Find it for us, please.”

Jamila apparently got the message that Olivia was done talking about Max, because she scrolled through the channels and found Housewives for them without another word.

When the episode was over, Jamila got up.

“I should go home, I have an early day tomorrow.” She raised an eyebrow at Olivia. “That is, unless you need me? I can stay if you want to talk, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted that.”

Olivia shook her head.

“No, you go home. But . . . I might take a rain check on that? Thanks for dinner. And for coming over.”

Jamila grinned at her.

“You’re welcome. And you can have that rain check anytime.”

After Jamila left and Olivia had put the leftovers away, she got back on the couch and pulled her phone out of her pocket to check her email.

Draft contract was the subject line of the email that popped up. Olivia went to click on it, but stopped, confused. What contract? Was this some sort of spam?

Then she looked closer, and froze. After a few seconds, she opened the email.

I thought about what you said. I thought about it a lot. First, I owe you a huge apology—you’re right that I was using you and our relationship to try to make that crowd like me. That sucked. I didn’t do it consciously, but I did it. I’m angry at myself for that, and so, so sorry I did that to you. I hope you believe I will never do anything like that again. Second, you’re right that we’re very different, and you’re right that if we go on like this, it won’t work. But I love you too much to give up on us. I think—I hope—that I can make you happy; I know you can make me happy. And the great thing is, we can make our own rules for our relationship, and we can figure this thing out together, if we want to. And I really want to. And I really, really hope you do, too. So I thought I’d start. Let me know what you think; you know how to reach me. I miss you.

Love,

Max

That all sounded good—sounded great, even—but she was scared to believe it. Scared to open herself back up again. Scared to get hurt again. She let her finger hover over the attachment.

Then she closed out of her email, dropped her phone and hid it in the couch cushions, and went to bed. No. She couldn’t do this again.

Max sat at his big, beautiful, shiny desk in his Washington office and stared at his computer. Emails kept coming in, hundreds every minute, it seemed like, but none of them was the one he was looking for.

He’d sent that email to Olivia Wednesday night, after working on it, and the silly, but—he hoped she knew—very earnest attachment, for over a week. He’d thought the best way to show her how serious he was about this wasn’t just an apology—he’d already apologized, and anyone could say they were sorry and keep doing it over and over—but was something concrete. What could be more concrete to a lawyer than a contract?

But it was now Friday morning and he hadn’t heard from her. Of course, he’d wanted an immediate response and a “come over this weekend so we can sign it together and then stay in bed all damn weekend,” but a simple “I love you and miss you, too,” would have been an excellent start. Honestly, at this point, he’d be happy for a “thanks, looking this over now,” or something equally cold. But he reminded himself again, as he’d done once every ten minutes for the past two days, that Olivia needed more time than that.

Had he overstepped by sending her that email? Should he have tried to talk to her in person instead? But he didn’t want to show up on her doorstep again, or at her office. Those both felt like shitty things to do to her, even if she did want to see him again, which was questionable now. Maybe always had been.

He was staying in Washington all weekend, for the first time all year. Sure, partly it was because he was booked on one of the Sunday morning shows, so it didn’t make sense for him to fly to California on Friday and back here on Saturday. But if he’d still been with Olivia, that wouldn’t have stopped him. He’d hoped, after he sent that email, he’d have a reason to fly back to California this weekend.

He sighed and spun around to look out the window. Apparently not.

At some point, he was probably going to have to tell his staff they’d broken up. He was pretty sure Kara suspected; partly because he’d never doubt her ability to see through him again after how quickly she’d realized he was dating someone, and partly because she’d asked about Olivia twice that first week back and not again. He hated that his staff had to know anything about his relationship failures, but that was his fucking life as a senator, wasn’t it? He’d probably tell Kara at some point and have her spread the word, but that didn’t feel any less humiliating.