Will: I love her. The day Pete brought her home ten years ago I wasn’t even supposed to be there. I was supposed to be on a plane. Sometimes I wonder if I’d just been somewhere else. We denied it for months because that’s what you do. You deny it. You pretend it’s not happening. You pretend it’s all above board and it’s appropriate and the next thing you know you’re having sex in the coat closet at your brother’s engagement dinner. Pete loves her. She’s his wife. And she and I, well, we have what we have. It might not be much but it’s what we have.
Olivia: You have nothing. You have a pile of secrets and lies, and you’re calling it love. And in the meantime you’re letting your whole life pass you by while they raise children and celebrate anniversaries and grow old together. You’re frozen in time. You’re holding your breath. You’re a statue waiting for something that’s never going to happen. Living for stolen moments in hotel hallways and coat closets and you keep telling yourself they all add up to something real because in your mind they have to but they don’t. They won’t. They never will. Because stolen moments aren’t a life. So you have nothing. You have no one. End it now.
Not anymore. Thank you Lord.