Waking Olivia (4 page)

I
am
on the south face of Denali. It’s not necessarily the hardest climb, just steep as shit. The guys we’re leading are already tired, which doesn’t bode well since we’ve got at least three more hours before we hit the next camp.

“You got this?” I ask one of them. His name is Bob. He’s from Beaufort, South Carolina, which sits below sea level, and this is his first major climb. Not sure Denali should be anyone’s first major climb, but I don’t choose our clients.

His mouth is pulling inward, stretched tight. He nods.

I asked. It’s all I can do.

I look at the summit and the sun warms my face. It’s cold as hell, cold enough that it’s stripped everything inside of me. Any lingering uncertainty. Even the anger.

My father was wrong. He said mountain climbing was a hobby, not a profession, and that one day I’d be home with my tail between my legs. He was wrong, and I know it as I stand here. I know there’s nothing else in the world I’m supposed to be doing. I know that even if this climb is my last—and no serious climber ever goes up without at least acknowledging the possibility—it was worth it. I’d rather have had two good years with the sun on my face and the summit hovering above than a lifetime of working on the farm. Climbs like this are the only time, for as far back as I can recall, that I don’t feel as if something is missing.

I
wake
. I’m not at high camp or base camp. I know that the only climbs in my future are the ones I wedge into days and weekends that are already too full. I’ll probably never summit Everest or Annapurna or any of the other ones on my bucket list. I’m going to live and die toiling on that farm, just like my dad did.

The only difference is that he had a choice.

There were things about climbing that sucked, that would have bothered me over time. It’s hard to have a relationship when you’re gone months at a time. I’d eventually have wanted kids, and it would have been hard to leave. But I was 24. I didn’t want commitment—I wanted convenience. And I had it. Sometimes I think if it had just been a little less perfect this wouldn’t be as hard for me as it is right now.

There isn’t a single afternoon, when practice is done, that a tiny voice doesn’t suggest I go climbing. I hear it today, but I don’t go. I never go. The sprayer’s coming to do one last application of weed killer tomorrow and I’ve got to make sure the fields are ready first. Otherwise, I’ll spend the next goddamn month fixing ruts he’s put out there.

But the voice is still there, even as I head to the farm on the way home.
You’ve got four hours of light left
, it says.
You couldn’t do much, but your gear is already in the car. You deserve just one.

Sometimes I feel like an addict, except the only person my climbing ever hurt was my father. I’m sure as shit making amends for it now.

S
chool begins
.

Between that and practice, I don't fall asleep at night. I collapse. Which is ideal. Exhaustion tends to keep the dreams at bay
.

I have fresh legs every day, not that Will is any less displeased. I'm running well, but he only seems to find fault. I am,
by far
, the fastest girl on the team, but every day he stands there looking for things to criticize, bitching about my turn-over rate and stride length, or making me stay after everyone else to run next to a metronome for Christ’s sake. I’m doing every fucking thing he asks and he’s still treating me like a burden, a charity case he’s been forced to take on.

“Good job,” he says to Erin and Betsy at the end of practice. I approach and his smile fades. "Your kick was off on the last lap."

"Well, I came in ahead of everyone else,” I snap, “so maybe the rest of the team's kick was off too.”

There's a small muscle at the corner of his jaw that pops when he's mad. That muscle and I are practically family I know it so well.

"If you're not interested in improving," he says, "then stop taking up a spot that could be used by someone who is." Even now, in the midst of his anger, I can't stop noticing things about him. His eyes are the brightest blue, like a postcard of the Caribbean. Especially when he's mad.

"Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you? I’m apparently the only person on this team who needs constant correction."

"Has it ever occurred to you that I ask more of you because I think you’re capable of more?” he demands. “The rest of those girls are giving me everything they have, but you are not. Do you want me to just let you plod along and get through college having never taken first when you know you have the potential to?"

For the first time ever, I don't feel anger in response to his words but an inexplicable urge to cry. I prefer anger. I don't know what to do with this other feeling. "I'm going to shower now," I say, my voice slightly hoarse. He nods, looking unhappy and puzzled at the same time. Possibly even concerned.

I don't want his concern.

God knows it won’t last.

O
n Thursday
, Hannah brings this massive box of stuff that her mother has sent, full of homemade cookies and peanut brittle and even rolls of quarters for the laundry.

“Ugh, snickerdoodles," says Hannah, throwing the bag into the center of the table. "I'm already sick of snickerdoodles and school’s only just begun."

"At least your mom sends you homemade stuff. My mom just sent me a bag of Oreos," laughs Nicole. "Like I couldn't go to the store and buy my own Oreos."

Hannah passes me the bag and I hand it on to Erin as if it's toxic, my stomach tight and my throat dry.

"Oh my God, Finn, live a little," gripes Erin. She takes a cookie from the bag and pushes it toward my mouth, but I avert my head.

"I don't like snickerdoodles," I tell her. It's a lie. What I don't want is the queasy feeling this whole thing causes in my stomach. This tangible reminder that this is what other people have – a family who cares that they are gone.

“Saw Will’s girlfriend heading to his office just before we left,” smirks Nicole. “Looks like someone’s getting a little a.m. wake-up call.”

“Not necessarily,” counters Erin. “She works for the university. Maybe they’re just meeting for breakfast. Is she hot?”

Nicole rolls her eyes. “She’s dating
Will
. What do you think?”

What
I
think is that any girl who would date Will must have a big bag of stupid lodged in the area meant for white matter. I don’t care how hot he is. Nothing is worth dealing with his bullshit.

F
or some reason
, after a relatively mild Colorado summer, it turns blazing hot on Wednesday. The girls were dragging this morning and, by afternoon, I’m not sure this practice can be technically classified as speedwork.

As soon as I get out of here, I’ve got to mow the perimeter of the fields and spray the area between our farm and our neighbor’s, which the sprayer didn’t hit last week. I’ve got to start getting the grain bins ready, manually moving the last of it down since they’re too light for gravity to do the job for me anymore. I’ve got 15 things to do, and not a single one I
want
to do, so I’m already on edge.

I find the appearance of the men’s track team more annoying than normal. Under the best of circumstances, I find them grating. We’re only one week into sharing the track and I’ve already had it with the way they gawk at Olivia like she’s a Playboy centerfold. The damn football team now has a
song
they sing when she passes. It’s insane.

If I were being reasonable, I’d say I couldn’t blame them. Olivia isn’t just beautiful. Something compels you to look at her even when you don’t want to, like Medusa. The difference is that I realize Olivia
could
probably turn you to stone with her withering glare, while the rest of these idiots are completely blind to it.

“Looking good, Finn,” Brofton says. Olivia rolls her eyes and keeps walking, but another kid, Piersal, stops staring at her chest just long enough to look at where the back of her singlet is gaping open.

"Jesus," he says. "What happened there?" He trails a finger over her skin and she jumps as if he’s burned her.

"Nothing," she snaps.

Anyone who’s even spent a modest amount of time around Olivia would know that tone means
leave me the fuck alone
, but Piersal is either clueless or has a death wish. "It doesn't look like nothing," he says. "How'd it happen?"

There’s an expression on Olivia’s face, a combination of panic and rage as everyone turns to watch. "I don't know," she says through gritted teeth. She barks at the freshman to move and they scuttle.

"What do you mean you don't know?" He laughs. "You look like you got knifed! You
have
to know."

Before I can even process what the hell is happening, she’s spun around and flung herself toward him, grabbing his shirt at the neck like she’s going to kick his ass across the track though he’s at least six inches taller than she is.

"I told you I don't know,” she snarls, pulling tighter at his shirt, starting to choke him. “Now ask me one more question so I can feed you your own balls."

I finally snap out of my shock and grab her, wrenching her away from him, and yelling at everyone to go on about their business. Once they’ve left, I round on her. "What the hell was that?"

"He was fucking with me."

"He just asked you a question.”

"He
laughed
," she hisses. Her voice sounds strangled, anger and grief warring in her throat. "Did you not hear that part? A kid gets stabbed and it’s just a big fucking joke to you people, isn’t it?”

I’m slow to cover my surprise. Is she seriously saying someone
stabbed
her? “I’m sure he had no idea it was something that serious,” I finally say.

She rolls her eyes. "Of course he didn’t. Bad shit never happens to any of you. You all just stand around with your fucking care packages, salivating for a gory detail or two, and I get to be the bad guy for wanting some privacy."

"You know, if you'd just answered the question that would have been the end of it."

"I
did
answer the question," she growls. "How much do you remember from when you were little? And even if I did, it’s no one’s business but mine.”

S
omeone fucking
stabbed
her
.

I can't get past that fact. I want to forget it entirely because it causes this unfortunate pit of sympathy in my stomach and she's the kind of girl for whom feeling sympathy is dangerous. Feel bad and you start forgiving, making exceptions. The truth is that the odds of her getting through the next week without kicking Betsy’s ass are slim. The odds of her making it through the season? Impossible. So getting attached to her in any way is futile at best. I want to not think about it and I want to not think about her. It’s got to be the first time I’m actually grateful that I can go to the farm and throw myself into work.

I’ve been out in the fields for at least two hours when my mom takes the golf cart out to find me. “Did something happen at work?” she asks. Sometimes my mother sees through me so easily that it’s almost scary.

“Nothing I couldn’t have predicted.”

“What’s the problem?”

I shake my head. “There’s no problem.” It’s a lie, of course, but the truth is that I don’t know what the problem is. I don’t know why Olivia Finnegan seems to have taken over a small portion of my brain and, the moment my attention isn’t diverted, it seems to land right back on her.

I keep working, keep trying to focus my mind elsewhere. It doesn’t seem to work. It's not until I feel my phone vibrating that I realize the sun is setting.

Crap.

"Hey, Jess," I say, already preparing my apology. I really am the world's shittiest boyfriend. She puts up with a lot.

"I haven't heard from you all day," she says. "What time are you coming over? We're supposed to be at Cat's house by seven."

Shit.
It's after six now, I’m drenched in sweat, and my mom's place is at least 20 minutes from Jessica's. "I'm gonna be a little late. I'm sorry. I was helping my mom and—”

"It's okay," she says immediately. "I know your mom comes first right now." In the year we've dated, Jessica's never once made me feel guilty about the farm, but I can picture her right now, twisting an auburn curl around her finger, her full mouth pouting slightly, and I feel bad. She deserves better than a boyfriend who forgot her all day long.

I'm going to try harder, I swear.

T
hat scar
on my back is one small clue to a past I barely remember.

I had a brother once, I had parents once, but they all left me in quick succession, and now my memories of them are blurred and untrustworthy. I still think about them, though, no matter how badly I wish I didn’t. Some days more than others.

Sunday is one of those days. Somewhere in the world, my brother is celebrating his 24th birthday. He ran away when he was eight, only three years older than me although, at the time, the difference seemed monumental. A year later, my parents ditched me and took off. I remember worrying that my brother might still try to return, like a lost dog, and discover we'd gone.

I wonder if he's alone like I am. Maybe leaving young like that gave him a head start. Maybe someone took him in. By now he's probably out of college. He liked to build things, elaborate towers out of cans and sticks, a delicate suspension that would collapse at the first hint of a breeze, so maybe he's an engineer now, or an architect. Maybe he's married, or thinking about it.

I get a cupcake at dinner, which I won't eat, but I close my eyes and make a wish as if there's a candle, as if it's my wish to make, and my wish is that he wound up happier than me.

I
wake sometime before dawn
, standing in the middle of an unfamiliar road.

My brother’s birthday always triggers a nightmare, so I’m not all that surprised. I don’t think I’m too far from my apartment, which is good. What’s less good is that there’s a pretty big piece of glass in my foot. Barefoot again, naturally.

“Why? Why can’t you ever keep the fucking shoes on?” I groan to myself, wincing as I dig out the glass.

It's hardly the first time it's happened, but the cut is deep and it hurts like a bitch to return to my apartment in bare feet. I should just be grateful, I suppose, that it stopped me. Sometimes the injury becomes part of the dream, and a series of things underfoot just means fighting harder to get away from the thing behind me.

I get home in time to clean it and slap some gauze over the top, hoping that's enough to get me through practice.

"You’re running like a six-year-old on Field Day,” says Will a few hours later.

"There's that voice of support I missed all weekend," I reply snidely. "And just for the record, I'm still faster than anyone out here."

"I'm not coaching 'anyone out here' at the moment," he says. "I'm coaching you, and I want to know why your gait is off." His eyes are narrowed, his stare hard. He is sure I ran and I'm not about to tell him he's right.

"I broke a jar this morning and cut my foot," I tell him.

"Let me see."

I roll my eyes as I walk to a bench, not sure if this is actual concern on his part or suspicion. I take off my shoe and my sock and wiggle the ball of my foot at him. "Happy?"

He scowls at me and then comes forward, grabbing my ankle to hold my foot aloft. "You need to go to the health center, Olivia. That needs to be stitched."

I shrug. "It'll be fine. It just needs a day."

He looks more carefully at it. "Why is your foot so cut up?"

"It’s not," I say, jerking my ankle out of his grasp.

"Do you have to argue about everything? I have eyes and I know what scars look like. Do you walk over broken glass daily?"

I look at him flatly. "Do you really expect me to answer that?"

"No, but I really expect you to go to the health center."

"Despite your years of medical training, I'm gonna have to refuse.”

For just a moment, fleeting sadness flickers over his face. It makes me wish I hadn't spoken. He sighs. "Go shower and wait in my office."

I’m either about to get bitched out for not following his directions, or I’m about to get kicked off the team. Either possibility seems fair. I refused to do what he asked. I ran when he told me not to. I was told no more temper and I nearly crushed a teammate’s windpipe. I figured I’d lose my scholarship eventually, I just thought I'd get to go out with a bang.

W
hen I walk in
, he looks at me with equal parts resignation and disdain, as if steeling himself to undertake a very unpleasant task.

"Take off your shoe," he sighs, going to his closet. He retrieves a small kit and pulls a chair up in front of mine and grabs my ankle.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"What does it look like I'm doing? You are obviously not going to the health center, since following even the smallest direction is impossible for you, so I'm fixing your foot."

I swallow. "You don't have to. It doesn't hurt that much."

He shakes his head as he looks at my foot. "I applaud your high pain tolerance, Olivia, but there's no way that doesn't hurt, and it affects your running, so for once stop arguing with me.” He swabs it with alcohol, which does hurt though I refuse to show it, and then he stitches it as deftly and assuredly as any surgeon.

"How'd you learn how to do that?" I ask.

He pauses, and his shoulders seem to sag a little. "I had some medic training at my last job.”

His tone does not invite further questions, but I barrel on anyway. “You weren’t always a coach?”

“No."

“What did you do?”

His eyes remain on my foot. “I was a guide,” he finally says. “Mountain climbing.”

Somehow this makes complete sense to me. It explains how cut he is, the tattoos hinting that he hasn’t always been this goody-goody country boy, but that’s not all. There’s something intense about him, something that demands complete immersion. He isn’t a guy meant to stand on the sidelines and watch other people achieve.

“So you, like, led tours or something?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

His jaw sets. “My father died, so I came back and took over his farm.”

"So did you even
want
to coach track?"

He closes the kit with an echoing snap. "It's a good job. I’m lucky to have gotten it."

"That didn't answer my question."

"Didn't it?"

I guess it did.

Suddenly I feel bad that I’ve been sort of a pain in the ass, that I've made so many assumptions about who he is and why he's here. I sense that even the act of stitching my foot is reminding him of things he gave up. "You'd probably make a good doctor if you ever decided to leave the lucrative world of coaching," I tell him. "Not, mind you, a doctor who needs to be pleasant, like a pediatrician or something. But one of those doctors you expect to be an asshole."

"Is that right?" he drawls, trying not to smile.

“Yeah, I mean, can you imagine yourself as, say, an oncologist? I'm pretty sure saying things like 'your healing is crappy' and 'get better faster' wouldn't be as well-received by patients as it is by me."

He laughs. "Yes, it's so well-received when I say it to you."

Moments like this almost make me wish I were a better person. The kind who makes other people happy.

Or at least not the kind who makes them miserable.