Pieces of Olivia (9 page)

Friday night came after an excruciating midterm week of three exams and two research papers, both of which made me wish I’d reconsider my major. I trudged into the elevator at Liberty after my last class and walked down the hall, glad to see the light off in my dorm room so I could take a much-needed nap, only to flip on the light and hear a scream followed by sheets rustling on Kara’s bed. My eyes darted over, and then I too was screaming, my eyes slamming shut as I turned back around. “Oh! Sorry!”

Kara and I had been roommates for months now, yet I had managed to never accidentally see her naked . . . until now. I guessed Ethan had come in a day early. Ick. I scrambled for the doorknob, my eyes still closed, just as Kara called for me to stop. “It’s okay. We weren’t . . . It’s isn’t . . . We’re dressed now.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll just grab something to eat downstairs. You two can . . . you know, whatever you were doing.” Oh my God.

I stepped outside and started down the hall when Kara called my name. I spun around slowly, equal parts embarrassed and jealous. Where was my guy? Instead, I’d become fixated on a boy who refused to commit. Brilliant, Olive. Really brilliant.

“Uh, hey,” I said. “I’m sorry about that. I thought he was coming in tomorrow.”

A shy, happy smile spread across her face. “Yeah, he came in early. Sorry, I should have put up a sign or . . . I don’t know. We’ll come up with a system.” She laughed. “But I wanted to stop you before you left. We’re planning to see a movie later. Do you want to come? I’d love for you to get to know Ethan better. Maybe we could eat before or have coffee after. Something.”

I nodded, picturing the awkward conversation between us.
So, I’m Olivia. I saw you naked earlier. Yeah . . . nice tat on your back. Was that an eagle? Oh, a crow. Great!
“Sounds fun. What time?”

***

Three hours later, I found myself walking up to the theater to meet Kara and Ethan. I had arranged for Taylor to meet me there, hoping he wouldn’t take the movie too seriously. I had a feeling Taylor didn’t take anything too seriously, which would work out well for me tonight. The last thing I wanted was to be a third wheel with a couple that rarely saw each other. I could only imagine the PDA I’d be forced to endure. And I only knew two guys: Taylor and Preston. There was no chance in hell that I was calling Preston.

I rounded the corner to the theater and stopped dead in my tracks. Huddled just before the ticket line were Kara and Ethan. Beside them stood Taylor, talking as animatedly as ever. And to his left, looking both perfect and annoyed, were Preston and London. I drew a breath to calm my nerves and forced myself to keep walking. I made a mental check of my wardrobe: black leggings, tall camel boots, long sweater. I looked okay, but nowhere near as amazing as London, who looked like she had stepped off a photo shoot for Lucky Brand Jeans. Thank God I managed to put on lip gloss. I was going to kill Kara for doing this to me. Only, I couldn’t explain to her
why
I needed to kill her, which defeated the purpose. Damn it, damn it, damn it! This would absolutely require a session with Rose.

Taylor spotted me first and separated from the crowd to greet me. “Why, hello, Ms. Warren. You look amazing as usual. I hope this wasn’t all for me.”

I smiled. “Oh, rest assured, it’s not.”

He laughed. “Always feisty. I can only imagine what you’re like—”

“Olivia!” Kara called, cutting Taylor off.

I kept my eyes on Kara and Ethan, refusing to look at Preston, though I felt his gaze burning into me. “Hi, you must be Ethan,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. I had seen plenty of pictures of Ethan, but none of them did him justice. He had a rocker-slash-surfer vibe that seemed in sharp contrast with Kara’s girlie personality. I wondered how they had ended up together and made a note to ask Kara once he left.

“I am. Sorry about earlier.” He grinned and something in the smile made me like him already. He wasn’t showy. Wasn’t fake. “I’ve heard a lot about you from these two.” He motioned from Kara to Preston, and I had to fight to keep my jaw from dropping. Kara I expected, but Preston? “I feel like I know you myself. I’d say you’re their favorite person to talk about.”

London cleared her throat and tapped her boot once against the concrete, showing her uneasiness with the comment, but she said nothing. I let my gaze shift to Preston, curiosity getting the better of me, but he gave nothing away, as always. I was beginning to wonder if the moments between us were in my head, brief specks of a dream instead of reality. How else could he stand there, beside London the model, looking as though this wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing ever?

I focused back on Ethan. “Well, don’t believe a word of it. I’m terrible. Which is why I’m making us late for the movie. We should . . .” I motioned to the ticket line.

“I already bought the tickets,” Preston said, holding out a paper ticket. His hand slid over mine as he pressed the ticket into my hand, and I immediately felt my heart begin to speed up. This was going to be the second worst night of my life. I could feel it.

We made our way into the crowded theater and scanned the rows, searching for six empty seats together, only to quickly realize that wasn’t going to happen. Kara motioned that she and Ethan would take the two seats in front of a cluster of four in the middle and started forward before anyone could argue. I took a step at the same time as Taylor and felt a hand hold me back, allowing Taylor to slide into the row first. I peered over my shoulder, but I already knew who held me. Preston’s eyes burned into mine, full of unspoken demand. If Taylor was sitting beside me, then he would be sitting on the other side.

Suddenly the theater felt hot.

I sat down between Taylor and Preston and stared forward. The previews had already begun, so the theater was dark except for the continuous flicker from the screen. I laced my hands in my lap, nervousness and excitement fighting it out for control. I was sitting in a dark theater, inches from Preston. The thought of it made my insides swirl with the ache to touch him, to feel his warmth. But then Taylor stirred beside me, and London coughed, and I was reminded that we weren’t here together. And really, who was I kidding? We would never be just us, together. I was too messed up, and he refused to have an actual relationship. And Kara would always be there, a loose piece between us. Besides, I didn’t want to be one of his girls—a London—interesting one moment, tossed aside the next.

“Are you all right?” Preston whispered. I glanced over and immediately drew a quick breath. He had leaned into me, his face so close to mine I could smell the clean, spicy scent of whatever he used to bathe. Soap? Shower gel? Delicious, female-luring concoction? I managed to nod, my body and mind suddenly boneless and empty. I stared straight into his eyes, basking in the heat radiating off him and wishing with everything I had that he was here with me instead of with her. Preston seemed to realize what I was thinking and cleared his throat loudly, looking away before the moment drew any more attention. I turned slowly back to the screen, my heart a noticeable presence in my chest, thick and heavy and painful. I closed my eyes and tried to remember that I didn’t want a relationship, didn’t want to care, but I knew the words were useless. I already cared.

“Hey,” I whispered to Taylor. “Can I slide past you? I’m going to hit the restroom before we get too far into the movie.” He studied me, as though seeing through my pathetic lie, but he sat up taller in his seat and motioned for me to slip by. I walked down the aisle and out the door, breathing in deeply as soon as I crossed into the lobby. I eyed both sides of the crowded area, searching for the ladies restroom, and then, growing frustrated, went out the side door exit, eager for space so I could think without feeling as though I might break down.

I leaned against the outside wall of the theater and closed my eyes, when I heard the door burst open. I opened my eyes, prepared to get out of the way of whoever was leaving, and instead watched as Preston made his way over to me.

“I can’t do this, Olivia. I can’t.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re—”

He waved toward me. “You. Us. This. I don’t do this.” Anger surged through me, and I opened my mouth to yell that I didn’t do
this
either, when he took two strides toward me and whispered, “But I can’t breathe when you’re around. I can’t think. I can’t control my mind and forget my body. I am useless and weak and I hate this version of myself. Yet . . .” He placed a hand on my face and gently trailed his thumb across my cheek, his gaze drifting to my lips. “I have never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

The noise around us disappeared—the chatter of people passing by, the cars on the street. All I could hear was the smooth sound of his breathing as he watched me, waiting for my reaction. But I didn’t know what to say. He had just told me what I already knew—he didn’t do relationships. So what did that mean for us? I had suffered enough pain to fill an entire lifetime. I wouldn’t let myself be hurt again. I couldn’t.

I closed my eyes and felt his breath against my mouth, his lips grazing mine as he said, “Tell me you don’t want this as badly as I do.”

Every nerve ending in my body came alive, urging me forward, screaming
Yes, yes, yes!
But I couldn’t do this, not here, him with another girl, me as lost as ever.

I swallowed hard to regain some semblance of control and stepped away from him, my eyes on the ground. “I don’t do casual. My heart, it’s . . .” I shook my head, imagining myself becoming invested in him, us, and then the pain of him leaving. Seeing him with another girl. It would undo me. “I’m sorry. I can’t,” I said, and then I slipped back into the theater, leaving Preston and my heart behind.

“You’re becoming something out of a Shakespearian tragedy.” Rose flicked her cigarette into her tray and stared at me, her body relaxed as though telling me to take my time, while her eyes demanded that I hurry the hell up.

I had walked into Rose’s office unannounced just moments before, no appointment scheduled, no phone call to say I’d had a setback and needed her therapy. Instead, I barged into her office and began spilling the full details of what had happened Saturday night. Complete with the awkward moment when I sat back down beside Taylor, only for Preston to join London moments later, giving us away. I had considered asking Taylor to slide over, to sit in my original seat, but I knew that would create more problems than it would solve. So I stayed in my seat, pretending to watch the movie, while every cell, fiber, and hair on my body remained attuned to Preston and his every move. By the time the movie ended, I felt physically sick and managed to come up with a half-decent excuse to head back to my dorm.

Now, I was lying back on Rose’s sofa with my black box of problems resting squarely on my stomach. It seemed forever ago that I had stepped into her office and listened as she told me about her ghosts.

“What is your middle name, Rose?” I asked, realizing that she knew six times more about me than I did her. I supposed that was the order of things with a therapist, but Rose was different. Our relationship was different. At least, I hoped.

She put out her cigarette and took her normal spot in the chair beside the sofa. She didn’t bother with a pen or paper or my file or even her iPad anymore. Either that suggested progress or she felt I was too screwed up to help, and instead I’d become some sort of entertainment.

“Grace. When was the last time you wrote to Trisha?”

I cocked my head, thinking about it. “Um . . . Friday?”

Rose nodded.

“What?”

“Nothing. Have you looked in the box?”

“No.”

“Then why did you bring it?”

I considered the question. My first response was that I knew she would ask about it, but that wasn’t the truth. I brought it because I wanted to open it. I just wasn’t sure when I would find the courage to actually do it. Until that moment, I planned to keep bringing it. “You know why.”

She nodded again. “I can’t help you, Olive, if you’re unwilling to try. You know this.”

“I thought we were talking about my epic love life.”

“Don’t you see? They’re one in the same.”

I sat up and focused on Rose. “There is nothing similar about them. I watched as my best friends got charred. You think that’s the same thing as my pathetic obsession with a guy I can’t have?”

“But from everything you’ve told me, you can have him. You just refuse to try unless you can control the terms. Preston isn’t ever going to let you control everything. Whatever happened to him to cause this three-month dating rule has him feeling as desperate for control as you do. He isn’t going to give that up. So if you want him, then you have to realize—the both of you have to realize—that neither of you will ever be fully in control. You have to just go for it. And that’s life, sweetheart.” She paused to light a cigarette, took a long puff, and then set it in her tray. “I have listened to you tell me everything you know about this boy. And I have only listened to you ruminate over Trisha once since you’ve started talking about him. Now you’re even unsure when you last wrote to her. I call that progress. Your letters to Trisha, while good in theory, do nothing more than lock your guilt in place. You seem to soak yourself in it when you talk about her, instead of allowing the guilt to dissipate with each word. Typically, I would urge my patients to write out their feelings, but you don’t address your feelings with Trisha, at least not here, and I suspect not in your emails. Am I right?”

She took another long draw of her cigarette, waiting for me to respond, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit the truth. She was right. About all of it.

“Instead, you apologize over and over,” Rose said, her voice turning gentle. “That isn’t healthy. Nothing about that is healthy. But now you’re putting days between that guilt by delaying writing to her. And somehow your contact with Preston, whether you want to admit it or not, is responsible for that progress. It’s certainly not the talks you and I have together. If you want to heal, you have to realize that your past and your present are wound tightly together, one unable to escape the other’s hold. I want to help you. It has been a long time since I’ve been this desperate to help a patient of mine. But to a certain extent, my hands are tied. You have to want it, too.”

I blinked hard, fighting to keep tears from flowing, but failing miserably. I swiped my palm across my cheek. I opened my mouth to argue, to tell her that she was crazy, that I was doing better, and then closed it without saying a word. I concentrated on my hands, on the small scars that were almost imperceptible, and then glanced up. “What can I do?”

Rose checked her watch. “Meet me at the pier tomorrow morning. Bring ice cream and that box.” She smiled at my cocked eyebrow. “Ice cream heals anything. Trust me.” She handed me a tissue as I started for the door. I gripped the handle and peered back at her.

“Who is your favorite?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Gertrude or Doris. Who is your favorite?”

She tilted her head in thought. “Doris. Gertrude was too reserved. I never trust a shy person.”

I grinned. The answer was so
Rose
. “What flavor of ice cream do you like?”

Her face lit up. “Blueberry. I only eat blueberry.”

***

The next morning, I made my way over to the pier to meet Rose, blueberry ice cream in hand even though it was barely eight in the morning. She smiled wide when she saw me. I’d grown to love the way Rose smiled; like Preston, her smile told the world she understood something about life the rest of us hadn’t yet grasped.

I passed the cone of blueberry to her. I had to go to two places to find it, but I couldn’t imagine showing up without it.

“Thank you, Olive. You’re officially my favorite patient.” She eyed the coffee cup in my hand. “No ice cream for you?”

I laughed. “I’m a freshman in college, Rose. Coffee before noon, ice cream after eight. It’s like an unspoken rule. I don’t know how you’re eating the stuff this early anyway.”

“Ah, see, when you get to my age, your day begins at four on a good day. So for me, it’s practically lunch hour.”

She started down the pier. The morning light had just begun to coat the ocean in front of us, waking everything up. Seagulls soared around, seeking fresh fish and calling out to each other like old friends. There were very few people out this early, only the runners and the older folks who perhaps, like Rose, had begun their day many hours before.

I leaned against the wooden railing and stared out over the water. The wind was light at this hour, the waves gentle. It reminded me how amazing the world was, how smart God must have been to create it. How did He know that life, even the water and the air, needed a moment to wake up, like the rest of us? I was continually amazed at this sort of thing.

“A bite for your thoughts?” Rose asked, extending her cone to me.

I laughed again. “I was just thinking how amazing it is.”

“What?”

I motioned around. “All of it. Like how is it possible that God created all of this? When you think about it, it’s hard for me to believe that there isn’t a God. How else can all of this exist in such perfect working order?”

“So you’re religious, then?”

I tilted my head. My parents had insisted on church from day one, but I had a suspicion that it had less to do with faith and more to do with our image within the community. Sundays were when ladies showed off their new Cartier jewelry and men boasted their latest business deals. I had never once heard someone actually talk about God who wasn’t an employee or volunteer of the church. “Not really,” I finally said. “But I have appreciation for religion. I think I could be. I just don’t know much about it. Like the Bible, I’ve never read it. I don’t even know all of the books. Isn’t that horrible?” I eyed Rose, expecting her to shoot me a traditional Southern glance of judgment.

“Why would that be horrible? We only know what we know, Olive. The rest is learned. If you want to know God, know Him. If not, no big deal.”

I was shocked. I had never heard someone her age ever suggest that believing and/or following God was an option. “Maybe some day.”

“Maybe some day,” she repeated. “But for today, I would like to talk about that.” She pointed to the black box wedged under my arm. I pulled it out and placed it on the railing of the pier. “Okay. I am giving you two options today. Option one: You open the box and we take a look at its contents. Together. I will be here the whole time. You can look at as much or as little of it as you would like today as long as you look at something. Option two: We go our separate ways.”

My eyes snapped up to hers. “Rose . . .”

“We tend to allow ourselves to grow comfortable in the uncomfortable. We avoid it; we place it in an unused closet and hope that the dust mites eat it away. I can’t be your unused closet, Olive. We need to move forward. Otherwise, I think you need to find someone that can help you move forward.”

I focused back on the box and then on Rose. “But you have helped me. I’m just not—”

“You think you’re not ready, but you are. You just have to trust yourself.”

I nodded slowly, set my coffee on the railing, and took the box back in my hands. I exhaled, hoping that a moment of sureness would find me, but after a long pause, I knew that I was hoping in vain. There was no sureness. There was only chance. I gripped the lid and slipped it off, peering into the box and straight into my friend Claire’s perfect face.

The photo had been taken at a pool party at Westlake Country Club. We were celebrating the summer before our senior year. Claire and I stood close together in the photo, our arms wrapped around each other, our faces beaming with happiness. I stared at the photo, trying to find myself in the person I saw, but I couldn’t see me, not the me I was today. The Olivia in the photo was all makeup and sleek hair and pressed designer clothes. That girl wasn’t me. I focused back on Claire, and my hand began to shake as I remembered my last moment with her.

I’ll be in Parker’s room if you need me,
she had said with a wink. I wondered if that was where she died, passed out in his bed, unaware of the fire until it was too late.

A shudder jolted through me, and I dropped the photo as though it had shocked me. “I can’t . . . This is . . .”

Rose took my hand, bringing me back to her. “Leave the photo and look at me.”

I forced myself to look up.

“This is just you and I, Olive. I want you to take a deep breath and then tell me about her.”

My teeth chattered together, but I wasn’t cold. I gripped Rose’s hand tighter, hoping to find strength through her.

“You can do this.”

I swallowed once, then twice, wishing I had brought water instead of coffee. “What do you want to know?”

Rose pointed to the photo. “Who is that?”

“You know who it is.”

“Yes, but I don’t know who she is in your eyes. I want you to tell me.”

I nodded. Rose and I had talked about Claire, but only on the surface. The focus was always on Trisha. I felt a wave of guilt surge forward at that realization. “It’s Claire. Trisha and I had been friends forever when Claire’s family moved into town, but she immediately became one of us. She wasn’t Trisha, but she was close. We were close.”

“Good, go on.”

Rose directed me over to a nearby bench and helped me sit down. “She and Parker were dating. She’s the one who invited me and Trisha to the party.”

“Are you angry at her for that?”

My eyes shot to Rose. “No.” I shook my head quickly. “No, I would never blame her. We would have ended up there regardless. Matt and Parker were like Trisha and I. Matt insisted that I come.”

“So you blame Matt?”

I hesitated, looking away. “No, of course not,” I said, but my voice wasn’t as sure as with Claire. “I would never blame them. They were my friends.”

Rose nodded slowly. “Right. So, if one of them had survived, if Trisha had survived, would you want her to blame herself for living?”

“No, but that’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it? You did exactly the same things they did that night, right?” I didn’t respond so she continued. “It’s ridiculous to blame them for going to a party that you all planned to attend. And it’s ridiculous to think that Trisha would have blamed herself for surviving.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, growing frustrated.

“Don’t you see? Both those scenarios are crazy in your eyes. Just like it is crazy in mine for you to blame yourself for being alive.”

I felt the weight of her words on my heart. “But I didn’t go back,” I whispered. “It wasn’t like a firefighter rescued me and I was too injured or whatever. I got out of the house on my own, turned around, and watched them die.”

“Did you? Because that’s not the story from your hospital records. You had second- and third-degree burns on much of your body and were bleeding profusely. You could not have gone back into that house. Olive, look at me.” I blinked away tears and looked up. “You couldn’t have gone back in.” She stepped away from me, took the photo from where it lay, and sat it on my lap. “You couldn’t have saved Claire. You couldn’t have saved Matt. You couldn’t have saved anyone.” She took my shoulders in her hands, forcing me to look her straight in the eyes. “You could not have saved Trisha.”

I bit my lip and closed my eyes, searching through my memory. I remembered scrambling up from the ground. How could I have done that if I was as injured as Rose claimed? “I was walking.”

“Perhaps. But your legs didn’t receive the most damage.”

I rubbed my left arm. Mom had begged me to see a plastic surgeon, but I couldn’t bear the thought of erasing what had happened. They all had died. And what? I was going to erase my scars and act like nothing had happened? Never.

I thought about asking to see my hospital report. Would that help? Likely not. I took Claire’s photo back in my hands. “She was amazing, you know? Kind. The sort of person you wanted to be like. I never once told her how much I respected her, and now I never can.”