Pieces of Olivia

by Unknown

  “Let’s stop for today,” Rose said, patting my shoulder. “I will have something for you at our next session. For now, try to think only of as much of the night as you have spoken to me out loud. Nothing more, understand? Just the wet grass on your feet. Would you like to come back this week?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and wiped away my tears. “Does that mean you think you can help me?”

  Rose smiled and draped her arm around my shoulders, hugging me close. “You’re a little wrinkled right now, and I understand how heavy those wrinkles can feel. How permanent they can feel. But I’ve never met a crease that time couldn’t iron out. You’ll be fine. That I can promise you. You just have to have a little faith. Faith is the magic of mountains.”

  ***

  I thought of Rose’s words long after I left her office. The magic of mountains. The opinions of ghosts. The more time I spent with her, the more I questioned the sanity of my therapist. Somehow that gave me more confidence in her ability to help me. You’d have to be insane to fix me.

  I draped my cross-body bag—a dark brown patchwork I bought at the Market—across my shoulder and started down the sidewalk, wishing I were the sort of girl that carried makeup on me. I knew my face showed every bit of the disaster I’d become moments before. I could tell from the way my skin still tingled and my eyes burned. And by the looks I received from people passing by, like they wanted to make sure I was okay, but were too afraid to speak out. Too afraid of what I might say or do.

  So I kept my head down and my thoughts inward, which was why I didn’t notice the truck slow down beside me and the window roll down, the smooth sounds of Bob Marley beckoning me to look over. When I did, I immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Preston leaned easily against his steering wheel, a bandana wrapped around his head, reflective blue sunglasses covering his eyes. His lips were turned up in his classic smirk. He opened his mouth, likely to say something smart, but then his mouth snapped back closed and his head tilted to the side. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I didn’t have to. They were roaming over my face, taking in each detail. Red eyes. Puffy nose and cheeks. Hair that looked as though a bird had flown in and gotten trapped. I wondered if I could keep walking without becoming a conversation topic between Kara and him later. Doubtful.

  “Uh . . . hey.”

  “Hey,” I replied. What else could I say?

  He glanced over his steering wheel, like he was no longer sure how to talk to me. “Can I give you a ride?” he asked, focusing back on me.

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

  I started down the sidewalk, when he called, “Olivia. Please. Let me give you a ride.”

  I contemplated what was worse: taking the ride in awkward silence or declining his offer, which would make me look insane, given the state of my appearance. I glanced back at his truck, deciding I’d rather deal with the awkwardness than run into at least twenty more people, potentially all my future classmates, during my walk all the way back to Liberty.

  I opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside, glad that at the very least, I had worn my hair down. I draped it across my left shoulder to shield my face, a curtain of brown and blond strands, thanks to Mom’s insistence that I have it highlighted before coming to school. I expected to continue in silence, when Preston said, “I’m sure whatever it is will be fine. Better. Or . . .” He released a breath. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible at the whole comforting thing.”

  “It’s fine.” I wondered if my voice sounded as hoarse as it felt.

  “Really?” He peeked over at me. “Because it doesn’t look fine. What were you doing all the way over here, anyway?”

  I closed my eyes. Random awkward stares would have been so much better than this. I opened my mouth to spout out a lie, but I was tired from the session with Rose, my emotions raw and too accessible to be ignored. “I was seeing my therapist.” I cringed as I waited for his response. The look. The laughter. The tone that placed me on the crazy shelf, with my cover facing out for all to see.

  “Does it help?” he asked after a moment.

  I thought of all my therapy over the last four months. The Harvard-degreed Dr. Blackson, who talked to me like I was ten. The sweater-vest wearing Dr. Allen, who spent more time arguing with her soon-to-be ex-husband on the phone than listening to my problems. I had never once felt better in any of the dozens of appointments I had with those therapists. But Rose was different.

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I used to think they were worthless. But this one—Rose—she makes me think it could eventually help. She gives me hope, and I guess that’s the most we can ask for.” Maybe if faith was the magic behind mountains, then hope was the streams that shaped their valleys. But then I felt silly and Rose-like for thinking such nonsense.

  Preston nodded. “I’ve thought of seeing someone myself.”

  My eyes snapped over to him. “You?”

  He laughed. “I see how it is.”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that. You just seem so . . .”

  His face turned serious. “Irresponsible?”

  “Self-actualized. Like, nothing could bother you. It’s a little intimidating,” I admitted.

  Preston’s mouth set into a hard line, and then he said, “When I was little, my dad used to tell my brother and me that a man was defined by how he carried himself day to day. Not by his responses during good or bad times, when even the weak could rise, but how he handled himself when he thought no one was paying attention.”

  I thought of his words and what they meant. “You’re good at it. Your dad would be proud.”

  He laughed again, but the sound didn’t possess the easiness of his laugh from before. “My dad doesn’t know what the word proud means. He only knows judgment and criticism.”

  “But you’re studying to be a doctor. You own the boat storage place. You work. You seem to be head and shoulders above everyone I know.”

  “Yeah, well, those things are nothing to my dad. My grandfather owned several businesses in my town and left them to my dad, his only child, when he died. My father expected my brother and me to join the family business, so when I decided I wanted to do something else, I became the disappointing son. I bought the storage place with some of my inheritance from my granddad. A wasted investment in my dad’s eyes.”

  “So why did you decide to go into medicine instead of joining the family business?”

  Preston’s mood shifted noticeably darker, and I could tell his moment of revelation had passed. He’d revealed as much as he planned to reveal. I realized that I should offer him something of me, a trade for the information he’d given, but I wasn’t ready to reference that night in any kind of context. Especially not with Preston Riggs.

  “Why did you really come here instead of wherever your parents wanted you to go?” Preston asked, surprising me. “Something tells me it isn’t the culture.”

  I stared forward, wishing, yet again, that I’d never taken this ride. “I came here because a friend of mine couldn’t. I came for her.”

  He nodded once. “Is she also the reason you see Rose?” I could hear the hesitation in his voice. He knew he shouldn’t ask the question, but his curiosity had won out.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” I already knew what his response would be, which was the only thing that gave me the courage to ask him. If he agreed to answer a question for a question, I would be forced to seal my mouth and tuck my secrets away. But that wouldn’t happen. I could see it on his face. His secrets were as tightly locked as mine.

  “No,” he answered. “But not for the reason you’re thinking. My coming here, studying medicine, isn’t . . . the reason . . .” He shook his head. “It isn’t my story to tell.”

  We reached Liberty before I could process what he meant, but one thing became clear—Preston Riggs was much more complex than I’d ori
ginally thought.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Olivia, it’s your turn to read.”

  I glanced up at my poetry professor, my hands shaking enough to make the paper in my hand rattle. I had spent the last week going through my journals, desperate to find something that spoke of emotion without revealing the insides of my heart. Finally, I selected the poem and brought it into my session with Rose the day before, eager for her opinion. But when I finished, she just stared at me with those gray eyes of hers. She didn’t clap or say good job or even hint that she’d enjoyed the piece. Instead, she came over and hugged me, and then told me to double my sessions for the next week.

  I walked to the front of the class, unfolded my crinkled sheet of paper, and stared out into the class, trying not to focus on any one set of eyes. I glanced down at the sheet, the words written in pencil, marks made and erased so often the once white sheet now held a gray cast. Just like the words themselves.

  I opened my mouth and closed it back, eyeing Lauren, our professor. “Go on,” she said, as supportive as ever. She told us whatever we turned in to her would remain private, so for me to read something of mine out loud felt like I was intentionally putting myself in the spotlight. We weren’t required to read our own work, though several had already. The strange thing was that I wanted to say these things out loud. Say all the things I couldn’t say to my parents. Poetry class gave me that freedom. I just had to be careful which poems I turned in to Lauren and which I read in class. Some . . . some should never be uttered out loud to anyone.

  I peered down at the paper, though I knew the words by heart.

  It came one day, fast and great.

  The world changed through heated eyes.

  The screams drew close . . .

  The house, it quaked.

  Voices were smothered in ash.

  The house, it is where I remain.

  My bottom lip shook, so I clamped my teeth over it and went back to my seat without looking up. Lauren didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, “Wonderful emotion, Olivia. Thank you for sharing.”

  Typically she would break down the problems in a student’s work. But instead of tearing mine apart, she glanced at her watch and said, “We’ll end on that note.”

  I eyed my watch. We still had ten minutes left in the class, and she had never ended early. Suddenly, I wondered if I’d shared too much. Given too much of myself. I knew the answer when she called my name as everyone else began to leave. I stepped up in front of her, my face as clear as a summer day in Westlake. I refused to show how much the poem affected me. “Yes?”

  She started to say something, then stopped. “Olivia . . . if something’s . . . if you need to speak to someone. There are people I can put you in touch with.”

  I almost laughed. My parents had sought out the best therapists in the country to help me. Somehow, I didn’t think a support group would do the trick. I needed a lot more than support and conversation. I needed a three-step plan or something. I needed Rose Campbell.

  “Thank you,” I replied, because that was what my mother would have me say. “But I’m okay.”

  “I know,” she said. “But being okay isn’t always enough.”

  I lowered my head and briefly closed my eyes. After the few poems I’d turned in already, I shouldn’t be surprised that she was asking me about counseling. My work was riddled with depression and anger. “I’m seeing someone already,” I finally whispered. I couldn’t bring myself to say it any louder. I didn’t want to risk someone in the hall hearing me.

  “Someone?”

  “A therapist.”

  She considered me, her eyes filled with pity. That was the worst part of people knowing that I was from Westlake. They knew what had happened, even if they were unwilling to ask. “Good,” she said with a small smile. “And you’ll let me know if I can do anything to help, right?”

  I nodded to her and started for the door, when she called, “And Olivia?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t stop writing. I know it’s hard, but trust me, it helps.”

  I nodded again and then raced out the door, only to find Taylor leaning against the wall outside the door, one foot propped up against the wall, one on the floor. He wore red-rimmed glasses, a solid gray T-shirt, and dark jeans. It was the most normal look I’d seen on him yet.

  I faked a smile as I started past, but he pushed off the wall and fell in step beside me. “So . . . Ms. Warren. You’re a little dark thing, I see.”

  I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with Lauren. And certainly not with too-pretty Taylor. Why did I read that poem?

  “I suppose we all are at times,” I said.

  “Not really.”

  I sighed and turned toward him. “Did you need something?”

  “Yes, in fact, I do. Lunch. You and I. Let’s discuss your dark side.” I started to walk away, when he reached for my arm, a smooth smile on his face. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t funny. I do want to get lunch, though. Are you free?”

  “No.” I smiled at his hurt expression.

  “Okay, but I know in time you’ll change your mind.”

  “That’s pretty doubtful,” I said, but he continued to grin as he walked away.

  “Who was that?” a gruff voice asked from over my shoulder. I turned to see who had spoken and nearly slammed into Preston.

  I took a step back. “Do you stand that close to everyone? That’s like the third time I’ve nearly knocked you out.” I shook my head, flustered. “That was a friend of mine from class.” I thought the term friend was pushing it, but the description was easier than oh, just some guy who wants to explore my dark side.

  Preston continued to look in Taylor’s direction. “He seems less friend and more like a guy that wants to get in your pants.”

  My eyes snapped up. The statement was true enough, but I didn’t like the idea of Preston thinking I was some idiotic girl who fell for guys like that. “He’s harmless.”

  His eyes settled on me, all grays and blues. They were intoxicating. Like watching a storm brew over the ocean. His emotion overflowed from his eyes. I wondered if he was unable to control it, or if he realized the emotion was there and just didn’t care.

  “No one’s harmless,” he said.

  For a long moment, we stared at one another, trying to find something in the other’s face, and then someone rushed past me, bumping into me with her bag and yanking me out of Preston’s trance. “I have a class.” I motioned to the stairs. “See you around?”

  He nodded, then after a beat, “You could skip.”

  I peered around at him, my eyebrows raised in question.

  “I’m heading out to the water. You could come . . . if you’d like.” His eyes flicked between each of mine, studying me. Waiting.

  I thought of my next class with Dr. Myers. He never took attendance and typically put on some film adaptation of a novel. I felt sure I could get the notes from someone in the class. But none of that was what made me pause. I knew myself, and I knew that despite everything, I was slowly growing attached to Preston. I couldn’t put my finger on why or how it had happened. I liked being around him, how easy it felt, how comforting. He never made me question myself. I was just me, Olive. And that was when I realized what drew me to him. Since this summer, I had separated myself into two people—Olivia, controlled and sure, and Olive, carefree and happy. I’d tucked Olive away, but the more time I spent with Preston, the more I felt her seeping out, peeking at me from a closed closet, begging me to let her be a part of myself again.

  I glanced down at my watch—a giant silver face against my tiny wrist. Class began two minutes ago, and I hated being late. My eyes drifted back to Preston. “Where’s your truck?”

  ***

  I slipped into the passenger seat, ducking under the tips of two rods that stretched from the backse
at to the front. “So where are we headed?”

  Preston started up the truck and grinned over at me. “I thought we’d do a little deep-sea fishing. It’s a little rocky today, but you should be fine.”

  My spine snapped straight. “What?” Suddenly, I questioned Preston’s judgment. A little rocky to him could mean massive waves to me. I’d survived a near-death experience once, and I wasn’t ready to categorize myself with the adventurous sort just yet.

  I opened my mouth to tell him to just take me to Liberty, when he burst out laughing.

  “Seriously. You should see your face. You’d have thought I told you we were going diving with sharks or something.”

  I let my pulse settle down, and glanced over at him. “So no deep water stuff?”

  His smile widened. “No.”

  I relaxed into my seat and turned so I was half facing him, my left leg under my right. “Have you actually scuba dived with sharks?”

  “Oh, yeah, though not by choice. They tend to be drawn by all the blood that comes out into the water when we spearfish. Once, my brother and I decided to go on this night dive. We’d been certified for several years and thought we were badasses. So we dove in, and then along came this jewfish the size of a wall. I’d never once been afraid during a dive, but we ran from that thing like it was going to swallow us whole. I’m smarter about it now. Safer.” He shook his shoulders as though he could feel the presence of the fish even now.

  I watched him as he launched into story after story. Some of dives. Others of deep-sea fishing. Each story was about some horrific thing that happened, some chance encounter or faulty equipment that could have left him dead or stranded. All the while, I waited to hear some cocky remark about how only an expert could survive those experiences, but the arrogance never came. Instead, he spoke of each instance with respect, admitting his fear, as though he bowed to the ocean and its creatures, not the other way around.

  “Does your dad ever go out with you and your brother?”

  Preston’s jaw ticked. “He used to when we were younger. He’s all work now.”