Page 13 of Waking Olivia

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.

12

Olivia

That scaron 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.

Iwake 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?"

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