Page 27 of Waking Olivia

“No, I'm calling about her granddaughter."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we have instructions to only pass calls through to Miss Anya from family.”

I grip the phone tight, trying hard to rein in my impatience. “Look, this is kind of important. I need to get in touch with someone and she’s the only contact number we have.”

“I doubt she’d be much help anyway,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“Alzheimer's,” she whispers. “I’m not supposed to tell you that, but hers is pretty advanced. She doesn’t remember anybody these days.”

“How long has she been with you?" Somehow I know before I’ve even asked the question that the answer will only make things worse.

"Well, I'm not supposed to release that kind of information either," she says, and then her voice drops to a whisper again. "But it's been a little over four years."

Olivia wasn't even out of high school yet. So who was raising her all those years? And where are her parents?

I’m distractedthrough dinner at Jessica’s that night. The minute I think I’m beginning to grasp what Olivia’s been through, it just gets worse.

"What kind of work did you have to do last night anyway?" Jessica asks, pulling my attention back to her.

My intentions were completely innocent with Olivia. And had it all stayed that way I'd probably tell Jessica the truth.

Except that it hadn’t.

Because something changed in me when I caught her last night. And then it changed again, in a far more dangerous way, this morning. When I saw her asleep in my bed, her back bare, her breathing even, her hair spread over the pillow…

I’ve tried a hundred times to block the image. And the one that followed, when she sat up and the sheet slid to her waist.

I can’t.

It’s pretty much all I’ve thought about all day, despite my best efforts. It’s left me feeling as if a small crack has formed, a fault line, one that could grow into something unmanageable.

It’s the first time in the year we’ve dated that I tell Jessica a lie.

22

Olivia

Irunhard for him the next day.

I follow his every command to the letter. In the end, when he has not a single criticism to offer, I feign shock.

“Wow. Nothing shitty to say? Does that mean you were actuallypleased?”

“You know you did well,” he says. “Don’t fish for compliments.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the only way to get them out of you,” I gripe.

“Try running like that in the meet and the compliments will flow freely.”

My mouth goes into a hard line. "Awesome. So basically, as soon as I’m able to stop doing something in my sleep I don’t even know I’m doing,that’swhen you’ll be pleased.”

He sighs, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. I know his moods now, his tells. He does this when he's frustrated, and when he's about to face something he doesn't want to face.

"Go shower and come to my office."

I can't imagine what he thinks a talk in his office will accomplish. He's probably going to send me back to that idiotic counselor, who will send me off with some stupid fucking homework. Last time, I was supposed to list things that make me happy. "Like bubble baths," she’d said. "Doesn't a nice bubble bath make you happy?" I told her a bubble bath would make me feel like I was wasting valuable time, which still makes me laugh although she didn’t seem to appreciate that much.

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