Page 54 of Waking Olivia

I grab the key she keeps hidden under the planter and let myself in but come to a quick stop just inside the door.

The room is empty.

No couch, no table, no pictures, not so much as a cup on the counter. If I hadn’t seen her enter and exit this apartment on multiple occasions, I’d assume I was in the wrong place entirely. I knew she was hiding something, or someone, that time I came here to talk to her, but I never dreamed she was hiding this.

In the bedroom, I find evidence of her, but that’s only more unsettling. Her clothes still sit in a suitcase that’s open on the floor. She has a laptop but no books, no desk, no lamp and no bed, just a sleeping bag on the floor. I’ve had times in my life when I considered myself broke, but it was never like this.

She’sawake when I get back, sitting on my mother’s couch still wrapped in the quilt, and her face hardens when she sees her suitcase.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were living like that?” I ask her.

She doesn’t meet my eye. “It’s fine.”

“I could have helped you, though. I mean, it’s insane that you’ve lived like that for over two months.”

She opens her mouth and closes it again. “I’m not a charity case. I have what I need,” she finally says.

My mother comes out of the kitchen, where she’s been baking, her go-to in times of stress. She sets a plate of cookies in front of us. “You know what you should do?” she says briskly. “Take Olivia out climbing.”

“She doesn’t climb.”

“Then teach her. It’s always helped you when things aren’t going well.”

I glance tentatively at Olivia. “I’m sure she doesn’t feel like climbing.”

To my surprise, Olivia stands and casts off the blanket. “Actually, I sort of do.”

Under any other circumstance, I’d refuse. I consider that part of my life over. But I don’t seem able to refuse Olivia anything under the best of circumstances, so I’m certainly not going to today.

38

Olivia

We’re standingat the base of a massive rock.

It looks close to impossible to climb. It’s not smooth like glass, but it’s not exactly laid out like a climbing wall either.

“I can’t climb that,” I tell him definitively.

“Yeah, you can,” he says. “You’ll be wearing a harness. I’m not going to let you get hurt.” It seems like the kind of thing he can’t promise, but I believe him anyway.

He leaps onto the rock without any kind of rope whatsoever. “It’s easy,” he says. “Seriously, watch.”

He scrambles up and across the rock effortlessly, his body twisting and shifting as if this is a dance he’s practiced a thousand times. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Every muscle in his body straining and delineated, his attention focused entirely on the movement.

“You just have to shift your weight,” he calls. “And if you twist into it like I am, it won’t require as much upper body strength.”

He hops down and has me slip into a harness, carefully knotting ropes, checking and rechecking both mine and his own. He climbs up again, and affixes something into the rock, and slides the rope through it. When he’s finally satisfied, he slides back down with amazing agility.

“Ready?” he grins. His face is bright, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite like this. He’s happy, but it’s more than that. It’s as if he is 100 percent here, invested.

“I guess,” I reply doubtfully.

I set my feet in the most obvious place and look desperately for something to grab hold of before jumping back to the ground. “You were fine until you panicked about your hands,” he says. This time, I climb back on the same footholds and he places a hand against my lower back to keep me there. “Do you feel that?” he asks. “If you balance on your feet and lean in, you don’t even need your hands.”

No.

What I actually feel is his hand. Its heat and its breadth spanning my lower back, making it hard to breathe much less find some elusive foothold or balance. I fumble with my hands until I find something to cling to, and then he has me practice moving across the rock. I’m a graceless, slow-motion version of his earlier display.

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