Page 60 of Waking Olivia

Her words are a trap. If I agree, I open a whole new universe of insecurity. But denying it is pointless. You’d have to be blind not to notice Olivia. Increasingly, of late, it seems I’m incapable of noticing anything else.

“I guess.”

“So you were hanging out with her last night?”

“Jess,” I groan. “Don’t make this weird. She’s just one of my athletes.”

“Shedoesn’t seem to know that.”

“Believe me, Olivia is well aware of the fact that she’s one of my athletes. I’ve never been fought so hard by someone in my life.”

“That’s not what I mean, Will. She acts like...” she trails off, her frustration mounting.

“Like what?”

“Never mind. I just don’t see why she has to stay with your mom.”

“She just found out her brother wasmurdered, Jessica,” I say, hearing an edge slip into my voice. “Do you really want to begrudge her having people around while she deals with it?”

“No, but the people don’t have to be you and your mom.”

“She’s only been here for two months. She doesn’t know anyone else.”

“Well, I don’t think she should be staying with your mother anymore.”

I feel my temper inching up, and I do my best to keep my tone stable. “And why is that?”

“Because it looks bad. I work in public relations, and I’m telling you right now thatno oneis going to believe you’re hanging out with a girl who looks likethatout of the kindness of your heart.”

“I don’t give a shit what anyone believes,” I snap. “She has the ability to be a world-class runner, and she’s leading our women’s track team to its first winning season in a decade. If staying with my mom makes the difference, she’s staying with my mom.”

“As long as that’s all she is to you.”

I agree because it should be true. Because it needs to be true. There’s no other option.

Iget backto my mother’s around 11. Jessica was clearly unhappy that I wasn’t staying, but her lack of sympathy for Olivia left me not really giving a shit.

I’m just dozing off when I hear a noise from Olivia’s room. She’s flailing in the sheets, saying something over and over. I approach quietly as she grows more agitated.

“Stop crying,” she pleads in a whisper.

I sit on the bed. “Olivia,” I tell her, running my hand over her back as if she were a child, “it’s okay. You’re okay.”

She grabs my arm and her eyes fly open. “Stop crying,” she begs. “You’ve got to stop.”

“Olivia, you’re dreaming. It’s okay.”

“Please stop crying,” she says and then she begins to weep, a small, childlike noise that is hard to listen to.

I pull her to my chest. “It’s okay, Olivia. I promise. It’s okay.”

“Don’t cry,” she says, over and over. “Don’t cry.”

When she finally falls back asleep and I emerge from her room, my mother is waiting with her head in her hands.

“You heard that?” I ask, and she nods.

“What on earth happened to that girl and her brother?” she asks.

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