"Yeah? And how did taking care of yourself work out for you at your last school?"
My whole body tightens like it's imploding. It makes me hate myself, the decisions I sometimes make and how stupid and unjustifiable they are. And I hate him even more for calling me on them. "You've made your point. Are we done here?"
"Olivia, you're going to do what you're going to do. But I'd better not hear another 'Olivia was so fucked up' story for the rest of your tenure here."
I stand and walk out without saying a word because, just like the nightmares, there's not a chance in the world I can make him a promise like that.
For the rest of the week, Will is unreasonably rude to me. He's angry and critical and doesn't smile at me once. I think he'd like me to just disappear.
The whole thing is ridiculous. Okay, maybe I sort of enjoyed their idiocy at the party. That doesn't make me evil. How was I supposed to know one of them would wind up with a broken hand?
On Friday morning, I'm eating when a tray slides next to mine. For one horrible moment, I worry that it's Landon or Jason. But it's not. It's Evan, which is almost worse. Sure, he was nice about everything that night but it's awkward. I'm embarrassed by the way I freaked out if nothing else.
"I've been looking for you," he says.
"Why?" I ask coldly.
He grins, not dissuaded at all by my chilly reception. He's really hot. I thought maybe my memory was beer-influenced, but it wasn't. His black hair is cut almost military short, highlighting the structure of his face-hard jaw, nice mouth, mischievous eyes. "You're much nicer when you've had a bunch of beer."
"Everyone is nicer when they've had a bunch of beer," I retort, returning to my newspaper. "What do you want?"
"I want to take you out," he says.
"We tried that already, remember?"
"That wasn't taking you out. That was hooking up."
"Let's cut to the chase," I say bluntly, lifting my head. "You seem like a nice enough guy, but the truth of the matter is that you're only here because you're hoping if you buy me dinner I'll sleep with you."
"That is not even vaguely close to the truth," he says, and I have to admit he looks a little offended. "How about this: go out with me, on a real date, and I won't even try to kiss you at the end of it."
"What would you get out of it?" I ask.
"Finn, you're the hottest girl on this campus. Hell, you've got to be the hottest girl in the state for that matter. And you're pretty fun when you're not telling me to fuck off. That's what I'd get out of it."
"I don't really date."
"Why not?"
"It's just not my thing."
"You don't like food?" he asks. "You don't like movies? Going to see a band?"
I shrug. "I suppose."
"So are you saying that you're positive you'd have less fun doing them with me than you would doing them alone? Like tomorrow night, for instance, would you have more fun making ramen noodles in your apartment and watching Project Runway than you would going to a restaurant with me?"
"I don't watch Project Runway."
He laughs. "You're avoiding the question."
I almost smile. "I'll have to think about it."
He starts eating. "You think. I'm just gonna eat my breakfast."
"I didn't mean I was going to think about it now," I argue. "It's not a snap decision."
"Well, I'm still going to eat here. So just pretend I'm your buddy. Your super-hot buddy who you secretly want to date."
///
I allow myself a small laugh. I'm not going out with him. I'm not. But I can't say it's the worst offer I've ever heard.
31
Will
I was out of line. My anger, my reaction …
It was entirely wrong.
I know this because I've forced myself to imagine it, and if it were Betsy or Hannah or any other girl on the team who got drunk and caused a fight, and I know my reaction wouldn't have been the same. I know I'd have put the blame squarely where it lies: with the two idiots who fought. But it wasn't Betsy or Hannah, it was Olivia, who seems to do something to me that no one else does. The part that angered me most didn't involve the fight. It involved her leaving with someone.
I know I need to pull back, and I spend the rest of the week doing just that. I don't speak to her unless I have to. I don't even look at her unless I have to. Maybe I'm doing her a disservice as her coach, by not spending the same amount of time on her. But I'm doing her a greater disservice by getting invested in the wrong way.
By the next week, however, she makes sure I can't ignore her anymore.
On Tuesday afternoon, I can tell she's off. She gets through four 800s but there's something distant in her face, fading. She was tired at this morning's workout too. There's a look on her face on days like this, days when she's pushed herself beyond what her body is willing to provide, and it's there now. Grim determination, the face of someone who would rather die than give up.
At the end of the fifth 800, I can no longer stand to watch. I call out to her, she turns toward me, and I know by the panicked look in her eyes as they meet mine and the way the color has left her face that she's going to pass out. I'm sprinting toward her before she's even begun to fall.
She collapses right where she stands. I was worried the last time this happened, but now it's a different sort of thing, bordering on panic. I know she's only fainted, but a million other possibilities run through my head anyway. The whole team is hovering around her when she finally opens her eyes.
"Olivia, do you know where you are?"
"Yes," she groans.
"Who's the current President?"
"Justin Bieber," she replies. Her eyes close. "I'm fine. Let me up."
I put Betsy in charge and take Olivia to my office so I can clean off her cuts.
"You're having a bad week," I tell her as I tape off her knee.
"No shit."
"I guess the question I really want to ask is why are you having a bad week? Are you stressed about the meet?"
She sighs, staring out the window over my shoulder. "Everyone assumes I'll take first now."
I'd like to tell her she's wrong, but she's not. Olivia's accomplishments are no longer a surprise, a thrill. They're expected, and as hostile as she tends to be, I know that she doesn't like disappointing people.
"Is that it? Or are you worried because you won't be at my mom's?" Our next meet is too far for a day trip, which means that we'll be in a hotel the night before, away from the safety of my mother's house.
She sighs. "A little."
It's a lot.
Everything about her posture is tense as she answers as if she's trying to compress the truth inside herself.
"What normally happens when you're in a hotel? You must have dealt with this before."
"I try not to fall asleep."
No wonder her performance has been so hit or miss through college. "How do you do that if the lights are off and you've got someone in the bed next to yours?"
A flush ghosts her cheekbones, which surprises me. I didn't think she was capable of being embarrassed. "I usually tell whoever I'm rooming with that I'm sneaking out."
My next question sounds angrier than it should. "To do what?"
"To go serve food to the homeless," she snaps. "What do you think? I let them think I'm staying with one of the guys."
"And do you?"
"What good would that do? You think I'm any less likely to run from a guy's room than I am from my own?"
A tightness I wasn't even aware of seems to release in that moment, just a little. "So what do you do?"
"I go outside and walk to keep myself awake. If I can find a place that's open all night, I'll go there and hang out. When I start to fall asleep, I start walking again."
"Olivia, walking all night and staying up all night aren't much better before a meet than a six-mile run."
"Yeah, I know that. But they are better than being brought back by the cops or missing the meet entirely because I'm lost, or having my roommate watch me tear screaming out of the room in the middle of the night."
///
"Well you can't do that this weekend."
"So what's your grand plan, Will?" she scoffs. "You gonna tie me to the bed? Because I'll warn you in advance I really, really like that."
Thank God I'm sitting behind a desk right now because there's definitely a part of me that reacts to that as if I'm not her coach and she's not off limits.
"No," I say, closing my eyes and trying to push the image from my brain. "Better. You're going to room with my mom."