Waking Olivia(6)

The guys' team is waiting when we wrap up the next morning. I know who  Brofton is immediately because he's the kind of good-looking that is  universally appealing to everyone. Dark hair, knowing eyes, a little  smirk on his face like he's imagining you naked. You might have a  particular type, but Dan Brofton is cute enough to be everyone's type.  And yet …

I begrudgingly admit that he's still not as hot as Will.

He saunters over to me. The cocky ones always saunter. "You must be the D1 girl."

"Wow," I deadpan. "Your psychic powers are top-notch."

"Fine." He grins, irritatingly unfazed by my bitchiness. "So we've actually heard all about you."

"And what exactly did you hear?"

"That you put Mark Bell in the hospital."

"I hope that means you're all scared of me now."

"You don't look so scary." He smiles. "And I've met Mark a few times. He  ran in my division in high school, and I know for a fact that he's a  world-class prick, so I'm gonna guess he had it coming."

He definitely had it coming.





9





Will



I am on the south face of Denali. It's not necessarily the hardest  climb, just steep as shit. The guys we're leading are already tired,  which doesn't bode well since we've got at least three more hours before  we hit the next camp.

"You got this?" I ask one of them. His name is Bob. He's from Beaufort,  South Carolina, which sits below sea level, and this is his first major  climb. Not sure Denali should be anyone's first major climb, but I don't  choose our clients.

His mouth is pulling inward, stretched tight. He nods.

I asked. It's all I can do.

I look at the summit and the sun warms my face. It's cold as hell, cold  enough that it's stripped everything inside of me. Any lingering  uncertainty. Even the anger.

My father was wrong. He said mountain climbing was a hobby, not a  profession, and that one day I'd be home with my tail between my legs.  He was wrong, and I know it as I stand here. I know there's nothing else  in the world I'm supposed to be doing. I know that even if this climb  is my last-and no serious climber ever goes up without at least  acknowledging the possibility-it was worth it. I'd rather have had two  good years with the sun on my face and the summit hovering above than a  lifetime of working on the farm. Climbs like this are the only time, for  as far back as I can recall, that I don't feel as if something is  missing.



I wake. I'm not at high camp or base camp. I know that the only climbs  in my future are the ones I wedge into days and weekends that are  already too full. I'll probably never summit Everest or Annapurna or any  of the other ones on my bucket list. I'm going to live and die toiling  on that farm, just like my dad did.

The only difference is that he had a choice.

There were things about climbing that sucked, that would have bothered  me over time. It's hard to have a relationship when you're gone months  at a time. I'd eventually have wanted kids, and it would have been hard  to leave. But I was 24. I didn't want commitment-I wanted convenience.  And I had it. Sometimes I think if it had just been a little less  perfect this wouldn't be as hard for me as it is right now.

There isn't a single afternoon, when practice is done, that a tiny voice  doesn't suggest I go climbing. I hear it today, but I don't go. I never  go. The sprayer's coming to do one last application of weed killer  tomorrow and I've got to make sure the fields are ready first.  Otherwise, I'll spend the next goddamn month fixing ruts he's put out  there.                       
       
           


///
       

But the voice is still there, even as I head to the farm on the way  home. You've got four hours of light left, it says. You couldn't do  much, but your gear is already in the car. You deserve just one.

Sometimes I feel like an addict, except the only person my climbing ever  hurt was my father. I'm sure as shit making amends for it now.





10





Olivia



School begins.

Between that and practice, I don't fall asleep at night. I collapse. Which is ideal. Exhaustion tends to keep the dreams at bay.

I have fresh legs every day, not that Will is any less displeased. I'm  running well, but he only seems to find fault. I am, by far, the fastest  girl on the team, but every day he stands there looking for things to  criticize, bitching about my turn-over rate and stride length, or making  me stay after everyone else to run next to a metronome for Christ's  sake. I'm doing every fucking thing he asks and he's still treating me  like a burden, a charity case he's been forced to take on.

"Good job," he says to Erin and Betsy at the end of practice. I approach  and his smile fades. "Your kick was off on the last lap."

"Well, I came in ahead of everyone else," I snap, "so maybe the rest of the team's kick was off too."

There's a small muscle at the corner of his jaw that pops when he's mad.  That muscle and I are practically family I know it so well.

"If you're not interested in improving," he says, "then stop taking up a  spot that could be used by someone who is." Even now, in the midst of  his anger, I can't stop noticing things about him. His eyes are the  brightest blue, like a postcard of the Caribbean. Especially when he's  mad.

"Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you? I'm apparently the only person on this team who needs constant correction."

"Has it ever occurred to you that I ask more of you because I think  you're capable of more?" he demands. "The rest of those girls are giving  me everything they have, but you are not. Do you want me to just let  you plod along and get through college having never taken first when you  know you have the potential to?"

For the first time ever, I don't feel anger in response to his words but  an inexplicable urge to cry. I prefer anger. I don't know what to do  with this other feeling. "I'm going to shower now," I say, my voice  slightly hoarse. He nods, looking unhappy and puzzled at the same time.  Possibly even concerned.

I don't want his concern.

God knows it won't last.



On Thursday, Hannah brings this massive box of stuff that her mother has  sent, full of homemade cookies and peanut brittle and even rolls of  quarters for the laundry.

"Ugh, snickerdoodles," says Hannah, throwing the bag into the center of  the table. "I'm already sick of snickerdoodles and school's only just  begun."

"At least your mom sends you homemade stuff. My mom just sent me a bag  of Oreos," laughs Nicole. "Like I couldn't go to the store and buy my  own Oreos."

Hannah passes me the bag and I hand it on to Erin as if it's toxic, my stomach tight and my throat dry.

"Oh my God, Finn, live a little," gripes Erin. She takes a cookie from  the bag and pushes it toward my mouth, but I avert my head.

"I don't like snickerdoodles," I tell her. It's a lie. What I don't want  is the queasy feeling this whole thing causes in my stomach. This  tangible reminder that this is what other people have  –  a family who  cares that they are gone.

"Saw Will's girlfriend heading to his office just before we left,"  smirks Nicole. "Looks like someone's getting a little a.m. wake-up  call."

"Not necessarily," counters Erin. "She works for the university. Maybe they're just meeting for breakfast. Is she hot?"

Nicole rolls her eyes. "She's dating Will. What do you think?"

What I think is that any girl who would date Will must have a big bag of  stupid lodged in the area meant for white matter. I don't care how hot  he is. Nothing is worth dealing with his bullshit.





11





Will



For some reason, after a relatively mild Colorado summer, it turns  blazing hot on Wednesday. The girls were dragging this morning and, by  afternoon, I'm not sure this practice can be technically classified as  speedwork.

As soon as I get out of here, I've got to mow the perimeter of the  fields and spray the area between our farm and our neighbor's, which the  sprayer didn't hit last week. I've got to start getting the grain bins  ready, manually moving the last of it down since they're too light for  gravity to do the job for me anymore. I've got 15 things to do, and not a  single one I want to do, so I'm already on edge.                       
       
           


///
       

I find the appearance of the men's track team more annoying than normal.  Under the best of circumstances, I find them grating. We're only one  week into sharing the track and I've already had it with the way they  gawk at Olivia like she's a Playboy centerfold. The damn football team  now has a song they sing when she passes. It's insane.

If I were being reasonable, I'd say I couldn't blame them. Olivia isn't  just beautiful. Something compels you to look at her even when you don't  want to, like Medusa. The difference is that I realize Olivia could  probably turn you to stone with her withering glare, while the rest of  these idiots are completely blind to it.