9. Olivia
Olivia
The alarm dragged me from something that couldn't quite be called sleep—more like restless half-consciousness punctuated by every creak the building made. I slapped at my phone until the noise stopped, then lay there staring at the ceiling.
One PM. Game day.
My stomach twisted.
I forced myself upright and reached for my phone before my feet hit the floor. Unlocked it. Checked messages.
Nothing.
No texts from unknown numbers. No missed calls. No voicemails waiting with threats or demands or that voice I'd spent years trying to forget.
The relief came small and cautious—fragile as glass.
I sighed, glad I allowed myself a nap, especially after getting no sleep last night.
I scrolled through again just to be sure. Email. Social media. Every app that could possibly deliver bad news.
Empty.
Maybe he hasn't found me yet.
The thought should've comforted me. Instead, it just wound the anxiety tighter, coiling around my ribs until breathing felt deliberate. Because absence of proof wasn't proof of safety. Just meant the clock was still ticking.
I set the phone down and pulled my knees to my chest, pressing my forehead against them. Counted breaths. Five in, five out. The exercise Marsha taught me when panic attacks used to steal hours from my day.
If nothing happened today, maybe I have a little time to get prepared.
What "prepared" meant, I didn't know. Couldn't think about. Couldn't let myself spiral into planning escape routes and worst-case scenarios before I'd even had coffee.
I had a job. Had to keep it. Had to function like a normal person who wasn't falling apart at the seams.
The shower helped—hot water and steam creating temporary distance from everything outside this tiny bathroom. I stood under the spray longer than I should've, letting the heat soak into muscles that hadn't relaxed since Marsha walked through my door last night.
When I finally emerged, wrapped in a towel that'd seen better days, my phone sat dark and silent on the counter.
Still nothing.
Good.
I dressed quickly—jeans, café T-shirt, hair pulled back tight. Applied concealer under my eyes, even though it didn't quite hide the shadows. Added mascara because maybe if I looked more awake, I'd feel it too.
The reflection in the mirror didn't buy it, but it would have to do.
I grabbed my phone again. Checked one more time. Nothing.
The relief burned through me stronger this time—warm and dangerous because I wanted so badly to believe it meant something. That maybe this wouldn't be as bad as every worst fear screaming through my head insisted. That maybe I had time.
I shoved the phone in my pocket and locked the apartment behind me, testing the door twice before heading down the stairs. Morning air bit cold against my face, sharp enough to ground me.
You can do this.
Work. Focus on work. Smile at customers. Pour coffee. Survive the game-day rush. Don't think about anything else. Don't let anyone see you breaking.
The café buzzed with pre-game energy when I arrived—players filing through, staff prepping stations, the espresso machine hissing like it had opinions about the chaos.
Jenna spotted me first, already moving at her usual double-speed, ponytail swinging as she restocked cups.
"You look like hell."
"Good afternoon to you too." I tied my apron, fumbling the knot twice before getting it right.
She paused long enough to actually look at me, something sharp and assessing flickering across her face. "You okay?"
"Didn't sleep great." The understatement of the century, but close enough to truth that it didn't feel like lying. "First game day nerves."
"Fair." She handed me a cleaning rag. "Wipe down the tables near the window. Ben's on register until the rush hits, then you'll swap."
Ben emerged from the back room carrying a crate of milk cartons, grinning when he saw me. "Hey! Ready for the madness?"
"Define ready."
"Breathing. Conscious. Not actively on fire." He set the crate down and knocked his shoulder gently against mine. "You'll be fine. It's loud and fast, but everyone's too hyped about the game to be difficult."
"Everyone?"
"Okay, like seventy percent." His grin widened. "The other thirty percent are why we keep Jenna up front."
Jenna didn't look up from the register she was counting. "Damn right."
Something in my chest loosened—just a fraction, but enough to matter. Ben's easy warmth. Jenna's no-nonsense steadiness. The familiar routine of wiping tables and straightening chairs and falling into rhythm with people who didn't ask questions I couldn't answer.
Normal. This was normal.
I could hold onto normal for a few hours.
"Olivia." Jenna's voice cut through my thoughts. "You drift off like that during rush and you're dead. Focus."
"Right. Sorry."
Ben shot me a sympathetic look as he headed back for more supplies. "She's scarier before she's had her coffee."
"I heard that."
"You were meant to."
Their banter washed over me as I moved between tables, mechanical and soothing. Wipe, stack, straighten. Breathe. Exist in this moment instead of the hundred terrible futures my brain kept trying to construct.
Just get through today.
One hour at a time.
Don't think about anything else.
The shift ended with a whimper instead of a bang—lunch rush tapering off as players filtered toward the locker rooms and staff disappeared into their pre-game routines.
Jenna waved me off with a distracted "One hour. Don't be late," already pivoting toward inventory counts.
Ben called out something encouraging I didn't quite catch.
Then I stood in the hallway outside the café, apron folded in my bag, one empty hour stretching ahead like a question I didn't want to answer.
Go home? The apartment felt too far, too isolated. Too many locks that wouldn't matter if he decided to kick the door in. Again.
Stay here? Loiter around the stadium like some pathetic groupie with nowhere better to be?
My phone sat heavy in my pocket.
I pulled it out before I could overthink it. Unlocked the screen. Contacts. Mom.
My thumb hovered.
One tap. That was all it would take. Her number right there, unchanged since I was sixteen and still believed she might choose me over him.
Why did you take it back?
The question burned through my chest, acid and fury mixing until I couldn't separate them. She'd testified. Told the truth under oath. Put him behind bars where he belonged.
And then she'd recanted. Undid everything. Erased her own words like they'd never mattered. Like I'd never mattered.
My finger trembled over the call button.
Maybe she'd explain.
Maybe she'd apologize.
Maybe—
No.
Calling her would only give him another way to find me. She'd slip. Mention the stadium, the city, some detail she thought didn't matter. And he'd know.
Or worse—she'd tell him directly. Hand him my location wrapped in apologies and excuses about how she had no choice, how he'd promised to change, how families were supposed to forgive.
The rage choked me.
I locked the phone and shoved it back in my pocket so hard the corner dug into my hip.
She made her choice. I don't owe her anything. Not explanations. Not forgiveness. Not the chance to hurt me again.
The hallway felt too narrow suddenly, walls pressing close. I pushed through the nearest exit into cold air that bit through my jacket.
One hour.
I'd find somewhere public. Visible. Safe.
Somewhere he couldn't reach me even if he was already looking.
The gym appeared three blocks from the stadium—a small storefront wedged between a pawnshop and a laundromat, windows plastered with faded motivational quotes about strength and perseverance.
I almost walked past. Then the poster caught my eye.
SELF-DEFENSE CLASS — BEGINNERS WELCOME
Tuesdays & Thursdays, 6 PM
Something flickered in my chest. Small and fragile, but unmistakable.
Hope.
Or maybe just the desperate wish that I could stop feeling so goddamn helpless.
My feet carried me through the door before my brain caught up.
The interior smelled like disinfectant and rubber mats—harsh fluorescent lights revealing a small space packed with equipment that had seen better decades.
A handful of people worked out in the back corner, their grunts and the clang of weights oddly comforting.
Real. Normal. Safe.
The woman at the front desk looked up, smile immediate and genuine. Early thirties, athletic build, ponytail threaded through a baseball cap.
"Hey! Looking to join?"
"I—" My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "The self-defense class. Is there... do you need experience?"
"Nope! That's why it says beginners welcome." She tapped something on her computer screen. "Instructor's great. Former cop. Really focuses on practical stuff—how to get away, where to hit if you need to. No ego, just survival."
The spark in my chest flared hotter.
I could learn. I could be ready. Next time he comes at me, I wouldn't just freeze—
"How do I sign up?"
"Just need to register for a gym membership." Her fingers flew across the keyboard. "Monthly is ninety-nine, but if you do the annual it drops to seventy a month, plus an enrollment fee—"
The numbers crashed through me like ice water.
Seventy dollars. Every month. For a year.
Plus whatever "enrollment fee" meant.
I did the math automatically, brutal and immediate. That was groceries. Utilities. The buffer between making rent and being evicted.
That was impossible.
"Oh." The word slipped out flat. Dead. "Okay."
Something shifted in her expression—recognition, maybe, or pity. "We do have a discount program if you're a student, or—"
"No. I'm not." I stepped back, face burning. "Thanks anyway."
"Sure thing. If you change your mind—"
I was already out the door.
The cold air hit, sharp enough to sting my eyes. Or maybe that was something else entirely.
Of course you can't afford it. Of course you can't have this one thing that might actually help. Of course.
I walked fast, head down, shoving my hands deep in my pockets so nobody would see them shaking.
Three blocks back to the stadium. Back to work. Back to pretending I had any control over my own life.