13. Olivia
Olivia
I woke late, tangled in sheets that felt too heavy. My alarm had been going off for ten minutes before I registered the sound—shrill and insistent, dragging me out of dreams that left my chest tight and my throat dry.
Nightmares. Again.
I slapped the phone silent and sat up, head pounding. The apartment was too bright—sunlight streaming through the cheap curtains I kept meaning to replace. I checked the time and swore under my breath.
Twenty minutes to catch the bus. My beat-up Honda barely made it back last night, and there was no way I was risking driving it to work. Not until I could get it fixed.
If I could.
My body moved on autopilot—stumbling to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, yanking my hair into a messy ponytail. The mirror showed dark circles under my eyes and skin too pale, but I didn't have time to care.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand. No missed calls. No texts from unknown numbers. No voicemails.
Relief flickered through me, fragile and unconvincing. Marsha's warning still echoed in the back of my mind, heavy and inescapable. Your father is being released.
But nothing had happened. Not yesterday. Not last night. Not this morning.
Maybe I had time. She had said the process could take three weeks. Maybe he didn't know where I was. Maybe—
I shoved the thoughts down and grabbed my bag.
The hallway outside my apartment was quiet. Normal. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting everything in that flat, clinical glow I'd gotten used to. I locked the door twice—habit now—and headed for the stairs.
Outside, the morning air hit me cool and sharp. I pulled my jacket tighter and scanned the parking lot.
And stopped.
Something felt wrong.
The trash can near the dumpster had been tipped over, garbage spilling across the asphalt in a dark, wet stain. That wasn't unusual—raccoons, maybe—but the lid sat upright against the wall like someone had moved it deliberately.
My stomach tightened.
I forced myself to keep walking. Told myself I was being paranoid. Told myself it meant nothing.
But then I saw the car. Dark sedan. Unfamiliar. Idling near the complex entrance with the engine running, exhaust curling into the cold air. Tinted windows. No one visible inside.
A cold ripple crawled down my spine.
I slowed. Glanced at it from the corner of my eye. Tried to look casual, like I hadn't noticed.
The car didn't move.
My pulse kicked up, loud in my ears. My breathing quickened despite my efforts to stay calm.
You're imagining it.
You're overreacting.
It's just someone waiting for a friend.
But my hands trembled as I adjusted my bag strap. My feet wanted to stop. Turn around. Go back inside and lock the door and call—
Call who?
Marsha? The police? And say what—that a car was parked near my building?
I forced myself forward. One step. Another. The bus stop was two blocks away. Two blocks in open daylight on a street where people walked dogs and joggers passed by and nothing bad could happen because it was morning and I was fine.
The car stayed where it was.
I didn't look back.
By the time I reached the corner, my chest hurt from holding my breath. I exhaled shakily and glanced over my shoulder.
The sedan was gone.
Relief flooded through me so fast it left me dizzy. I leaned against the bus stop sign and pressed a hand to my ribs, willing my heart to slow.
You're fine.
You're safe.
You're overreacting.
But the cold feeling in my spine didn't fade.
And when the bus pulled up, I couldn't shake the sense that someone had been watching me leave.
The bus dropped me a block from the rink, and I walked fast, shoulders tight, head down. Every sound behind me made my neck twitch, but nothing followed. By the time the arena doors slid open, I’d forced my expression blank. The familiar rush of cold air helped steady me.
I slipped through the hallways, ignoring the echo of skates scraping the ice somewhere deep in the building. The café lights were already on. Jenna moved behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine.
The café smelled like burned espresso and sugar when I pushed through the door. Normal. Familiar. Safe.
She glanced up from the register, ponytail swinging. "You're early."
"Couldn't sleep." The lie came easy. I shrugged out of my jacket and hung it on the hook by the storage room.
"Join the club." She tossed me an apron. "Ben called in sick, so it's just us until noon."
Great. Fewer distractions meant more time to spiral. I tied the apron tight and moved behind the counter, focusing on the routine. Fill the cups. Check the syrups. Wipe down the espresso machine.
The coffee machine clanked—loud, metallic—and I flinched hard enough to knock my elbow against the counter.
Jenna paused mid-count on the register. "Easy."
"Sorry." I rubbed my arm and forced a smile I didn't feel. "Still waking up."
She studied me for half a second too long, then went back to counting bills. "You look like hell."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. You okay?"
"Fine." The word came out sharper than I meant. I softened it with a shrug. "Just tired."
The door slammed open behind us—Maddox, all swagger and noise, laughing at something another player said. His voice boomed across the café, too loud, too sudden.
My shoulders jerked up. Heart hammering. Hands trembling against the counter. I gripped the edge of the sink and forced myself to breathe.
It's just noise.
You're fine.
But the cold weight in my chest wouldn't lift.
"Liv?"
I turned. Ben stood in the doorway, jacket half-zipped, keys dangling from one hand. Not sick after all.
"Thought you called in," Jenna said.
"Changed my mind." He crossed to the counter and dropped his bag, then looked at me. Really looked. "You good?"
"Yeah." I nodded too fast. "Didn't sleep much."
His expression didn't shift—concern lingering in the soft furrow of his brow. "You sure?"
"I'm fine. Promise." I turned away before he could press, busying myself with straightening cups that didn't need straightening.
I couldn't tell him. Couldn't tell Jenna. Couldn't burden them with the truth—that I'd woken up terrified, that a parked car had sent me into a spiral, that every loud noise made me want to run.
They didn't need that. Didn't deserve it. So I shoved the fear down deep and focused on the work. One order at a time. One breath at a time. One moment closer to making it through the day without falling apart.
The morning rush thinned out around ten, leaving the café in relative quiet. Ben wiped down the counter beside me, humming something off-key under his breath.
"You know," he said, grin tugging at his mouth, "last game night, I thought Jenna was gonna strangle that guy who kept asking for extra foam."
I snorted. "He asked four times."
"Four. Times." Ben shook his head, exaggerated disbelief painting his features. "And you kept apologizing like it was your fault he couldn't make up his mind."
"I was trying to be polite."
"You were too polite. Guy was a nightmare." He nudged my shoulder with his. "Next time, just tell him the foam costs extra. Watch how fast he decides."
A laugh bubbled up before I could stop it—genuine, startled, lighter than anything I'd felt all morning. My shoulders dropped an inch. The cold knot in my chest loosened just enough to let me breathe easier.
Ben's grin widened. "There we go. I was starting to think you forgot how."
"Forgot what?"
"How to smile."
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't fight the warmth spreading through me. Normal. This felt normal. Like I was just a girl working a café job, bantering with a coworker, not someone checking over her shoulder every five minutes.
Ben leaned against the counter, close enough that our shoulders brushed. Casual. Easy. "So what're you doing after your shift?"
The question caught me off guard. I glanced up at him, searching his expression for something I couldn't name. Not pushy. Just… interested.
Heat crept up my neck. "I don't know. Probably go home. Sleep."
"Exciting." He tilted his head, brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "You ever take a day off and actually do something?"
"I do things."
"Like what?"
"Like…" I trailed off, realizing I didn't have an answer. My life had become work, sleep, survive. Repeat. Nothing else.
Ben's expression softened. "You should come grab food with me sometime. There's this taco place down the street that's criminally underrated."
"Tacos?" I raised an eyebrow, teasing before I realized I was doing it. "That's your big pitch?"
"Hey, don't knock it. Best al pastor in the city." He crossed his arms, mock-offended. "But if you're too good for tacos—"
"I didn't say that." I nudged him with my elbow, surprising myself. "Maybe I like tacos."
"Maybe?"
"Okay, fine. I definitely like tacos."
His grin returned, bright and easy. "Good. Then it's settled."
I opened my mouth to respond, but the espresso machine hissed behind me—loud, sudden. I flinched and turned too fast, hand slipping on the counter edge.
Ben caught my arm before I stumbled. "Whoa, easy."
His hand was warm. Steady. I froze, hyper-aware of the contact, the closeness, the way my pulse kicked up for an entirely different reason than fear.
"Sorry," I muttered, pulling back. Heat flooded my cheeks. "I'm—"
"Clumsy?" Ben offered, smirking.
"Tired." I swatted his arm lightly, trying to cover the fluster crawling up my spine. "And you're annoying."
"Part of my charm."
I bent down to grab a fallen napkin from the floor, glad for the excuse to hide my face. My heart still hammered, but the panic had shifted into something lighter. Something almost… nice.
Ben crouched beside me, handing me another napkin that had scattered under the counter. Our fingers brushed.
I jerked back instinctively, then felt ridiculous for it. He didn't seem to notice—or if he did; he didn't comment. Just straightened and tossed the napkin in the trash, easy as breathing.
"You're jumpy today," he said, softer now. Concerned.
"Just didn't sleep well." The lie tasted bitter, but I forced a smile, anyway. "I'll be fine."