17. Olivia
Olivia
I woke up alone.
The other side of the bed was cold. Empty. Like he'd never been there at all.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, stomach sinking with every breath. The apartment felt smaller than usual. Quieter. The kind of quiet that pressed against my eardrums until they ached.
My body hurt in unfamiliar places. A dull throb between my legs. Tenderness in my hips where his fingers had gripped too tight. Proof that last night had been real. That I hadn't imagined the way he'd touched me. The way he'd looked at me like I mattered.
The way he'd left, anyway.
Shame crawled up my throat. Hot and acidic. I squeezed my eyes shut against it, but that only made it worse. Made the memories sharper. The desperate way I'd kissed him. The pleading in my voice when I'd asked him not to let go.
God, I'd begged him.
And he'd still walked away.
Confusion tangled with something deeper.
Something that felt dangerously close to longing.
I wanted to be angry. Wanted to hate him for leaving.
But I couldn't. Because part of me had known this would happen.
Part of me had watched him pull away even while he was inside me.
Had seen the guilt written across his face.
The way his jaw locked when he looked at the blood on the sheets.
I'd seen it. And I'd ignored it.
That was on me.
He regrets it. I knew he would.
The thought settled in my chest like a stone. Heavy. Final.
I forced myself to sit up. Every muscle protested. I felt raw. Exposed. Like I'd peeled back layers I couldn't put back in place.
My phone sat on the nightstand. No messages. No missed calls.
Nothing.
I pushed off the bed. Stood on shaking legs. Caught sight of myself in the small mirror hanging by the bathroom door.
Messy hair. Dark circles under my eyes. A faint bruise forming on my collarbone where his mouth had been.
I looked away.
I needed to work. Needed to move. Needed to do something other than stand here replaying every second of last night. Needed to stop waiting for him to come back.
Because he wouldn't.
The café smelled like burnt espresso and bleach. Normal. Grounding. I pushed through the door half-expecting him to be there. Waiting. Ready to tell me I was fired. That last night had been a mistake he planned to erase with distance and silence.
The space was empty except for Jenna behind the counter, restocking cups.
Relief and disappointment crashed through me in equal measure.
Jenna glanced up. Her gaze swept over me once—quick, assessing. "You look like hell."
"Thanks." I dropped my bag behind the counter. Tied my apron with fingers that trembled slightly. "Didn't sleep much."
"Everything okay?"
The question landed soft. Careful. Like she already suspected the answer.
"Fine," I lied.
She didn't push. Just handed me a rag and nodded toward the tables. "Wipe those down before the morning rush."
I took it gratefully. Work meant not thinking. Work meant routine. Work meant I could pretend my chest didn't ache every time the door opened and it wasn't him.
Ben showed up twenty minutes later, all sunshine energy and easy smiles. "Morning, Liv. You ready for another day in paradise?"
The nickname jarred me. Too casual. Too friendly. But I forced a smile anyway because Ben was normal. Ben was safe. Ben didn't touch me like I was fragile and then disappear before dawn.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
He laughed, oblivious, and launched into some story about his roommate setting off the smoke alarm making toast. I half-listened.
Nodded in the right places. Let his voice fill the space where my thoughts kept circling back to Rhys.
To the way he'd looked at me afterward. Gutted.
Like he'd done something unforgivable. To the way he'd left without saying goodbye.
The register beeped. A customer ordered. I made change on autopilot.
Ben nudged my shoulder. "You sure you're okay? You seem distant."
"Just tired."
"Late night?"
My throat tightened. "Something like that."
He accepted it. Moved on. Started organizing the pastry case with the same easy energy he brought to everything.
I envied that. The lightness. The way he moved through the world without carrying weight he couldn't name.
The morning crawled forward. Players filtered through. Coaches grabbed coffee. Staff picked up breakfast sandwiches. The noise built and ebbed like a tide.
Rhys never appeared.
Every time the door opened, my pulse spiked. Every footstep in the hallway made my breath catch. But he stayed away. Invisible. Absent.
Good.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
If he wants me gone, he can fire me. I'm not quitting.
The thought settled in my chest. Hardened into something stubborn. Something I could hold onto when everything else felt unstable.
I needed this job. Needed the paycheck. Needed the routine that kept me from spiraling back into the fear Marsha's warning had planted.
Rhys didn't get to decide everything. Didn't get to sleep with me and then dictate my life from a distance.
He didn't control me. Nobody did. Not anymore.
But even as the resolve formed, solid and defiant, part of me kept glancing toward the hallway. Kept hoping he'd walk through that door. Kept waiting for him to prove me wrong.
The hours dragged. Each one heavier than the last.
I heard him before I saw him—those familiar footsteps in the hallway. Measured. Purposeful. My chest seized. I looked up from the register, pulse hammering, and caught his profile rounding the corner.
Our eyes met for half a second.
He stopped.
Then turned around and walked the other direction.
The rejection hit like a physical blow. My hands shook as I finished counting change for a customer I didn't remember taking an order from. Ben said something. I nodded without hearing it. Pressed my palms flat against the counter until my nails dug into the laminate.
He can't even look at me.
The thought burned. Humiliating. Confirmation of every fear that had crawled through my mind since waking up alone.
I was a mistake he wanted to erase.
During the team break, Coach Barrett came to the counter instead. Ordered three black coffees and a sandwich. His presence felt wrong. Too polite. Too deliberate.
I overheard him talking to Ben about coming in here to order for the coaching staff.
It shouldn't matter, but it did.
It mattered that Rhys couldn't face me. That he'd sent someone else. That he was close enough to need coffee but couldn't bring himself to walk the twenty feet to get it himself.
"You hear that?" Ben asked. "Coach Barrett's slumming it up with us today."
"Lucky him." My voice came out flat. Dead. "Anything else?"
Barrett studied me for a beat too long. Something shifted in his expression—pity, maybe. Or understanding. "That's it. Thanks, kid."
I wasn't a kid.
I was just stupid enough to sleep with a man who regretted me before morning.
His voice drifted through the open office door sometime after lunch. Low. Clipped. Giving instructions to someone about defensive positioning.
My hands fumbled the cup I was stacking. It clattered against the counter edge. Didn't fall, but close enough that Jenna shot me a look.
"You good?"
"Fine."
The lie tasted bitter.
I focused on breathing. On keeping my expression neutral. On not letting anyone see how much that voice unraveled me. How badly I wanted to walk down that hallway and demand he explain himself. Demand he say something—anything—instead of pretending I didn't exist.
But I didn't.
Because what would I even say?
You left.
You made me feel safe, and then you disappeared.
Was I that bad?
The questions scraped against the inside of my skull. Ugly. Pathetic.
I shoved them down and kept working.
By closing, exhaustion had settled into my bones. Not the physical kind. The kind that came from spending eight hours waiting for someone who never showed. From feeling invisible to the one person I couldn't stop seeing.
I felt used. Discarded. Like something he'd touched once and decided wasn't worth keeping.
And the worst part?
I still wanted him to come back. Still caught myself glancing at the door. Still felt my heart stutter every time footsteps echoed down the hall. Still hoped—against all logic, all self-preservation—that he'd walk through and prove me wrong. That he'd say last night mattered. That I mattered.
But he didn't come.
And I hated myself for waiting, anyway.
The rest of the week bled together in a haze of routine and avoidance.
Rhys stayed away. Not just from the café—from everywhere I could see him. He sent Barrett or one of the other coaches for coffee. Took different routes through the building. Managed to make himself invisible despite occupying the same rink where I worked eight-hour shifts.
I told myself it was fine. Better, even. Easier to forget someone who refused to exist in my line of sight.
The lie tasted stale by Wednesday.
But something strange happened as the days accumulated.
The sharp ache in my chest dulled to something manageable.
The hyperawareness every time the door opened faded into background noise.
I stopped checking my reflection obsessively for signs of what I'd done wrong.
Stopped replaying every touch, every breath, every moment of that night looking for the exact second he'd decided I wasn't worth staying for.
I just… worked. Made coffee. Wiped counters. Restocked cups. Let the rhythm of it smooth over the jagged edges until they didn't cut as deep.
By Friday, I almost believed I was okay.
Ben helped. His relentless good mood became something I leaned into instead of resented.
He cracked jokes that weren't funny but made me smile, anyway.
Complained about his statistics professor with the kind of earnest frustration that reminded me other people had normal problems. Problems that didn't involve criminal fathers or one-night stands with coaches who ghosted before sunrise.