Honestly, I don’t blame her for not sticking around after she saw my mangled face. My scars are ugly now, but early on when the wounds were fresh, I was downright grotesque.
My dad mentioned that Ashley got married to the son of one of his vice presidents and had twins. I don’t know if he meant it to be a wake-up call or what, but the truth is I didn’t feel much of anything when he told me.
The point is, I used to know girls. But this thing with Olivia is a whole other ball game.
Sometime in the past hour she’s gone from acting like I’m a ticking bomb to being, well, friendly. Which is not to say that she’s been unfriendly. In the couple of weeks since I basically called her a useless hooker and then threw her ex-boyfriend in her face, leaving her to cry alone at night (is there a gold medal for assholes? I’ve earned it), Olivia hasn’t done the prissy silent treatment thing, and I give her props for that.
But even though she’s been perfectly civil, things have been different. Conversation is shallower. She never touches me anymore, not even accidentally. More often than not she avoids prolonged eye contact, and she’s taken to “reading alone” in the afternoons so she can concentrate.
I should be thrilled. I accomplished my goal of distance quite easily. It’s supposed to feel like a reward. Instead, it feels an awful lot like punishment.
I miss her.
But that’s not to say that there aren’t alarm bells going off in my head right now. Because without warning, the old Olivia is back. And I’m way too relieved for comfort.
Her long, slim fingers appear in front of my face and she snaps rapidly, three times. “Yo. Langdon. A toddler can do more squats than you. Focus.”
See what I mean? Old Olivia. The sassy version who doesn’t treat me like an invalid. We’re in the gym, and she’s doing her tough-love personal trainer thing, which is both annoying and cute as hell.
Her hair is pulled into a high, perky fountain, reminding me a little of a cheerleader, and she’s wearing purple instead of the usual pink. Except for the shoes. The shoes are still pink. She insists on wearing the old pink ones when she isn’t running because she has a limit on how many days per week she’s willing to look like, and I quote, “a freaking hobo.”
What she’s wearing doesn’t really matter, though. Because she’s got me right where she wants me.
I’m doing squats.
With weight. Not much weight, and nothing even close to what I was managing before the ambush. But the steady, repetitive bend-and-straighten motion isn’t something I imagined doing ever again in any capacity. My leg doesn’t even hurt. Much.
I refocus my efforts, and with Olivia looking on, I finish the last set of reps.
She grins, making it all worth it. “How’d it feel?”
“Shitty,” I say, doing my best to resist her good mood.
She takes a step closer. I step back, but I’m penned in by the weight machine. The little minx has me cornered. She scoots up nice and close. In other words, torment.
“Liar,” she says. “It feels good, and you know it.”
Christ. Is she talking about the exercise or her nearness? Because one felt great, but the other is bittersweet agony.
Her eyes flick to my lips just briefly before she takes a step back.
My eyes narrow. She’s up to something.
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into doing my yoga routine with me?” she asks, rolling her shoulders as though to loosen them.
“Hell, no,” I mutter. “I’ve got nothing against yoga. It’s just that watching you do yoga is a good deal more interesting than participating.”
Her eyes go dark, and I smile in satisfaction. Two can play at this game.