Page 15 of Fielder's Choice

“Good morning, Liv!” she replies enthusiastically. My mom has always been a positive and upbeat person, but since I opened up to her five years ago, she has tried to be extra chipper, almost like she’s hoping that positivity will rub off on me. I understand where she’s coming from, but I don’t think I’ll ever again have the outlook that seventeen-year-old Olive had.

“It’s freezing outside,” I laugh. “Not the greatest of mornings.”

“I disagree. I love Tuesdays.” My mom looks up from her desk and shoots me a soft smile. “That’s when my daughter comes to work with me.”

I smile at her in return, happy that we’re working on getting closer again.

It’s not like it’s her fault we’re not as close as we used to be—that’s all me. My mom was basically my best friend. But there are things that you still can’t share until you absolutely have to… which is exactly what happened between us.

In hindsight, I know I should’ve spoken to my mom immediately after everything happened. She would have been nothing but supportive. But I shut everyone out instead of opening up because my friends made me believe everything was my fault.

When I finally opened up to her a year later, it was done from the discomfort of my hospital bed. I had no choice, but I’m glad that part is over with. It still took years for me to really start heeding Corinne’s words, but since I finally started really trying to better myself about six months ago, I’m miles better than I was even a year ago.

“It’s been really nice to be back,” I say softly. “I’m finally starting to feel more normal again.”

“That’s all your dad and I want for you, sweetie.”

“I know.” I play with the hem of my pink ballet skirt to avoid making eye contact. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to get here. I feel like I lost six years of my life.”

My mom immediately rises from her desk chair and walks over to sit next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You don’t need to be sorry, Olive. Trauma impacts everyone differently. You processed everything when you were ready, and we’re just happy to see our bright and beautiful daughter again.”

“Violet’s always been there, though,” I say with a light laugh. I’ve had more than my fair share of tense and serious moments over the past six years. I’m so tired of them.

She playfully squeezes my arm. “I have two bright and beautiful daughters. Butthis one”—She pulls me in tighter. —“lost her light for a while. She’s finally shining again.”

“Ballet has really helped with that,” I admit. “I can just forget everything and dance. Lose myself in the movement.”

“And have your lessons with Sage been going well?”

I can’t help but smile. “Sage is just the sweetest. I’m kind of obsessed with her.”

My mom laughs. “She really is just adorable. I had a feeling she’d be the perfect student for you.”

“She is. She tries so hard, too. I can’t wait to see how good she’ll be at the recital in the spring.”

“Rory is sweet, too, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “I really like her. She was on her honeymoon last week, so Sage’s dad brought her.”

“Oh, Lane!” she chimes. “He seemed like such a nice guy when I met him earlier this year.”

“He does seem nice,” I say softly.

Lane seems very nice.

He looks very nice, too.

That’s kind of my problem.

I haven’t seen him since Sage’s lesson last week, but for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about him.

I should have recognized those hazel eyes when we met at Urban Grind. They’re the same ones his daughter has.

But it’s that damn smile that keeps replaying in my mind. That cocky side grin that lit something up in me when we met. The flirtatious grin he gave me when he recognized me at Sage’s lesson.

Why can’t I get him out of my head?

He’s almost a decade older than me. We’re inverydifferent places in life.

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