Page 75 of Not Made to Last

It was never him who needed the miracle.

40

Olivia

The chairs just outside Miss Turner’s office have to be the most uncomfortable ones in the history of ever. Either that, or my physical inability to sit still makes it feel that way. Probably the latter. My knees bounce so vigorously, the floor beneath me shakes and I’m surprised no one’s told me to stop, leave, and take my crazy with me.

And then there are my hands…

God, I hate my hands.

I hate the way they sweat, the way they tremble, the way they expose the truths I fight to hide.

I’m on edge, obviously. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. All the thoughts racing through my mind made it impossible for my eyes to close long enough for the darkness to take over. I did a lot of other things, though. Like sand back an entire sideboard, by hand, while also checking my phone every few seconds.

Rhys never responded to my texts.

Never returned any of my calls.

I’m living off four cups of coffee, an abundance of heartache, and the tiniest amount of hope. But it’s that hope that got my ass dressed and out the door this morning, so it’s all I have left to cling to.

The door to Miss Turner’s office opens, and I immediately hide my hands. Look up. Honey-brown eyes stare back at me. “You look like shit.”

“Oscar!” Miss Turner admonishes, backhanding his chest. Oscar shrugs, and Miss Turner adds, “That’s not something you say to?—”

“It’s fine,” I tell them both, getting to my feet. “I was actually hoping to run into you.”

Casually leaning against the doorframe, legs crossed at the ankles, Oscar tilts his head, eyes narrowed when he asks, “What’s up?”

“Do you know where Rhys is?”

“Garrett?” The slightest smirk graces his lips, and I wonder how much he knows.

With a nod, I say, “His car’s here, in the parking lot, but I can’t find him, and I need to talk to him about?—”

“Olivia,” Miss Turner interrupts, and I cut my eyes to her.

“Ollie,” Oscar corrects her.

Miss Turner ignores him. “If you and Rhys have a past, that’s somewhat… personal, then?—”

“Get in line?” Oscar chimes in.

My stomach turns at the thought, though it really shouldn’t.

Miss Turner continues, “Coach Garrett is faculty now, so whatever your past might be, it can’t continue. There are…” I don’t hear what she says next over the pounding in my ears. I stare down at the floor, ignoring the heaviness of my eyelids and the weakness of my muscles caused by fatigue.

“Ollie?” Oscar steps forward, places a hand on my shoulder. I force myself to look up and into his eyes. I can only imaginewhat I look like. No sleep. No shower. Not even a brush through my hair. The second the tears return, filling my eyes with liquid pain, I know I’ve lost the fight to fake it. My shoulders drop, and a knot forms in my throat, but I force myself to breathe.

One more time.

Every time.

I focus on Oscar and plead with my eyes and my eyes alone, and just like the first day I met him, Oscar reads me perfectly.

Smirk gone completely, his expression reveals his thoughts:poor, pathetic little girl.

He sighs, jerking his head to somewhere behind me. “He has the entire Old Gym to himself,” he says, and my pulse picks up as I walk away. “His office is the old AV and stats room. Take the stairs to the left when you get through the doors.”

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