Free Pieces of Olivia by Unknown Page B

Thanks, though.”
    I started down the sidewalk, when he called, “Olivia. Please. Let me give you a ride.”
    I contemplated what was worse: taking the ride in awkward silence or declining his offer, which would make me look insane, given the state of my appearance. I glanced back at his truck, deciding I’d rather deal with the awkwardness than run into at least twenty more people, potentially all my future classmates, during my walk all the way back to Liberty.
    I opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside, glad that at the very least, I had worn my hair down. I draped it across my left shoulder to shield my face, a curtain of brown and blond strands, thanks to Mom’s insistence that I have it highlighted before coming to school. I expected to continue in silence, when Preston said, “I’m sure whatever it is will be fine. Better. Or . . .” He released a breath. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible at the whole comforting thing.”
    “It’s fine.” I wondered if my voice sounded as hoarse as it felt.
    “Really?” He peeked over at me. “Because it doesn’t look fine. What were you doing all the way over here, anyway?”
    I closed my eyes. Random awkward stares would have been so much better than this. I opened my mouth to spout out a lie, but I was tired from the session with Rose, my emotions raw and too accessible to be ignored. “I was seeing my therapist.” I cringed as I waited for his response. The look. The laughter. The tone that placed me on the crazy shelf, with my cover facing out for all to see.
    “Does it help?” he asked after a moment.
    I thought of all my therapy over the last four months. The Harvard-degreed Dr. Blackson, who talked to me like I was ten. The sweater-vest wearing Dr. Allen, who spent more time arguing with her soon-to-be ex-husband on the phone than listening to my problems. I had never once felt better in any of the dozens of appointments I had with those therapists. But Rose was different.
    “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I used to think they were worthless. But this one—Rose—she makes me think it could eventually help. She gives me hope, and I guess that’s the most we can ask for.” Maybe if
faith
was the magic behind mountains, then
hope
was the streams that shaped their valleys. But then I felt silly and Rose-like for thinking such nonsense.
    Preston nodded. “I’ve thought of seeing someone myself.”
    My eyes snapped over to him. “You?”
    He laughed. “I see how it is.”
    “No, I didn’t mean it like that. You just seem so . . .”
    His face turned serious. “Irresponsible?”
    “Self-actualized. Like, nothing could bother you. It’s a little intimidating,” I admitted.
    Preston’s mouth set into a hard line, and then he said, “When I was little, my dad used to tell my brother and me that a man was defined by how he carried himself day to day. Not by his responses during good or bad times, when even the weak could rise, but how he handled himself when he thought no one was paying attention.”
    I thought of his words and what they meant. “You’re good at it. Your dad would be proud.”
    He laughed again, but the sound didn’t possess the easiness of his laugh from before. “My dad doesn’t know what the word
proud
means
.
He only knows judgment and criticism.”
    “But you’re studying to be a doctor. You own the boat storage place. You work. You seem to be head and shoulders above everyone I know.”
    “Yeah, well, those things are nothing to my dad. My grandfather owned several businesses in my town and left them to my dad, his only child, when he died. My father expected my brother and me to join the family business, so when I decided I wanted to do something else, I became the disappointing son. I bought the storage place with some of my inheritance from my granddad. A wasted investment in my dad’s eyes.”
    “So why did you decide to go into medicine instead of joining the family business?”
    Preston’s