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Olive

“I am courageous. I am loved. I am not my trauma.”

The words I’ve repeated to myself again and again for the past five years.

Some days, I believe them.

Some days, they feel hollow.

Today is the latter.

“Again, Olive,” my therapist says.

I’ve been seeing my therapist, Corinne Holland, for five years. I should’ve started seeing her sooner—my “trauma” started a year earlier. But I was seventeen and scared to open up.

I feared what people would think of me when they discovered what happened. I thought everyone would have the same reaction as my so-called friends.

But that year of waiting fucked up the rest of my life, taking things from me that I’ll never be able to get back.

It’s still hard to come to terms with that.

“I am courageous. I am loved. I am not my trauma.”

“Don’t ever forget that, Olive,” Corinne smiles. “You are so much more than what you’ve been through.”

“I’ve been getting better about that,” I admit. “Some days are still hard.”

“Unfortunately, you’re always going to have days like that. There will be times when all the memories come flooding back from triggers you didn’t expect. Those are the times when your support system is the most important.”

“I know,” I breathe. “My mom has been getting good at figuring out when I’m feeling like that. If she can’t help me, she’ll have my dad, sister, or brother help.”

“How has the past month been with you being back at the studio?”

The studio.

The studio I refused to step foot in for almost six years.

Finch Ballet Company, owned by my mother, Eileen Finch. She spent ten years as a ballerina in the New York City Ballet before opening the studio when she was twenty-eight so she and my dad could focus on starting a family.

My sister, Violet, was born a year later, and my brother, Harvey, was born two years after that.

I was the surprise baby eight years after Harvey was born.

I’m also the only one of us kids who had the same interest in ballet as our mother. I was dancing around the studio from the moment I could walk. My mother trained me well, and I had a promising future as a ballerina, following in her footsteps.

Until I was seventeen.

Then it happened, and I shut down.

I became a recluse, hiding out in my bedroom and not talking to anyone, even my own family. I dropped out of high school. I spent all of my time alone, keeping everything to myself.

Until I couldn’t.

That’s when I started seeing Corinne.

Without Corinne and the support of my family, I wouldn’t be where I am right now. I’d still be a hollow shell of a human curled up in my bed, willing the pain to go away.

But the pain never does go away. It just numbs over time, allowing you to function as mostly normal when you learn how to manage it.

“It’s been… good,” I reply with a small smile. “I’m only working with one student right now because my mom doesn’t want to overwhelm me. But I absolutely adore the little girl I teach. She’s such a sweetheart. Her nanny brings her, and I really like her as well.”

“That’s wonderful!” Corinne claps her hands together, clearly happy to hear that I’m getting back to ballet. “Starting out small is a great idea. I can already see how being back in the studio is helping you.”

“You can?” I ask, tucking my deep brown waves behind my ear.

“I can. This is the most I’ve seen you smile, Olive. I’m so proud of you for taking that step.”

“Thank you. It’s actually been really nice to be back. I’ve been dancing a lot myself, and it feels so good to be into ballet again. I’m a bit rusty, but I didn’t lose it completely.”

“And have you been putting yourself out there? I know we discussed that.”

I let out a deep breath. “Um… not really. I don’t talk to anyone outside of my family or anyone at the studio. It’s just… hard.”

“I know it is,” Corinne replies sympathetically.

“But forming connections with people will help as you heal. You don’t need to start with deep connections.

Just connect. Say hello to someone you see on the street.

Flirt with a cute guy at the coffee shop.

Compliment somebody’s shoes. Start small and work your way up. ”

“Right,” I mutter. “I… I’ll try. I will.”

“Wonderful. Now, why don’t you fill me in on what’s happened since I saw you last?”

Opening up during therapy takes a lot out of me, so I always treat myself afterward. Urban Grind is a cute, local coffee shop in SoHo, and they make a killer caramel latte.

As I wait for my drink at the end of the counter, I hear laughter behind me, and I instinctively turn around to see what’s going on.

Leaning against the wall about ten feet away are two tall men, both laughing with smiles on their faces. The one looks to be maybe five to six inches taller than me, with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses.

But it’s the other man that has my breath catch in my throat.

He’s gorgeous .

He’s at least a few inches taller than the man he’s with, with short, sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, and defined muscles, clear even through the fabric of his New York Stars T-shirt. What really draws me in, though, is the damn side grin he’s sporting that I could only describe as cocky.

This is a man that gets what he wants, and he knows it.

Corinne’s words play through my head again.

Flirt with a cute guy at the coffee shop.

It’s a bit on the nose, but maybe that’s just fate.

Without giving myself time to second-guess this, I step closer to them. He doesn’t notice me, so I have to speak to grab his attention.

“Are you a Stars fan?” I ask.

Are you a Stars fan?

He’s in a Stars shirt, Olive. He’s obviously a Stars fan.

Honestly, the baseball on the logo is the only reason I don’t have to figure out which of our professional teams this is.

The cute guy looks my way, and I can see him give me an appreciative once-over before shooting that cocky side grin at me.

“Yeah,” he drawls. “You could say I’m a fan.”

“They’re pretty good, huh?”

Wow, I’m absolute shit at small talk.

The man next to him laughs. “Would’ve been better if they won the World Series.”

The cute guy chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Don’t mind him. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

Considering I spent the past six years holed up in my bedroom at my parent’s house, he certainly hasn’t.

“It’s a big city,” I say.

“Yeah, and I’d remember a face like yours.”

He bites his bottom lip, and my body immediately heats up.

Oh!

He’s flirting with me now.

I giggle like a schoolgirl while pushing my hair over my shoulder. “You say that to all the girls, don’t you?”

“I don’t say that to any girls,” he admits.

“Oh,” I squeak out, losing any bit of confidence I have by the second. I didn’t expect a man that looks like this to flirt with somebody as fucked up as I am.

He gives a low laugh while his friend watches us in amusement. “You’re cute. What’s your name?”

I debate momentarily about giving him a false name. He doesn’t know me, and in a city of eight million people, we’re unlikely to run into each other again.

He’d never know.

But the words flow out before I can give it too much thought.

“My name is Liv.”