4. OLIVIA

CHAPTER 4

OLIVIA

C anonically speaking, can people be turned into zombies even if they aren't bitten by one? Because that sure as hell is how I feel, except I don't remember any remarkable bites other than this morning, when I zoned out while having breakfast cereal and bit my own tongue instead.

I sigh as I follow the throngs out of the main building of St. Cloud's science faculty, where I just had my molecular and cell biology II final. And also the final final of the semester.

I survived. Somehow.

My steps are heavy until I stop outside in the middle of the grass. It's a shocking, luscious green. The exact same shade as Brooklyn Tatum's eyes. But the sky is the same true blue as my exe's eyes, and rather than reveling in nature, it pisses me off.

Yeah, I dumped his ass. And by text, too.

Of course, he didn't like that one bit. He spent weeks trying to corner me at the library or during class. It sucks sweaty cojones that he's also a bio major, but fortunately the more he deepens his marine bio concentration, the less we'll cross paths. I just have to hang tight in the meantime .

"Liv, wait!"

Shit, I should've kept walking. The flight reflex engages my amygdala. While my logical brain continues acting like a zombie ate it, my legs activate.

"Liv, please." A huff. "Why are you so damn fast?"

Because I have a gold medal in running from my problems, that's why.

Not that Trent McFadden is still my problem. I was very clear when I texted him saying we're through and promptly blocked him. Conversely, if that wasn't enough, I've become an expert at ignoring him every time he's tried to ambush me. And I've discovered some truly excellent hiding spots around campus like cleaning closets, storage rooms, remote bathrooms that smell surprisingly clean, and even under classroom desks. Turns out I'm quite flexible too.

"Would you just wait?"

Of course, life isn't like a K-Drama. If we were in one, he'd have grabbed my wrist and twirled me around smoothly. But in this crappy reality, he jerks me to a stop by grabbing onto my backpack. And my hair.

"Ugh!"

Trent lets me go. "If you'd just stayed still—I was just trying to catch you."

I pin the full force of my glare on him as I slowly turn, massaging my scalp. "Shouldn't you have taken the hint?"

He has the nerve to get annoyed. Huffing, he says, "I just want to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about. You cheated on me with some random girl at a party, which makes me think it's probably not the first time." Going by the way his face reddens and he swallows thickly, I'm right on the money. "How many times did you do it, Trent?"

"I—That's not the point."

I'm aware of other students getting front seats to some drama, but I don't want this asshole to catch up with me if I try to run again. So, I finally square up to him.

"Then what is it?" I cock an eyebrow at him, and he grabs onto the strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder in a ridiculous way I can't believe I ever found cute. Like he's trying to imitate a five year old when he's 20.

"The point is that you can't just break up with me by text."

Vaguely I wonder if I'm losing my mind. Because even though I've been incapable of laughing for a month ever since that damn party, I now give out great guffaws that bend me over.

"You… you're shitting me, right?" I speak between wheezing. "What you want to talk with me about is how I dumped your stinking ass, and not about what you did?"

Trent's face pinches with anger, which turns him from a reasonably good looking guy into a brain-eating zombie. He points a finger at my face. "No, I dumped your sorry ass?—"

"In what reality, buddy?"

"I was going to dump you." Trent pulls at his hair in frustration. "Ten minutes of making out with some random chick is always better than any sex with you, Olivia. If you weren't so damn frigid and boring I wouldn't have had to stray."

Frigid is the figurative bucket of water that washes over me.

My brain, ever so useful, runs through his words over and over until they're ingrained in my very being.

He'd been growing more and more distant in the final months of our relationship, never really telling me why, and rather than asking, I tried to keep acting as usual. But deep down I knew he wasn't reacting the same way to me as he did early on. Our kisses weren't so hot anymore. His hands weren't on me as much. He no longer wanted to play with me.

And this was why? Because all along he didn't find me attractive anymore, and didn't have the testicles to tell me ?

His lips curl into a malicious smirk. "No comeback, huh? Even you recognize it's true. You're a?—"

I snap out of the trance. My fists tighten and for once, I don't want to hold them back.

"Eat shit, asshole!"

I sock him right in the solar plexus.

Normally, I only condone violence in manga and superhero movie franchises. And I'm also too weak to open a flask with my own hands, so it's not like I can truly hurt someone. But it's so deeply satisfying when he folds over in pain, the breath rushing out of him with a satisfying oof . His backpack falls on the grass and that's when I notice the T-shirt he's wearing.

It's the vintage Free Willy T-shirt I got him for his birthday two months ago.

With a roar, I launch myself at him before he can recover. Clawing at him, not caring if I scratch him, I grab two big fistfuls of the fabric and tug.

"What the—" Trent's still disoriented enough that I can rip the T-shirt off of him. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

Someone snickers nearby. Some girls walking some twenty feet from us point at Trent's torso. I, too, found it funny that the only body hair he has is this little tuft in the middle of his chest. But I'm not in the business of making others feel bad about themselves the way he has clearly shown himself to be.

"No, I'm just not as boring as you thought," I say, instead of trying to bring him down like he did me. "And I'm going to be taking this back, since I bought it for you when I thought you weren't a piece of shit."

Erm, oops. Maybe I do want to bring him down a peg.

Still rubbing his stomach, he glares at me and says, "Fine. Then give me back my hoodie."

"You'll get it in the mail." Taking a page from the girl who outed him as a cheater, I give him the finger and march off .

The abrupt sound of applause makes me falter, but it's just the two girls who stayed for the whole show. One of them gives me a thumb up and the other one says, "Drag him, sis."

My lips twitch. Ugh, sisterhood is the best. The encouragement of these random girls helps me walk with my head held high across campus. And if it wasn't for Dee and Mina, I probably wouldn't have kept my priorities straight after the breakup and might've flunked my finals.

I pause to ball up the T-shirt that still smells like Trent's Axe Dark Temptation and toss it in a trashcan. My lungs work overtime to suck in fresh air and get rid of any trace of him, and the harder they work, the harder my tear glands respond.

Dabbing at my face only brings the freaking Axe smell back to my nose. I rush into the nearest building. I know it's part of the business faculty, and I pray that I don't run into Brooklyn. Running into a different kind of ex while I'm trying to wash off the stench of the newest ex is more tragedy than I can handle.

I make it into the women's restroom without any encounters. A girl stepping out of a stall gives me a weird look as I furiously rub soap all the way up to my elbows. I'm only satisfied when my skin turns red like a lobster.

As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I let my arms hang limp at my sides, dripping water on the tiled floor. A clear tear streaks down my cheeks. My long hair, usually pin straight, looks like a bird's nest after that little tussle with he-whose-name-shall-be-excised-from-my-vocabulary. There are wet splotches on my white blouse, a little number I got because he liked it when we saw it at a store together even though I absolutely hate its lace sleeves.

In fact, I freaking hate these skinny jeans too. Maybe I should've noticed the red flag when he casually told me he liked skinny jeans on a girl. Because not only I used to wear baggy jeans all the time, but it also implied that he'd been checking other girls out.

I lift up my hands and inspect them. My nails are long, with a clear coat of nail polish, no rings or bracelets. All because he mentioned he liked natural, feminine girls. I picture the girl he'd apparently been making out with at the Bolt House party. Pretty. Lots of makeup. Hair a red that comes from a bottle.

"What a damn hypocrite," I say to the mirror, my whole body shaking as more little things start popping up in my head. In freshman year, I had my hair past my shoulder and kept meaning to trim it, but I'd been too busy to set time aside for it. And when I found out he liked long hair on girls, I decided to just grow it.

Except, how many of those decisions were actually mine?

When I think back to myself in high school, I realize I was a different person. I wore black, baggy clothes, styled myself however I damn well pleased. When did I lose myself?

How did I let him do this to myself?

"La madre que lo parió." I don't speak Spanish anywhere near as fluently as the rest of my family, but the feelings boiling in my gut can only be expressed in the tongue of my ancestors.

I run my wet hands through my hair, all the way down to the tips that fall to the middle of my back. I decide—me, myself, and I—to take myself back.

My asshole ex boyfriend might've made me lose sight of myself, but I never truly left. That boring version of me that allegedly made him cheat was the Olivia who tried to fit in his mold. But today I showed him who I really am. A take no shit badass. And that's who I'll be from now on.

With a deep breath, I walk out of the bathroom and keep my eyes forward. I make it out of the building without running into any undesirable boys, and haul my ass to the hair salon near campus .

Two hours later—mostly because I had to wait until they fit me in—I emerge out of the salon with a bob and already feel so much lighter. Not just because I lost like ten pounds of hair, but because this is one step closer to reclaiming my identity.

The apartment's empty when I arrive and that suits me well. I tear off the ridiculous blouse and throw it in the garbage can. I almost crash on my enormous ass while trying to peel off the skinny jeans, but finally succeed and also toss them. I'm all for sustainable fashion, but right now I need to get rid of every stitch that reminds me of him. Opening my closet, I start pulling out piece after piece, tops, bottoms, underwear, the pair of socks he gave me for Christmas. And finally, his damn hoodie.

That one falls at the top of the pile. I'm breathing hard as I glare at it. Before I know it, I grab a Sharpie from my desk and deface it with some colorful words, some of which he won't be able to understand because they're in Spanish.

I put my hand on my naked waist to survey the progress. "Good. Now, onto the next stage."

After bagging up all the clothes and dumping his sweatshirt in a box, I check what's left in my closet. It's all the stuff I brought from home that I used to wear until freshman year. I grab a rolled up pair of ripped boyfriend jeans from the back and put them on.

"Whew, they still fit."

After that victory, I grab a One OK Rock T-shirt and hesitate for a moment. This is Brooklyn's and my favorite J-Rock band. We went to see them in concert together the summer after graduating high school. But I'm the one who introduced him to them. He won't take this away from me.

I yank on the T-shirt, and head into the bathroom to get rid of the clear polish and trim my nails as short as possible. I find the angriest hard rock band in my Spotify playlist to keep me company as I paint my nails black .

"Boring? Frigid?" I mutter through gritted teeth. "I'll show you."

No more pick me energy from me. I'm going to do the picking from now on.