My Escape Chapter 9

**Hey everyone! I know I said I'd have this one out yesterday, but I ended up doing something last night instead. And today I start my first job, so please send me some luck :) Thanks for the comments everyone!**

And just like that, Oliver no longer popped up everywhere. When I went to Taco Bell, he wasn’t there. When I went to the mall and looked for him, I never saw him. He never randomly showed up at my house apologizing for the night before because there had been no night before.
I was totally Oliver-less and that made me feel horrible as time flew by. It was nearing October, and I hadn’t seen Oliver in a month. I hadn’t talked to him in a month; hadn’t kissed him; hadn’t rolled my eyes at his stupid jokes. I missed all of it; everything that was Oliver.

I tried submerging myself in school work and writing for the paper, but the truth was that my mind was already occupied. I had been keeping a subconscious calendar of how long it had been since I last kissed him. My lips needed his company; it was that plain and simple.
At night, I’d find myself staring at my cell phone, demanding my fingers to push the button to call him. But I couldn’t; I wouldn’t. Wasn’t this what I wanted? For him to leave me alone? At first, it had been. Just not anymore. I wanted him back.
And besides, it wasn’t like my house was getting any more fun to be at. You’d think that over time my dad would come to accept the fact that he wasn’t getting his wife back. He actually seemed to be getting worse. I’d wake up at four o’clock with a nightmare, walk downstairs, and find him watching TV and drinking Bud Light. I would ask him why he wasn’t in bed yet and he’d always say, "Just don’t feel like sleeping."

I hadn’t seen my brother in about a week. He was either practicing his football or listening to music or going out on a date with some cheerleader. I couldn’t remember the last word I had ever said to him. My dad had hurt him; that much I knew. His own father wouldn’t even go to one of his football games and he was the starting quarterback!
Even though I missed my brother like crazy, I knew that it was good he was at the house less and less. He couldn’t stand it there. He hated how I was always working or cleaning and he hated watching my dad become the equivalent of a potato.
I tried to tell myself that I was happy that my social life was now dead, but I really wasn’t. In fact, I missed how my life had been a couple of weeks ago. Any time I had gone out with Claire, Oliver had shown up. I had gotten dropped off at home in the wee hours of the morning and I had actually had fun. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, being around Oliver was a hell of a lot of fun. Well, it had been that last night in his car before I had screwed everything up.

As I stared at the blank computer screen in front of me, I realized that I needed to concentrate. I had an article due tomorrow and I hadn’t even started on it. Before Oliver, I would have been done two days ago and already working on my next one. But now, I just couldn’t bring myself to type anymore.
I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Before I had met Oliver, I had been perfectly content with a nonexistent social life. But now, after Oliver, I started to realize how much of a loser I truly was.
It wasn’t that I minded being a loser; I had never really minded not having many friends. It was just that I was starting to feel really lonely. The night of the party, it had been fun to have someone to talk to. But now, I rarely talked to anyone.

Claire was beyond grounded. Tom hadn’t let her drive home by herself since she had been so hammered and Claire’s grandparents had to let him into the house. Claire had been passed out drunk in the back seat. So I hadn’t talked to her outside of school since Friday night.
Somehow, she blamed her being grounded on me. She had said that if I hadn’t left the party so abruptly then I could’ve let her stay at my house. Whatever. She had no idea what had happened Friday night and I wasn’t going to tell her. She wouldn’t understand anyways.
No inspiration for my article came up. I slammed my hands on my computer desk and then stood up. My calendar was pinned on the wall by my bed; I had to see when the football game against West wood was. Two and a half weeks.

I was going to have to get that interview with him. Having an interview with the quarterback for the other team would be amazing. The hard part, though, would be getting the quarterback to actually do the interview. He seemed to hate me so much now. What would it be like without him seemingly stalking me?
Horrible.
I blinked back the overpowering urge to cry yet again and then got out of my desk chair. I hated the effect that this whole thing was having on me. Crying was something that I hated to do and now it had been happening often.
The door to my bedroom flung open and I saw a flash of black hair and metal nose studs. Claire was standing there and she had an excited look on her face. She told me, "Get ready. We’re going to a party!"

"You can, but I’m not," I said and then plopped down on my bed.
She huffed; a look of annoyance was plain and clear on her face. "Oh yes you are! My grandparents are out for one night and I’m bored shitless in that house of theirs!"
I rolled my eyes at her and said, "I have to write…and I can’t go out tonight. The last party I went to ended in total disaster and I don’t want that to happen again."
Claire did look really pretty tonight. She was wearing a leather mini skirt that only she could pull off and lace up boots. It was very punk and very Claire. She said, "Kara…that doesn’t have to happen again. And look, it’s not a West wood party. Some girl from Saint Michaels is having it."
"A catholic school girl is throwing a party? And you’re going?" I asked her in disbelief.
She defended, "Hey! Catholic school girls can party! Why do you think there are so many plaid skirt stripper outfits?"

I rubbed my hands over my face and then sighed. "Is there any way you won’t make me go?"
She sighed in disappointment and then sat down next to me on my bed. She looked over at me and asked, "Are you sure you don’t want to go?"
I nodded. Here was a social life reaching out for me; I could have one. But I didn’t want one. Something about my brain was messed up, but knowing Oliver wouldn’t be there…well, I didn’t exactly want to go. I needed to work. I needed to take care of my dad.
She exhaled noisily and then stood up. "Fine," she said, and then walked out of my bedroom. I wanted to call after her, to tell her that I would go and party and get drunk like normal teenagers. But I couldn’t. My legs wouldn’t find the strength to stand and my throat wouldn’t work up the power to call after her.
So I sat there on my bed, and looked around my room. It was then that I noticed…I was starting to act like my dad.

Our next big game was a good one for me; I had picked someone else to cover the game. Someone who I knew hated sports: Jessie. It was wrong of me and so elementary school, but those evil looks she gave me didn’t exactly make my day. Every once in a while she would ask how Oliver and I were doing and every time she did that I would ask her if she were ready to leave the paper. She never was.
It had been a month and two weeks-and counting-since I had last seen Oliver. His name was starting to fade in my brain. The memory of the feel of his lips on mine was withered away to nothing. It hadn’t been all of a sudden; I had worked very hard to busy myself so that I wouldn’t think about him.
And for the most part, it worked. But there were still nights when I would lie in my bed, stare out of the window, and wonder what he was doing. I would roll my eyes while I pictured him drinking and I would smile when I remembered our night in his truck. And then I would cry because I knew that would never happen again.

Why was I at the game if I wasn’t covering it for the paper? I had no idea, actually. Claire was with me and maybe that was why I came. I hadn’t talked to her for a long time and I felt really bad about that. Claire was my best friend and I hadn’t talked to her for more than two seconds for two weeks. Pathetic, right?
Claire looked over at me and mouthed, "I need a smoke."
I rolled my eyes and laughed at her. We might not have talked in a while, but she was still the same girl: rude, sarcastic, and in constant need of a cigarette. How we were best friends, I had no idea. "It’s almost over," I reminded her and then took a sip of my coke.
We weren’t sitting in the student’s section because it was basically a circus over there. Students were screaming, dancing, jumping, yelling, other stuff… it was crazy. So Claire and I sat in the family section and made frequent trips to the concession stand.
After the game, Claire and I decided to go out for ice-cream. Turns out that wasn’t such a good idea.

The ice-cream parlor had little round tables set up all over the place. No more than three people could fit at a table. So Claire and I were sitting at one of these tables when the bell over the door chimed. We both looked up to see who had entered and my heart plummeted to my toes.
Oliver.
He was with a blonde girl, Chris, and then the girl I remembered to be Chris’ girlfriend. It looked like Oliver was on a double date. Shit. Claire seemed to notice the same thing as she asked me, "Who’s the blonde?"
I shrugged my shoulders and then sunk deeper into my chair-yeah, like that would help. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember me. I mean, it had been a month and two weeks, right? That was enough time to forget about someone, right? I mean, I couldn’t forget about him because he was like the world’s best kisser and he made me lose control of my body. But I didn’t do those things to him. So maybe he didn’t remember.
That was enough motivation for two spoonfuls of my ice-cream. But by the third, I was freaking out again. This was ridiculous. This was me; straight A, editor of the newspaper, taker of college courses, and I was freaking out over an alcoholic football star! It was ridiculous.

Besides, it wasn’t like it had been entirely my fault. He had called me a cold, heartless bitch. Didn’t that make him a little guilty also? But then again, I had called him some not-so-nice stuff also. We were both at fault, but it seemed as if neither of us was going to talk to the other ever again.
No matter how much I wanted him to talk to me again.
But I was wrong. The song on the juke box had ended and so silence somewhat fell over the ice-cream parlor. I was being quiet intentionally, but Claire obviously hadn’t noticed, so she started to talk. Then Oliver heard her. He turned his head towards our table and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him scowl.
I heard him tell everyone he’d be back and my heart started pounding in my chest. His footsteps seemed to be amplified as he walked; as if every step he took echoed off of the walls. Did it seem like that to anyone else?

When he made it to our table, he greeted, "Evening ladies." Even though it was supposed to sound friendly, it sounded so rude and sarcastic. Was he really still pissed at the whole thing over a month ago? I had thought that guys didn’t hold grudges, but I guessed I was wrong.
He grabbed a chair from another one of the tables and then placed it in front of us. He sat the chair backwards to where his chest was pressed against the back of the chair and he leaned towards the table. My breathing was starting to get all screwy.
"What are you doing over here?" Claire asked; her voice just as rude as his greeting had been. Thank God for Claire. If it wasn’t for her, I had no idea what I’d be doing.
He said, "Can’t a guy be polite and say hello to his friends?"
Claire shot back, "Maybe a guy can, but not a douche bag like you."
He rolled his eyes and then turned his focus to me. He looked so cold; nothing like how he had looked that night in his car. I hated the hatred look on him. "What about you?" he asked harshly. "You got something rude to say too?"

Claire’s voice inflated as she demanded, "Get the hell out of here."
"Shut it, bitch," he snapped, turning his head towards her. "What are you: her vocal cords? Last time I checked, she could talk without your help." She looked flabbergasted at his words and I saw the wheels turning in her head to come up with a reply.
But before she could make it any worse than it already was, I managed to say, "Stop. We were leaving anyways."
Claire looked at me in disbelief; "No we weren’t."
Oliver pivoted his head towards me and smirked; he wasn’t used to my backing down. He asked, "Not as tough as you were a month ago, eh? What happened? Someone use you for a good laugh, too?" His mouth was pressed into a hard line and I wanted it to just go away. He looked so mad at me. I hated it.

"It wasn’t like that…" I murmured, hating how defeated I sounded. The puppet thing was starting to occur again; the thing where he was the puppeteer and I was the puppet.
"Oli!" the blonde girl called from their table. She had a nickname for him? It sounded sick. It sounded like she was calling her dog; not her boyfriend.
Oliver turned his head and said over his shoulder, "I’ll be there in second."
Claire raised her voice a little and told the girl sarcastically, "Nice guy you got there! I really hope he doesn’t screw you over!" Oliver’s face turned beyond pissed and I tried to fight the urge to apologize for Claire’s behavior. I had no idea why she was acting like this, but I didn’t like it.
Claire got out of her seat, grabbed her ice cream cup, walked over to throw it away, and then stormed out of the parlor. I sat in my chair for a second, completely dumbfounded, and then stood up also. Oliver said, "Your friend’s quite delightful."
"Shut up," I told him and then grabbed my ice cream cup as well.

He looked up at me from his seat and said, "See you at the championship game in two weeks. Heard y’all won tonight. Tell your brother to watch out."
"I’m sure he’ll be fine."
"If he’s anything like you…I’m sure he will be. He won’t let anyone close enough to him to even have the possibility of getting hurt."
The double meaning of his words struck me. I did have a problem with letting people get close to me. I didn’t want people to know that I wasn’t as in control as I always seemed to be. Martha Stewart, I was not. "Very profound," I said and then hurried out of the parlor as fast as my feet could carry me.