THIRTY DAYS TO REMEMBER

006-DAY TWO

OLIVIA

“Are you taking your meds, Olivia?”

That was the first thing out of my mom’s mouth when I answered her call. Not hello. Not how are you. Just straight to the checklist — typical her.

And honestly? I loved that about her. She was always practical before emotional. Eat something, take your meds, don’t stay up too late, don’t let your brain spin out again. That was her version of I love you.

“Yes, Mom,” I said, trying not to laugh. “I took them this morning. I’m good.”

“You’re sure?” she asked, suspicion heavy in her tone. “Because you said that last week, and then I found out you were skipping breakfast and running on caffeine again.”

“Mom, I swear,” I said, smiling even though she couldn’t see me. “I’m eating. I’m sleeping. I’m medicated. I’m practically a role model.”

She exhaled through the phone, the kind of sigh that sounded like she was letting go of five percent of her worry while holding onto the other ninety-five. “I told your father college was a bad idea. You’re too far. Out of reach. God only knows what you’re doing over there.”

“Studying,” I said, deadpan. “Being a responsible adult. Maybe even making friends.”

“Friends,” she repeated like it was a code word for trouble.

I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see that either. “Relax, Mom. I have a test tomorrow. Psychology. I’m focusing.”

She paused — the way she always did before saying something that came from the softest part of her heart. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything, okay? Don’t try to be brave and silent. That’s when you scare me the most.”

Her voice cracked a little at the end, and it tugged at something deep in me. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I promise.”

“You know I only ask because I love you, right?”

“I know.”

She’d been there through it all — the hospital, the therapy, the sleepless nights after the accident when I’d flinch at headlights or forget what day it was. She’d held me together when I couldn’t hold myself.

So no, it wasn’t about control. It was fear, the kind that comes from almost losing your only child once and never wanting to test fate again.

“Okay,” she said finally, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Go rest. Don’t overthink things. And call me tomorrow after your test.”

“I will.”

We said our goodbyes, and when I hung up, the silence in my dorm room felt bigger than before.

I hadn’t lied — not completely. I was taking my meds. Every morning. Because routines mattered. They kept my edges from unraveling, kept me from falling back into that dark, dizzy place the accident had left behind.

Still, as I set my phone down, I couldn’t help thinking: sometimes “fine” was just the neatest word for everything that still hurt.

Miya wasn’t at my place this evening, and that felt strange. She’d been sleeping over for days, like some kind of supportive, hyperactive guardian angel, and now the room felt a tiny bit too quiet.

I could hear the echo of her laugh in my head and the empty space where a dozen snack wrappers usually lived. I missed her already.

I plopped down on my bed and stared at my phone. The campus day had been a mess of nerves and small victories — Jordan showing up in the last class like a storm you didn’t know was coming, me flicking the back of his head like a child (I still stood by it; petty works sometimes), and the little smirk that had cracked his icy facade for a second before he walked away.

I’d chased him. I’d blocked his path. I’d asked him for help, which felt like asking a glacier to melt just a little.

Now the real test started: could I keep things light and not look desperate? Could I turn his one-word texts into actual conversation? My fingers hovered over the keyboard like they were deciding whether to jump into a cold pool.

Hey tutor.

I typed and deleted it three times before finally pressing send: Hey tutor. Help me not fail psych?

I stared at the screen like a maniac, waiting. Three dots blinked. Disappeared. Blinked again. Then vanished completely.

For a full minute, nothing. My stomach did this weird nervous twist, and I was this close to throwing my phone across the room when it finally buzzed.

Jordan: Hello, Olivia.

Two words. That was it. But somehow my chest still fluttered like an i***t. I rolled my eyes at myself and smiled anyway.

Me: Wow. You sound thrilled to hear from me.

It took him almost two minutes to respond.

Jordan: I’m just surprised you got my number.

Me: Oh, I have my ways.

Jordan: Should I be worried?

Me: Probably. I’m very resourceful.

There was a pause. Long enough for me to imagine him somewhere, maybe sitting on his bed, frowning at the screen, debating whether to humor me or block me.

Jordan: So, what do you actually need help with?

Me: Psychology. Obviously. It’s in the message. 😇

Jordan: Right. I mean, specifically.

Me: Everything. The entire subject. Maybe life too. You free for that?

Jordan: That might take a while.

Me: You offering long-term tutoring, then?

Three dots. Then...

Jordan: You don’t give up easily, do you?

Me: Nope. I’m like a motivational quote with legs.

I could almost hear his sigh through the phone.

Jordan: Fine. Let’s meet. The café near campus at five tomorrow. I can only spare an hour.

Me: One hour with my brilliant tutor? I’ll take it.

Jordan: Don’t be late.

Me: Should I bring an apple for the teacher too?

A short pause.

Jordan: Just your notes. And maybe less sarcasm.

Me: No promises. See you at five.

The three dots appeared again before his final message popped up:

Jordan: Goodnight, Olivia.

My heart skipped.

Me: Goodnight, tutor.

Then I lay back, phone pressed to my chest, smiling at nothing like a complete cliché.

I felt strangely euphoric. One hour under the same roof as Jordan Rivers felt like being promised dessert after a long, boring day. It was a small thing and therefore enormous.

The rest of my evening became a soft blur of preparation. I finished my assignments with clumsy, distracted focus, then set my things for tomorrow so I wouldn’t have to think.

Clothes folded. Notes highlighted. Questions written down. I tried to put together a plan that said I was earnest and studious and not the kind of person who flicked someone’s head in class.

I put my phone on silent, slipped under the covers, and let sleep take me. Small steps, Olivia. Small steps. One hour. One question at a time.