Behind Closed Doors (New Version)

Chapter 90

Olivia's pov

It's been a day since Jenna and I last spoke. She's still pissed, and I've tried—God knows I've tried—to apologize, to talk to her, to figure out what exactly is going on in her head. But it's like I'm talking to a brick wall. She won't even look at me, won't acknowledge I exist. No matter what I say or do, she's made up her mind to freeze me out.

At first, I cared. I really did. I hated the silence, the cold shoulder, the way she would walk past me in the house as if I wasn't even there. I'd apologize again and again, even though I didn't think I had much to apologize for. It wasn't like I did anything unforgivable. I mean, sure, I flipped her over in the pool, but it wasn't like I meant to hurt her. And the car thing—God, it's so stupid. Jenna's mad because I bought another sports car. Who cares? It's my car. My money. My life.

But Jenna—she acts like I committed some crime. It's a car, for God's sake. I love cars, especially ones with some real power behind them. And yeah, I drive fast. I like it that way. The speed, the adrenaline—it makes me feel alive. Jenna doesn't get that. She just sees recklessness. She doesn't see how it clears my head, how for a few minutes I can forget everything else and just feel free.

So yeah, I tried talking to her, tried to get her to understand. But when it became clear she wasn't listening—when she kept pretending like I didn't exist—I stopped caring. I just gave up. Why bother when she's made up her mind? I'm not going to keep begging her for attention like some desperate fool.

Instead, I've been staying out late, going wherever I can to avoid the silence of our home. Most nights, I come back drunk—sometimes Jenna's awake, sometimes she's not. Not that it matters. She doesn't ask where I've been. She doesn't say anything. I just stumble into the guest room, crash, and wait for the next day to repeat the same cycle.

Tonight is no different. I'm sitting at some random bar, a place I don't even remember the name of, nursing my fourth—or maybe fifth—drink. I lost count a while ago, and honestly, I don't care. The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat, but it's a good burn. A numbing one. The kind that dulls the ache in my chest, the one that's been there ever since Jenna decided I wasn't worth talking to anymore.

I glance around the bar. It's crowded but not too packed, the kind of place where people mind their own business. I like that. No one here gives a damn who I am or what I'm doing, and that's fine by me. I take another long sip of my drink, letting the warmth spread through me.

Just as I'm settling into the haze, a voice cuts through the noise.

"Liv, what are you doing here?"

I blink, turning my head to see none other than Emily—my therapist—standing right beside me. Her eyes are wide with concern, her brow furrowed as she stares at me like I'm some lost puppy she found on the side of the road. What the hell is she doing here?

I raise my drink and take another sip, trying to ignore her. "What does it look like I'm doing?" I mutter, my words slurring slightly.

"Tell me," she says, sitting down on the barstool next to me.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. "I needed to get out of the house. I needed... space."

"Is there something still going on with you and Jenna?" she asks, her voice gentle but probing.

I roll my eyes, the irritation bubbling up again. "No... I mean, yeah, but we're past that whole gender reveal thing. It's something else now. Something stupid."

"What is it?" Emily asks, her tone patient, like she's already bracing herself for whatever nonsense I'm about to spew.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to gather my thoughts, though the alcohol is making it hard to think straight. "She's mad because I bought another sports car," I say, waving my hand dismissively. "Like, who gets mad over that? It's just a car."