2. Oli
Oli
Dark Thoughts
D eep down, I know this whole thing is a mistake.
I never should have answered his text all those months ago.
I never should’ve let him see me.
The real me.
The guy I’d forgotten even existed under the rubble that’d buried me. And I never should’ve let it get to the point it is now—hanging on his every word, counting down the days, hours, and minutes until I can see him again.
But I guess this is just how I am.
Once an addict, always an addict. And Jorge was my first addiction.
In ways, it feels like I’m taking advantage of him. He has no idea I’ve been in love with him since before I knew what it meant. That I have pined for him for so long, I’ve completely given up hope that he’ll ever see me that way. We’re friends—great friends. And that friendship means more to me now than these secret romantic feelings I’ve guarded close to my heart for over half my life.
It feels like a backhanded slap from the universe that it took completely cutting off my brother for Jorge to finally see me. Of course, not in the way I do, and even if he did by some miracle, I’m not the person you feel those things for.
Not anymore.
Making sure to keep the entire middle cushion empty, I sink further into my couch, resting my socked feet on the coffee table. Jorge adopts a similar position, stuffing his face with Funyuns. They’re his favorite. They are terrible for my boys, but he gave them each a piece of chip so their happy crunches can be heard behind us.
What’s life if you can’t have one thing that’s bad for you every once in a while?
Dr. Langley would disagree with that sentiment. But these are animals. Not me.
We’ve watched this movie more times than I can count since coming into each other’s lives again, and every time still feels as magical as the first. I doubt it has anything to do with the movie, though. No. It’s being around him.
Our casual friendship keeps deepening, the rope binding us together, thickening with every day that passes. Often, I’ve wondered why I don’t just let him tell my brother about us.
There isn’t an us. Not in that way, but you get my point.
In the beginning, I almost told Jorge it was okay. Just let Phoenix know that we’re friends. A tiny voice in my head whispered that it might be alright. How bad could it have possibly been?
But I know my brother.
I know how fucking judgy he is and how quick he is to ice someone out. He’d be livid that I’d ignored him for months while secretly hanging out with his best friend. But can anyone really blame me? I all but begged for Phoenix to talk to me. My hand was outstretched for him, but no. His obscure view on addiction and the people it preys on warped his mind so fucking bad that he slapped my hand away and left me to rot.
Phoenix can’t know about this—he can’t . He’d never forgive Jorge, and all his faux attempts at rekindling our brotherhood out of guilt would vanish into the void.
Which leads me back to my original thought. I am taking advantage of Jorge. He’s my brother’s best friend. Not mine. So why do I feel like I got dibs? After all, I saw him first. All those years ago, when we moved in next door. I’d been outside, not Phoenix. I’d said hello to him, not my fucking brother.
Why does it feel like irony that the one person I’ve wanted all my life barreled into it like a bull and hasn’t shown any interest in leaving? That’s got to count for something.
Is Jorge lonely like I am? Doubtful. Utterly doubtful. He’s a vocalist for a metal band. He can have all the company he wants.
So what’s he doing with me? An addict? Nobody and nothing. A fucking loser.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is so gentle sometimes that it feels like the faintest kiss on my cheek. I imagine what his lips would feel like often. But with that fantasy comes a nightmare—one I’ll never relive again.
“Sup?”
“You seem tense. What’s going on?”
Another thing about Jorge is he is very perceptive. It’s taken every fragment of my mental strength to keep all my feelings safely stored away whenever we are together. Even I can admit it’s getting harder to do. He caught me blushing like some lovesick puppy earlier.
All his attempts at touching me, all his seemingly innocent nicknames that make my heart thud faster make it worse. Hell, even the way he looks at me sometimes leaves me breathless. It’s too much. Yet, I can’t stop this. He’s got his hooks in me, and they’re embedded in my bones.
So, I give him a sliver of the truth—a scrap he can carry without revealing too much. “I don’t like it when you try to hug me, Jorge.”
“Shit,” he rasps. “I’m sorry, Oli. You know I don’t mean to be overbearing. I won’t try again.”
“You’ve said that before,” I point out and face him.
His eyes puddle within seconds. He’s going to cry.
I’m going to make him cry.
Fuck, I can’t handle it when he does.
My therapist says it’s healthy—cathartic, even—but Jorge cries with his whole heart. Over everything and anything. It could be so insignificant to me but mean the world to him. It physically hurts to see it.
“It’s okay,” I rush. “Just forget it.”
“Does it really bother you that bad?” he whispers the question, blinking fast.
No.
Please don’t cry.
“It doesn’t.” Another lie to add on top of the lie sundae.
“So you just don’t want me to. Is it because I’m a dude? I know some people think it’s weird, but that’s toxic masculinity talking. Men can hug and kiss, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. I’ve kissed Devon before.”
Jealousy ransacks my insides, but I force that monster to be silent and still. I know this. There’s fucking pictures of it everywhere. Jorge is confident in himself and who he is. Kissing really does mean nothing to him except a display of endearment.
I think I’d probably die if he ever kissed me. Just keel over.
“It’s not that,” I croak, feeling sick to my stomach. I’m ruining our time together with my bullshit. Ruining it. “I don’t like being touched,” I admit, wanting that look on his face to go away.
I want his sunshine, not his rain. I’ll drown in it.
He sniffles loudly, swipes at his eyes quickly, and nods. “I can respect that.”
“Let’s watch the movie,” I encourage, softening my tone in hopes it’ll erase this conversation.
“You’re right. It’s probably jetlag making me,” he gestures to his body, “like this. Won’t happen again.”
It will.
But I don’t say that, and neither does he.
I wake up to a black TV screen and the soft sound of Jorge’s breaths.
We fell asleep.
Judging by the lack of sunlight outside, we’ve been out for a while. And when I glance down, seeing my hand mere inches from his limp one, I get heart palpitations.
My eyes flick to his face. He’s slumped into the cushions, chin resting on his chest and at an awkward angle. The endless curls crowning his head hang below his chin. Their color is the most unique shade of brown strung with reds and coppers.
I take in his stubble growing on his usually smooth cheeks. Letting my gaze dip to his mouth, I linger on the deep cupid's bow and pillowy bottom lip.
Fuck.
I blink away, taking a breath. Then another.
And I’m back to staring at his hand.
It’s so close. He’d never know if I touched him there. I could do so without being pressured by anything else, too. I wet my lips, breaths sawing out of me almost obscenely loud.
I can only imagine what it’d be like touching him for real.
Somewhere within my long-term memories, I know he has touched me before. A ruffle of my hair, a pinch of my cheek, little shit usually spared for the annoying little brother.
Nothing substantial to him. Nothing that mattered.
But I never got to touch him. Not once. Not ever. And the one time he tried to hug me when my instincts surged to life and I’d flipped him over my back and onto the floor hadn’t counted. I couldn’t gauge how soft he was or how firm his muscles were. It was fight or flight, and I chose to fight. I still feel immense guilt over it.
I curl my hand into a fist to spare myself from temptation. Deciding to feed my rats instead of fantasizing over him for another second, I get up and let him nap.
He sleeps through my quiet conversation with the boys, and he sleeps through my shower. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s fallen asleep on my couch after a long day of playing Magic and watching movies. Or, back when I was religious with the gym, he’d sometimes keel over after an exceptionally aggressive workout. So I grab the spare blanket from my bed, tiptoeing to him and draping it over him. The damn thing doesn’t stay up by his shoulders and pools around his narrow hips.
Fuck.
I swallow hard, gingerly gripping the edge and trying once more.
It falls again, and I’m just too scared to put enough pressure to tuck it in place. My hands are shaking, and I'm only thinking about it.
How scary the prospect of touching him is, how badly I fucking want to.
But my stomach spasms and cramps anyway, and my eyes black out as I stop breathing. So I drop the blanket and hurry to my bed. I bury myself under my covers and count backward from fifty.
I pass out on number 9.