14. Oli
Oli
In The Dark
H alf of my brain wants to throw Jorge to the floor, while the other half exhales in relief.
I hate that there’s always some part of me ready to revolt. After my therapy session with Dr. Langley and our having discussed my triggers and why they triggered me, I was able to put my relationship with Jorge into perspective. The biggest thing for me is trust. I’m not ready to blindly do so, though I feel like I’m letting go more every time we are together.
I don’t want to acknowledge his fever-induced profession of love. I doubt he means it in that way. Jorge loves everyone. Whereas it should make me feel special that those words came from his lips and were directed at me, it didn’t. That’s the thing about him that keeps my walls raised high. The logical part of me knows that I am special in some ways. He’s risking his friendship with my brother just to keep ours flourishing and growing. He’s kept our secret.
But how he shows affection and views the people in his life makes me wonder if I’m replaceable. I know for a fact my brother would be here, nursing him back to health if I wasn’t. Jorge’s mom and his sister, Kelly, and everyone else would do it. He’s so loveable. He’s earned reciprocated kindness from everyone. So where does that put me?
It’s a twisted way to think, but I want to be number one. I’ve always wanted that. I want Jorge to treat me like I matter more than anyone else, which is impossible. He won’t ever think that. I watch him sleep on my chest, his olive cheeks darker than normal because he’s burning up. I’m sweaty due to the heat, but I can’t seem to make myself move him. The soup is on a low simmer, so I’m not worried about it boiling over.
What is going to come out of this? Can anything?
Dr. Langley seems to think that I have to decide an outcome. Either we remain friends, and I separate enough to make it healthy, or I push my boundaries and cross over into lover territory. I want more from Jorge. If my willingness to hold him like I am is any proof of it, I know in my heart I would keep him forever.
He said he loves me, but I’ve loved him for twelve years. And before that, I loved him. It was innocent, soft, and careful but always there. I think I’d love him even in another life. I’m not religious or spiritual. The possibility of a life after this one seems silly—farfetched. If there was one, I could see myself falling for him all over again.
When I’d overdosed, hoping that I’d die, my only regret was never getting the chance to show him how much love I had. No one knows that I do. Under my layers of armor and issues, I have a heart too large to contain. It thrashes and begs; it craves to be seen and wanted. Last year, I thought to myself, this is it. I was in the depths of my personal hell. Beyond strung out, angry at the world, lost in a vortex of nothing, and then he texted me.
I remember being scared shitless that something had happened to Phoenix because Jorge had asked if we could talk in person. I pulled myself off the floor of one of my dealer’s apartments, put my shirt on backward, and took off. I was high as shit when we met up, so afraid and cursing my choices. But Phoenix was merely heartbroken. He’d been dumped, and Jorge thought that I could make him better.
Jorge was taken aback when I’d shaken my head and said I was the last person Phoenix needed. He seemed to see through the cloud of drugs surrounding me and asked if I was okay. We only spent six months together before their American tour started, but I felt alive for the first time in twelve years. I felt brave enough to try again. To really put in the effort. I went back to rehab, only staying long enough to get sober and meet Dr. Langley. Jorge was there every step of the way, even from afar.
He saved me.
He still is.
I blink out of my reverie, my cell phone buzzing in my pocket. Careful not to jostle him too much, I reach to pull it out. I frown when I see an unfamiliar number has texted me. Dragging down the notification bar so I can see the preview of the text, I feel the color drain from my face. It’s Eli.
Like Dejavu, I relive that day when I thought something happened to Phoenix. Heart hammering, I open the text fully to read it.
Hey. It’s Eli. I wanted to talk to you about Phoenix, but I also want to thank you. I know I didn’t meet Dr. Langley because of your recommendation, but I appreciate that you did give it. He’s helping me a lot more than I thought he would.
Can you and I meet up sometime? Addict to addict?
I cringe. Then I start to sweat.
So this is what Phoenix has resorted to? Sending his boyfriend after me because we’re both addicts? I’m tempted to tell Eli to fuck off and tell my brother to grow a pair. But I don’t. I stare at the text for a while, chewing my cheek and debating if it’s worth replying to. The stupid guitar nicknack that Phoenix brought me rustled up old memories I try not to remember.
The times when he felt like my other half. When I could count on him for anything.
With Jorge in my arms, though, I feel guilty. I’m fucking up again even though I’m sober. I’m teetering on the edge of a monumental fall. Deep down, I guess I know that Phoenix is trying. I’m not ready to forgive him or anything, but I’m not blind. The texts, the calls, showing up at my house—it’s all proof that he’s doing more than he ever has.
That being said, I don’t trust him or his boyfriend.
But if I want to spare Jorge from the inevitable fallout if our secret comes out, I need to buck up here. My thumb taps out a text at a snail’s pace, my stomach twisting the whole time.
Will Phoenix be there?
No. Just us.
When?
When is good for you?
Knowing we both go to the same group meeting, I think about it.
How about after group?
Sounds good.
Well, I guess I’ll talk to you then. We are going over to Jorge’s right now because he’s sick. Hope you have a good day, Oli.
“Oh my fucking god,” I blurt, and Jorge snorts awake.
“What happened?” he croaks, blinking and wiping his drool. “It’s so wet,” he whines and then slaps at the puddle on my chest.
I ease him off me and jump to my feet. “Phoenix is coming over.”
“Huh?” He scrubs his eyes and coughs.
“Fuck. Fuck.” My hands fly to the back of my head while I pace in his living room. “My car is right outside. Jorge. Jorge. I have to leave.”
Phoenix’s apartment is about twenty minutes away, but he drives fast. He could already be on his way. Shit! I dash into the kitchen, grab my keys, and zip back to the front door. Jorge gets up on wobbly legs and coughs again. He sounds and looks terrible.
“You’re leaving?”
“Phoenix is coming over. Eli just texted me,” I explain in a rush. “I can’t be here.”
“Just hide in my room,” he says like it’s obvious.
“They could be here for hours,” I point out.
Even sick as a dog, he manages to flutter his eyelashes and say, “Then I’ll come to check on you.”
I roll my eyes and throw my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to go.”
“But I don’t want you to. I’ll tell him—”
“They’re already on the way.”
“It’s my fucking house. If I don’t want company, I don’t have to have it.” And then he goes into a marathon coughing fit. His lungs rattle and sound wet. The over-the-counter medicine doesn’t seem to be helping that much.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, my keys dangling between my fingers. “Let me move my car. And when they get here, tell them to go.”
“Okay.”
“Sit back down,” I tell him gently.
He plops right back onto his ass and then falls over dramatically.
Shaking my head, I suppress my smile and go outside. Moving my car one block over, I jog back to his house and let myself inside. And then I stand at his window like a ghoul, watching for Phoenix. I take a quick break to stir the soup, then return to my spot. Jorge falls asleep where he keeled over, so when they pull up, I’ll have to wake him up again.
This is what I’m talking about. Jorge is so special that people will push into his space to ensure he’s okay. After all, isn’t that what I did? I didn’t ask for permission to come over. I simply did. So, as irritating as it is having to hide, I understand why my brother is coming. That doesn’t mean I’m inclined to share. Am I even capable of it anymore?
The curtains are sheer enough to see the street without worrying about anyone recognizing me. I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes. My jaw clenches as nerves run rampant through me. Can I successfully pull this off? Even being hidden, I’ll still be in the same vicinity as my brother. I swallow hard and decide to wake Jorge up.
“Hey,” I whisper. He doesn’t stir or move a muscle. “Jorge.”
Nothing.
My hands shake as I realize I’ll have to touch him. I did it earlier and when I first got here. I did it yesterday. So what gives? He’s fucking unconscious. Wetting my lips, I heave out a breath and lift my hand. My fingertips hover over his cheek, a lock of curls sticking to it because he’s sweaty. His fever might be breaking right now, and he needs to sleep it off.
Fucking Phoenix.
“Jorge,” I say a bit louder and move the curls. His eyes flutter, but he doesn’t wake up. Shit. I glance over my shoulder to peer out the window. From this angle, I can't see much. I’ve got no choice. I have to actually touch him. I gulp loudly, my stomach fluttering like crazy, and I cup his face. “Wake up, kitten.”
His eyes shoot open. I almost pull my hand away, but he nuzzles into it as soon as he sees me. “I hate being sick. I get so sleepy.” He twists his head so he can kiss my palm. That’s twice now that he’s kissed me, and it makes my brain short-circuit. “Are they here yet?” he asks, raising his hand to circle my wrist.
I’m hyper-fixated on his mouth, on the slight tingle in my palm. “Oli?”
“N-No. Not yet.”
He groans and nuzzles my hand again before pressing his lips to my palm. I’m frozen solid as he rubs all over it, holding me by the wrist. “Shit. I’m kind of horny now,” he slurs, lashes fluttering like he might fall asleep. “I love your hands.”
I rip my arm away just before he kisses it for a third time.
Fucking hell.
I stand up quickly, look out the window, and see Phoenix’s car roll up. Adrenaline punches through my system, and I run to Jorge’s room. I shut the door without much noise, and because it’s deathly silent in his house, I hear when my brother knocks. I hear Jorge mumbling that he’s dying and to go away. And then I hear when he eventually gives in and opens the front door.
I’m pressed against the thin wood, ear flat to it so I can hear.
I’m aware that I should be freaking out over Jorge kissing me, but that can wait. I need to know what they say and if Phoenix is going to notice my fucking soup. He definitely will if he tastes it.
Inwardly cursing myself for leaving such an obvious sign, I brace for what will happen next.
Leaving isn’t an option anymore because if it all comes to a head right now, I will not let Jorge take the fall alone.