17. Jorge
Jorge
Half Life
W ell, aren’t we a pair?
My fever is back with a vengeance, and Oli looks like he’s seen eighty-seven ghosts. The worst part is that I don’t know what to do. I’m trying my damnedest not to be a drama queen and pretend I’m not sick so I can get to the bottom of this. He has to tell me what monster hurt him. Since I connected the dots, it’s been like a parasite in my brain, chewing away at the neurons. It’s killing me that I don’t know.
Despite that, I know tonight is not the night he’ll cough it up. Oli hates confrontation, and even though he was mean to me, it was a result of extreme build-up that had to be released somehow. If I have to be the target temporarily, I will. He can take it all out on me if it’ll help.
“Don’t be sorry,” I whisper, easing away from him. The last thing he needs is to feel suffocated by unwanted affection.
But there was no way in hell I wasn’t hugging him. His sobs will haunt me forever.
I slide my hands into his, and he sucks in a rough breath. “You’re burning up,” he rasps. “You need to get in bed.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, squeezing his fingers. “I’m more worried about you.”
His green eyes are highlighted by the bloodshot whites glistening with residual tears. A few strays still linger in his beard. “Don’t be. It’s…I’ll get over it.”
Like fuck he will. “What can I do?”
Dropping his gaze to where we are connected, he shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Let me try. Please,” I plead. “It’s my job to bring you out of the dark place.”
His chest heaves, a clicking sound coming from his throat while he swallows. “And it’s my job to make sure you don’t get stuck in it with me.”
I tug on his hand, not wanting to argue or cry and help him to his feet. I don’t let go of his hand while I lead him back to my bedroom and insist he lays down. To my surprise, he doesn’t fight me. Once he’s flat, I take up my spot on his right and pull the covers over us. He rolls to face me, so I do the same, and for long minutes, we just watch each other. Eventually, he gets up and brings me medicine for my fever. I take it, and then we resume our positions once more.
I’m exhausted, and so is he.
“We’ve never done this before,” he whispers eventually.
“Does it bother you?”
He shakes his head. “You should sleep.”
“I will when you do.” I tuck my hands under my cheek, wanting to hold him again, but I don’t dare.
“Sometimes,” he swallows, “I don’t want to sleep because I’m afraid if I do, I’ll wake up and realize this has been a dream.”
“Us?” I study his pinched face.
“You could have anyone you want,” he says instead of answering me. “I don’t get why you’re trying so hard for me. Why you haven’t given up.”
I check in with myself, wondering the same things occasionally. Our friendship started because I wanted to help him. He had no one in his corner, and I have unlimited empathy. It broke my heart to see how alone he was. From there, I started to get glimpses of the Oli I remembered as a kid—a bit strange and nerdy but so warm. I may have joked about him being an Ice Queen, but that’s only due to this touch aversion.
Oli is anything but frigid.
His heart is huge. I’ve tried hard not to require much in our friendship, but he’s been ready to provide any time I have. Ready to take care of me in any way I need it. Whether that’s being a couch potato beside me because I’m lonely or listening to me do vocal exercises because I get insecure about my technique. Whenever I need to complain about first-world problems or if our manager pisses us off, Oli is there for me. He never turns me away.
We get along so well, too. Some of our hobbies might differ, but we’re so similar at our cores. We both want to help. We both want to feel wanted. He thinks I’m hilarious when most people think I’m overly dramatic. He doesn’t care if I forget deodorant and get a little smelly. He lets me have Funyun breath and indulges my curiosity.
There is so much more, too.
But what it boils down to is this. “Because you’re my fucking person, Oli. And I won’t give up on my person.”
His eyes flutter shut at my admission, something like relief smoothing out his features. When they open again, he’s staring right through me like he can see everything inside. “You’re my person, too.”
A few tears sneak free, so I quickly wipe them away. “Can I hold you?” I ask through a sniffle.
“Yes,” he breathes and lifts his arm.
I seal our fronts together, banding my arm around his middle, and press my head to his firm chest. My heart sings. I’ve never felt more right than this moment. Like this past year of dying to touch him was a test I passed. With everything that’s happened today, I feel like I accomplished something.
Whether I’m in the dark place with him or I’ve pulled him out of it doesn’t matter to me currently because as long as I can hold him, he’s safe. I’ll protect him for as long as he will let me.
I wake to an empty bed covered in sweat. Sitting up, I peel the damp hoodie off my body and shirt and blink through the sleep fog. Beside my bed is a glass of water and fresh cough drops. I can smell again, thank fuck, and the magical scent of chorizo is coming into my bedroom. My stomach growls as I swallow down some water and pop a cough drop in my mouth.
I feel much better this morning, but I still worry about Oli. As I leave my bed, I can’t help the smile that forms. His clothes from yesterday are in my hamper, and the tags from the sweats and t-shirts I bought him are in the little trash can by my door. That means he’s been up for a while. Quickly lifting my arm, I sniff under it, surprised I don’t reek. However, I still throw on a clean shirt because I might be nose deaf to it.
“Small miracles,” I mumble and leave my room.
A shower would be nice, but I want to make sure he’s okay first. Last night was…rough. I’d been so content to just lay there and hold him—thankfully, too sick to get a boner. I wonder if he’ll let me do it again.
Scratching at my chest, I enter the kitchen, and he slides the chorizo and eggs onto a plate. I’m glad the clothes fit; only slightly disappointed there’s no skin exposed.
“Morning,” I say through a yawn. Oh, would you look at that? I’m no longer pre-pubescent.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, offering me a brief smile.
“Better. How about you?”
“Fine.” He sets a spoon by the plate, and I notice only one.
“Are you not eating?” I try not to frown, but it happens anyway.
Shaking his head, he runs his hand through his slightly damp hair and sighs. “Not hungry. I—” He stops and scrubs his face now. What’s going on? “Look. Last night…you weren’t supposed to see that. ”
Ah. So he’s embarrassed that I walked in on him having some sort of breakdown. There’s no need for him to be, though. I’d like to think he knows I’d never judge him for something as natural as human emotion, but he is a Sawyer, after all. And that whole family tends to clam up when things get hard. How do I approach this?
“We can’t keep avoiding things that make us uncomfortable.”
“I’m not,” he snaps at me, then growls and folds his arms. “Okay, I am.”
“I don’t think less of you. That’s not going to happen.”
He nods, then jerks his chin towards the plate. “Eat.”
I roll my eyes but do as he says. Plopping down in the chair, I take a bite and moan a little as my right eye twitches. “It’s good,” I say.
“Are you going to be okay? I have group in a few hours, and I need to go home to feed the boys.”
I mean, I will be okay, but I don’t like how cagey he’s being. We fucking cuddled last night. That needs to be talked about. Hell, everything needs to be talked about. I can’t keep pretending these problems don’t exist. I can’t keep pretending it’s all fine. What if he relapses because I let it go? What if he does something worse because my lack of prying translates to lack of caring?
With how he feels about Phoenix and his misunderstood view of abandonment, I don’t want to be lumped in with him, too. Because I do care. I care so much. Taking a few more bites and deciding what the best course of action is, I settle on the obvious.
“Let me take you to group.” That way, I can be with him and make sure nothing…untoward happens.
“It’s okay.”
What. The. Fuck.
“You don’t want me to?”
Those big arms tighten where they’re folded across his chest. “I need to be alone. I’m in my head. I’ll go to group so Kristen doesn’t freak out, and then…”
And then, what?
“So we had one argument—it wasn’t even an argument. You were valid and had every right to be upset, Oli. Let me help. " I try that.
“You can’t help with this,” he mutters. “We’ve been inseparable ever since you came back, Jorge. I need some space.”
What is happening? Is he dumping me? Are we breaking up? My spoon clatters to the table as my fingers go limp. “Okay,” I croak. “How much space?”
He backs away from the kitchen, backs away from me . “You’ll be okay, right? And if you need anything…you can call Phoenix. Right?”
This fucker is still walking away from me. I shoot to my feet. “I don’t want Phoenix. I want you. But clearly, you’re not going to let that happen. Are we really that bad, Oli? Honestly. I’ve been right here, waiting and waiting.”
He flinches, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Seriously?”
Another flinch. I ball up my fists, something ugly taking root in my chest. “I can’t do this with you right now.” He turns on his heels, pulls his car keys out of his pocket, and leaves.
He left me.
My breaths come out sharp and fast while I clench and unclench my fists, my jaw working as I grind my teeth. Honestly, this is ridiculous. He’s allowed to want space. Not everyone wants to crawl inside another person’s body and live there like I do. But, fuck, does it hurt. Feels like he doesn’t want me at all because I admitted I knew something bad happened to him.
What the hell did he think would happen?
That I’d just let him cry in my kitchen all night and not do anything? Not try? If that’s the case, he must not know me very well or at all. I go over to the table, pick up the plate of chorizo and eggs, and throw them into my sink. The sharp shatter of the ceramic echoes in my ears, but I ignore it. He fucking left me. It’s a constant loop in my brain.
He left me.
He left me.
He left me.
Space. Ha!
Fine.
That’s…fine.
My eyes well up, and my nose tingles, but I slurp it all back in, walking with determination to my bedroom to get my phone. It’s not like I don’t have other people to hang out with. Other people to talk to. I get my cell phone off the charger, ready to text Phoenix to come over when my eyes snag on the hamper. Right. His clothes are in there. So he isn’t like…gone for good.
“Fuck you’re pathetic,” I growl to myself, toss my phone and go take a shower.
I didn’t call anyone or text anyone. I’ve been watching Oli’s location on my phone for the last three hours. He went home like he said, then he went to group, and now he’s at the park. He’s been at the park for thirty minutes. Why the hell is he there? Sifting through my mental notes containing all his dealer info, I can’t recall any that usually hang out there. I chew my lip, and my cough is still present but not as bad as yesterday.
“What are you doing?” I ask no one.
He doesn’t want to be with me , but he’s fine with sitting at some stupid park for thirty minutes?
Oli doesn’t go out in public when he needs to be alone. No, he hides in his bed for days at a time, barely responding to my texts. Maybe he’s hanging out with Nyx. He talks to her often, fills her in, and such.
An insidious voice whispers that he’s with someone else. Maybe he found someone in the group who understands him better than I do. Maybe he trusts them more because they’ve been through similar things, and I haven’t.
My eyes well up again. It’s like the eighth time I’ve had to stop myself from crying like a baby. I can’t get over it. The rejection.
I took him to the group before Eli joined. It wouldn’t be too hard for me to be covert while he went. I’ve been there when shit was bad, and he’s always welcomed me—always wanted me there. Now he doesn’t, and I can’t understand why.
I thunk my head on my pillow, letting out the scream I’ve been holding in, and kick my feet like I’m four.
After about ten seconds, I stop screaming and lift my head to look at his location again.
Still in the same spot. “UGH!”