6. Oli
Oli
Insomnia
W iping my hands with the rag in my pocket, I double check the battery cables are connected right and then shut the hood of the Honda Civic that got towed into the shop. An easy battery swap was all it needed, so I’m basically done for the day.
I plan on lingering around in case another car rolls in, but seeing as I work under the table and only twenty hours a week, I'm technically supposed to leave now.
Tommy doesn’t like it when I hang around past my allotted hours.
He says it’s because he feels obligated to pay me. Every time I tell him not to worry about it, and that I’m fine, he always slips me a few extra bills come payday. Tommy knows the struggle of being a recovering addict. He’s been sober for fifteen years.
I pull out my phone from my jumpsuit, hoping Jorge texted, but nothing.
Maybe the kitten thing threw him off. I don’t even know why I said it.
He probably thinks I was flirting with him, which, I guess, I kind of was. Jorge is straight as they come, so it’s not too far of a stretch to think he’s having second thoughts now that it’s daylight. I know he’s not the sort of person to make things weird over some harmless flirting via text; if anything, he’d be flattered.
So why hasn’t he texted? Is he dating?
The thought of it makes my eye twitch.
I put my phone away and head to the janky lockers to get my water jug out. I take a few sips, letting the cool water soak into my parched throat. It’s dead today. Only Manuel and Logan are in, and they’re currently in our “break room” watching basketball.
Maybe I should just leave. I can go home and shower, then hit up Jorge and find out where he’s been hiding all morning. Nodding to myself, I grab my shit out of my locker, fiddling with my car keys, and turn around.
The crunching of wheels rolling up to the garage catches my attention. I can’t see the driver through the gnarly glare on the windshield, but the sounds coming from that engine can’t be good.
I glance at Manuel and Logan. Both are too enthralled with whatever is happening on the TV, so I decide to handle this customer. Throwing my stuff back in my locker, I shut the door and leave it unlocked because I’ll leave after this.
I walk over to the car, annoyed that whoever this is showed up because I actually want to leave now. I would much rather be with Jorge.
But as I round the side of the car, the window rolling down to reveal the driver, I lose the ability to breathe, speak, and do anything other than solidify into stone.
My heart races, galloping so fast I’m sure it’ll burst. I’m vaguely aware of my hands curling into tight fists, the color draining from my face. The muscles in my legs stiffen, keeping me rooted to the concrete.
A scream begs to be released, but I can’t get it to come out. My stomach feels like a solid rock in my abdomen.
The past flashes in my mind so quickly that I start to see spots. And when he speaks, the shackles around my ankles break. Fight or flight kicks in, and I launch out of the garage.
The fear is so thick in my blood that I don’t even know where I’m going; I just run. Run for my fucking life. Run from the past. Run from the face I won’t ever forget.
The sun beats on my back, and the jumpsuit is stiff and not breathable. By the time I stumble onto a familiar porch, my fists banging on the front door in desperation, I am covered in sweat, seconds from throwing up, and panting. I bite my tongue to silence the pathetic whimper forming on it and beat on the wood harder, and faster.
“Please!” I cry out, needing inside. Needing safety.
I have a key to this door, but it’s in my locker at work. My wallet and everything else are in it, too. All I have is my phone and my body. “Please,” I let the whimper out, sliding to the ground and tucking my knees to my chest.
I wedge my face between them, tugging at my hair.
The pain shoots through my scalp, allowing me to breathe and think.
I’m half aware that I can’t just sit out here all day, but again, I’m stuck. Paralyzed in place. Where is he?
Time passes in a blink, and his car pulls up in the short driveway.
Heavy footfalls approach me, and his breath hits my fingers, still carded in my hair.
“Hey,” Jorge coos. “What happened?”
I slowly raise my head, chin wobbling, eyes wet. “Where were you?”
Those brown pools swirl with guilt and sadness, tearing up like mine are. “Oh fuck my life. I went to help my dad with my aunt because the girls are sick, and then—” he stops himself, dropping from his squat to kneel before me. “I should’ve texted. Are you alright?”
The nod is shaky, just like my legs as I stand up. He follows suit, fingers twitching. He wants to touch me, to hold and comfort me. I kind of want it, too, but I quickly squash that idea. Right now, I need to be inside, hidden, gone .
“Come on,” he says gently, gesturing for me with an outstretched hand.
I don’t take it. My stomach twists because I don’t.
He keys the lock, opens the door for me, and moves to the side so I can go in first.
As soon as I smell him, strawberries and mint, I relax. The tension washes off me in ripples, falling somewhere at my feet.
I head to his kitchen, which feels more like mine than the pitiful excuse for one in my studio. My fingers grip the refrigerator door, finding cold water bottles, and I grab one. I don’t come up for air as I swallow it all down. Jorge simply watches from a distance.
“Was it a bad day?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I rasp, tossing the empty bottle in his recycling bin. “Yes.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay. Just know that you can whenever you want. I’m here for you, Oli.”
Our eyes connect, then. Something silent is being spoken.
Do you trust him?
Dr. Langley’s words flow through my thoughts.
I want to. I want to trust him completely. I feel the strings tying us together strengthening. Every time I need him, he’s there. Always there. I don’t want to pressure myself into thinking about it too hard; I do that enough. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t starting to trust him. My body led me here when my mind checked out.
That’s got to count for something—it has to mean something.
I feel better now that I’ve showered.
Jorge gave me some clothes to borrow, but they're too small. I keep tugging down the shirt, but it rides up anyway. And don’t get me started on the sweats. They’re like a second skin. So when I creep out of the bathroom looking like the clothes have shrunk three sizes, Jorge stares at me.
I mean, he really stares at me.
The slow perusal of his brown eyes makes my stomach flutter and my chest cave in.
He’s never looked at me like that before.
It must dawn on him when I frown slightly because he clears his throat and gestures to the kitchen. I walk down the short hall and into it, where I see a small buffet of Thai food. It’s our favorite. I let his weird gawking go as my stomach rumbles with hunger instead. Quickly pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I slide into a seat, the damn shirt hiking up my back.
“I got you, Pad Thai,” Jorge squeaks. “I’d already put in the order on my way home because I was going to ask you to come have lunch with me.”
I turn to face him, his eyes glued to the strip of my exposed skin, and he blushes. “Stop doing that,” I tell him.
He blinks and shifts his eyes away. “I didn’t think my clothes would be that small,” he teases, back to his normal shenanigans, helping me relax.
“You’re like four inches shorter than me and skinny.”
“I’m not skinny,” he argues, plopping into the chair across from me. His curls flop as he does. “I’ve got a little muscle.”
“Maybe if I was fifteen, I’d fit in your clothes, but not now.”
He thinks about that as he’s plating out what he wants, almost like he’s trying to remember me at that age. “Nah. You were still taller than me. The sweats would still be floods.”
Peeking up at me through his lashes, he smiles sweetly, and damn if it isn’t adorable. I force out a chuckle, then dish out my food.
We eat in comfortable silence that remains charged in a way it has never been before. His pretty brown eyes scan over me more often than not, so I make it a point to eat like I’m in prison. The last thing I need is for him to comment on how I eat again.
I can still feel a layer of tar over my body from earlier, the grime of trauma hard to wash away.
“How was work?” he asks casually and I drop my fork full of noodles. “Shit, was that the wrong thing to ask?”
I gulp, force myself to breathe, and grab my fork again. “It was fine.”
“Is your car still there?”
“Yup.”
He hums. “After we eat, I can drive you to get it.”
“No need. I’ll ask Manuel to pull it into the shop, and I’ll walk there tomorrow.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind helping. It honestly makes me feel good.”
Sighing, I flick my eyes at him, and he squirms in his seat. What is going on with him? “Just…let me stay with you. Okay?”
“I can do that too,” he says in a rush, returning to shoveling.
Jorge is not a pretty eater. He eats with his whole body.
People would probably pay money to watch it. I guess the only thing he does that can be mildly distracting is the soft groans between exceptionally good bites, like when he eats popcorn with jalapenos. He loves that combination so much he practically orgasms.
There are no soft groans right now, even though I know for a fact he loves those glass noodles he’s slurping in between his puffy lips.
Deciding to change the subject, I ask, “How's the recording going?”
He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Devon is a monster. He keeps insisting my tracks aren’t matching up because I sang them wrong. I might have to re-record them all .” His bottom lip juts out in a pout. “And Lex is riding our asses to meet the deadline. The guy is a control freak. I don’t know why we let him be our manager.”
I chuckle, shaking my head and grabbing the can of Coke. “The songs are for the new album?”
“Half an album. Still need Phoenix to get his ass in the studio to record, but he’s been too busy playing with Eli’s penis,” he says with a wave of his hand and a dash of hurt. “And then we still need to come up with the other half. I can only do so much creativeness before my brain just fizzles into mush. I’m not the only talent.”
There was a time when all I wanted was to play music with my brother.
It was honestly perfect. With me and my guitar, him and his drums, we would jam out often before he started up Dreadful with Jorge. He even promised I could join the band once I graduated. But that was a long time ago, and I haven’t touched my guitar in eight years. I doubt I even remember how to play it.
“You miss him.” It’s not a question.
“Of course I do. But I get it; he’s got a boyfriend. No one likes a third wheel.” Jorge shrugs again, but I can see the flash of pain in his eyes, the slight raise of his shoulders.
“Is being my friend making it harder to be his?” I ask because I know it has to. When I asked Jorge to keep our friendship between us, I didn’t think he’d actually do it. He tells my brother everything. But Jorge kept his word and hasn’t told a soul because of me. He kept his promise.
“Yes and no. I’ll always be there for him, you know? But… never mind.”
“What? Say it.”
He sighs heavily. “He misses you, Oli. And it sucks that I can’t tell him anything.”
I hate it when he does this. It’s the only thing I dislike about Jorge. His loyalty makes him guilty, and I’ve made him a fucking liar.
But can’t I have this one thing? This single person who I need more than anyone else?
Over half my life, I’ve wanted Jorge in any capacity, just to be seen by him and acknowledged as someone other than Phoenix’s little brother. And now he is.
I’m wearing his clothes for fuck's sake.
I don’t want to give that up because my brother can’t understand that he left me. He let me go. Phoenix didn’t care when I tried to talk to him. When I all but begged him to help me.
So, yeah. Fuck Phoenix.
“If you tell him, everything will change.”
“I know,” he whispers. “I don’t want it to change.”
“Me either.”
We share a look that says so much more and so little all at once. “Then don’t change it.”
“I won’t, Oli. I swear, I won’t.”