16. Oli
Oli
Voices
T hat’s twice now.
Twice.
I am frozen in place as he hobbles past me and into the bedroom like he didn’t just reach into my chest, jiggle the ever-loving fuck out of my heart, and then leave it hanging by loose threads.
What?
Not thrilled to be back in that room after four hours , I follow him. He climbs into his bed, sighing happily when he discovers the warm right side of his king-sized mattress. I wait for him to get under the covers and snuggle onto his pillow.
When he makes grabby hands at me, I lose it. “You can’t say that shit to me,” I growl, irritated, hungry and triggered as fuck.
His relieved expression twists into confusion. “Say what?”
“That you love me.”
“I do.” His brows furrow.
I rub my face, cup my mouth, and stare at him. How do I put this? “We don’t say that to each other. Not even before…everything. I know you’re sick, but it’s not helpful or wanted.”
Wrong. Definitely wrong. Jorge’s eyes well up with big, shiny, fat tears. “What?” he croaks.
“You can’t just tell me you love me out of nowhere, Jorge.”
“But I do,” he insists, chin wobbling, voice cracking more.
“In what way?” I press. “Like you love your mom? Your sister? Phoenix? ”
His lips part in shock. I’m doing this all wrong.
Pushing himself upright, coughing roughly into his elbow, he sniffles loudly and says, “Of course not.”
“Then how? How do you love me? As a friend? As another sad sack that needed you?”
I bite my tongue when the first tear falls down his flushed cheeks. I knew I should’ve left. I knew I was pushing myself too far by lingering. Hearing my brother go on and on about his boyfriend and his recovery. Hearing all about how supportive and understanding he is. How hard he fought for Eli when he didn’t give a shit about me. And now Jorge is confusing me, taunting me with the words I’ve imagined hearing for so many years that they just feel like a bitch slap instead of a soothing balm.
It’s not reassuring, it’s fucking mean.
And he doesn’t get it. How could he?
“Why are you mad at me?” he whimpers, wrapping his arms around his middle protectively.
“Because I don’t want to be just your friend. I don’t want to be loved like you love everyone else. I want for once in my goddamn life to be number one to someone. And I want that someone to be you,” I purge the thoughts in my head, knowing I could never lie about this. Not now.
“You are my number one. How do you not see that? Everything I’ve done for the past year has been for you. I’m risking everything for you. I don’t know what else to do to prove that, Oliver.” He coughs again, and guilt plagues me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, hanging my head and stuffing my hands in my pockets. “I shouldn’t have come at you like that.”
“You shouldn’t have,” he agrees softly.
“Can I explain myself?” I sneak a peek at him, and he nods, waving his hand as if to say, “Go ahead. ”
Inching closer to his bed, I keep my eyes trained on my feet and lower to sit on the edge. I slide my hands out of my pockets and rub them on my thighs, swallowing hard.
Do you trust him?
I have to because I said some fucked up shit out of anger, and Jorge never deserves my anger. He’s the best person I know. Pure and kind, understanding and patient. I don’t want to revert back to the old me. The guy who’d lash out at anyone who was near or hurt them for no reason other than to relieve the pain I’d be experiencing.
I wet my lips and start.
“The day of your grandma’s funeral, I was suicidal. I knew I was going to do it, could feel that shift in me, but I couldn’t stomach taking my secret to the grave. Not without trying. Not without warning someone. So, when Phoenix was getting ready that morning, I asked if we could talk about something important. He’d originally said yes, but later. After he’d gone over to your house.”
Jorge listens, fisting the blanket tightly.
“I told him I needed to talk then , not later. And he’d simply said, don’t you have to get ready for work? I guess I took it as rejection due to how fragile my mind was at the time. Dismissal. Like I wasn’t important. I already felt that way as it was; I felt like the most worthless, useless, unwanted piece of shit on the planet, so I didn’t argue. Did he know I was going to purposefully overdose? No. But Phoenix had promised to always be there for me, no matter what. I assumed that meant losing Rosie, too.”
“God, Oli,” Jorge breathes and scoots closer to me.
“He was home for hours after that. Farting around, doing nothing except mourning, I guess. But I was in a panic. Making sure I had the right drugs and that I didn’t leave my room a mess so Mom wouldn’t have to clean that while dealing with finding my dead body. I kept getting dressed for work and then taking off my uniform. I did it like eight times. Phoenix finally noticed and asked what was wrong. I said I was late for work.”
And he’d believed me.
“I’m late,” I hiss, pulling on my uniform shirt again. I ignore his chimera eyes, which bore into the side of my face.
Does he know? Finally? Is it fucking obvious to him now, right before I’m going to die?
“Do you need a ride?” he asks.
I shake my head, my stomach dropping. “No. I’m okay.”
“If you need me, I’ll be right next door.”
“I know,” I snap and rush over to grab my wallet and stuff it in my back pocket.
“We’ll talk later, okay?”
Flicking my eyes up to him, my breath snags, choking me. He’s wearing a nice tux, black on black, and he’s got bags under his eyes. I wonder if he’ll be this sad over me. Wonder if he even cares anymore. “Alright,” I say and tear my gaze from his.
I can’t look at him. He’s just going to have to protect himself. He’s just going to have to figure it out. I’ll…I’ll leave a note.
“I put the note beside the toilet, but no one found it. I found it after I got back home from the hospital.”
“Fuck, babe. That’s so fucked.”
“So, yeah. Hearing about how hard he’s fought for Eli got under my skin. It hurts knowing that everyone else is more important than me. Even if I couldn’t express just how much I needed him to be there.”
“What did you want to tell him?” he asks softly, hooking his pinky finger through mine.
We’re sitting side by side now, his illness and warm bed forgotten. My heart gives a mighty thump. Yeah, I was so wrong to say any of that shit to him.
“I know I’m not Phoenix, but you can still tell me. I’ll keep whatever it is safe, I promise.”
I glance at him, seeing the sincerity in his pretty brown eyes. I could tell him. Right now. It’d be the smart thing to do. Put it all out in the open, rip myself in two just to expose all the decaying, rotten bits I hide.
But then what? Where would that leave us? He’d see me for what I am. A broken man, pretending he can be better, be more. Hell, he might not even believe me.
To this day, I don’t think Phoenix would. He was friends with him. Looked the guy right in the eye after hurting me and smiled.
“Nothing anymore,” I rasp, slotting our fingers together and holding them. “Forgive me?” I peek at him again.
“I forgive you, beautiful.” And he brings our hands to his lips, making it all okay again.
W e stayed like that until Jorge sagged against me, feeling run down again. So I tucked him into bed and wandered into his kitchen to eat the remnants of the soup I made for him— not Phoenix.
While I’m cleaning my dishes, I stew over everything. I can’t believe I agreed to talk to Eli. I don’t want to anymore, not that I did much to begin with. All the bitterness inside me is in full force; whatever nostalgic love I’d been clinging to for my brother is lost in it all.
I might have fallen prey to drugs, but he’s a fucking liar.
Phoenix has lied to me more times than I can count. Every dismissed text, every judgmental look at our parents’ house, every shitty remark he’d say to Nyx that would eventually make its way back to my ears.
I’ll always be there for you, Oli. It’s you and me. We’re the same. Brothers.
We’re not fucking brothers. At the height of my addiction, I still cared. Still missed him deeply. I tried so many times to rekindle anything , but he never let me.
And when he started dating Eli? Fucking forget it.
I’m sure he blames me for their breakup, too. Because I’m the reason he hates addicts. Because I couldn’t control myself. Because I didn’t get help. Because I didn’t want it. Fuck him for saying that shit about me. I did want it.
I wanted to be better so much that I tried to kill myself just to prevent my life from eroding out from under me.
All my dreams are gone. There’s no band waiting for me anymore. No crowd to cheer and praise my skills. My family doesn’t trust me. My mother can’t look at me without crying. My dad wants to disown me.
All because his friend raped me repeatedly throughout my sophomore year.
His sick, twisted, fucking friend. I heave over Jorge’s kitchen sink, the soup I ate coming right back up through my teeth and splattering all over the stainless steel.
Gripping the counter so I don’t fall, I purge it all. And then the tears come. A silent sob rips me apart because I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. I don’t want to feel it anymore.
The shame. The rejection. The constant berating of my own mind.
“Stop crying, you love this.”
“I saw how you were looking at me earlier. Go on, beg.”
“If you wanted it to stop, you’d fight it.”
I heave again, only bile coming out before I rinse it down the drain and sag to the floor. Panting and trembling, I lock up. My limbs are stiff rods; my gut solidifies into stone. I stare, wide-eyed, at the refrigerator, remembering it all. Every time he’d corner me in the showers after a game. Whenever I’d try to hang out with Phoenix and Jorge, he’d force me into a secluded room. Michael’s party. The first time any drug had been in my system.
I cry loudly, my voice echoing off the walls. But I can’t stop.
I couldn’t walk or sit down right for a week after that party. Before practice, I’d hide in the bathroom to throw up and change my clothes so no one would see the bruises on my hips. I’d shaved my head so he wouldn’t have anything to hold on to. I quit football. I started smoking pot and cigarettes. Drinking whatever I could get my hands on. It was never enough. Not even a decade later. Who would’ve believed me, anyway?
No one.
He was a star athlete, and his dad was the Chief of Police.
“Oli?” Jorge’s voice breaks through my episode, and I rip my head up to see him hovering in the entryway.
I gulp and wipe my face quickly. “Sorry. I—”
“Who fucking hurt you?” he growls, stomps over to me and kneels. Cupping my cheeks, he looks me dead in the eye and repeats it, softer and sharper. “Who hurt you , Oli?”
My lips quiver, my chest caving in. “You knew? You could tell?”
“You’d have to be blind not to see it. Of course, I could tell, beautiful.” He wraps his arms around my neck, pulling me in for our first real hug.
I melt into it, taking in his scent mixed with the sweat on his skin and curling my arms around his middle. “I’m so sorry,” I whimper into his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”