28. Oli
Oli
Meet Your Maker
N yx and I sit by my strawberry plants in the folding chairs my landlord keeps back here for storage.
After coming clean to Phoenix three days ago, I figured it was time I cough it up to Nyx. She’d listened to me intently, cried, and hugged me fiercely. I didn’t keep his name a secret this time. It’s been a while since that painful conversation, and I’m content to sip my iced tea while she chugs a soda.
There’s a distinct shift in me, one I can recognize as potential growth.
The scars I carry still hurt, but I feel like I’m making the right choices.
Everything I admitted to my brother was true. Probably the most honest I’d ever been with myself…and him. I do blame him for everything. It’s easy. It’s safe. He used to be the most important person in my life, and who better to burn at the stake? However, seeing what it did, how my pain rippled out into everything and everyone, forced me to acknowledge all those times I was told by my therapist I was wrong.
Valid, but wrong.
I’m not begging Phoenix’s forgiveness because, like I said, I’m still hurt. I suspect I always will be, though I hope it does ease with time. He has texted a few times over the past few days. He’s asked if I was okay, if I wanted to tell our parents, and if he could tell Michael. Jorge has also asked that question. Truth is, I don’t know yet.
“Have you listened to the new song?”
I arch a brow at my sister and her sudden question.
“Dreadful’s?”
“Yeah. I guess they finally got it all recorded and posted. It’s going to be the new single.” She picks up her phone from her lap, taps it a few times, and holds it out for me.
The Spotify app starts playing the song titled Strange Lad. The lyrics are attached, so I read those while the melody continues. I knew they were recording, but I haven’t heard any of the new stuff. Probably because I was always supposed to be in their band, my bitterness refused to let me. The song ramps up, though. It’s heavy, yet somehow light. Catchy, almost. Well, the tune anyway.
But then Jorge starts screaming. I get immediate goosebumps.
Vapors are green.
Shrouds of shame and forgotten dreams.
Long-lived fantasy. Harboring my deepest sins, free me.
Nothing, and no one can stop it now.
This engine roaring, this highway open.
Forsake it all, I take my stand.
Walking hand in hand with a strange lad.
Every lyric voices a piece of our secret while hinting at the depths of his emotions. I fall into a trance as I listen, my heart racing. It’s not just about our relationship, either. It’s about both of us and our journey. I’m sure Phoenix realizes that now, he has to. When the song ends, I return the phone to my sister, knowing I need to do something to help rebuild the bridge between Jorge and Phoenix.
I’ve spent so long lingering in estrangement that I’m used to it. Jorge hasn’t. It’s fucking killing him to have Phoenix ice him out. And it’s all because of me—because of my selfishness. There’s also the new epiphany swirling around in my brain that whispers and pokes, reminding me that Phoenix left me due to my actions.
“What are you gonna tell Mom and Dad?” Nyx asks. "Or Ver and Damien?"
I rub my face, dread crippling me. “I’m not sure,” I mumble.
“They don’t have to know, Oli. Sure, it’d help them to understand everything that’s happened. But you don’t need to.”
“I know.”
She eyes me carefully before leaning her head against my shoulder. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”
Resting my head on top of hers, I sigh deeply. “Do you think it’d matter? Knowing all of that.”
“I think it’ll break their hearts, but in a good way.”
“That makes no sense,” I say through a forced chuckle.
Shrugging, she links her arm with mine. “No one ever wants to face terrible things, especially concerning people they love. I’d imagine it’s worse with your own kids. Mom blames herself, you know? She thinks she did something that made you…you know.”
“And Dad hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” she defends. “I think he’s disappointed and maybe confused. This whole time we thought he was kind of homophobic, but he told Phoenix he doesn’t care that he’s gay—just that he’s got shit taste in men.”
“No shit?”
“Yes, shit. Mom caught a bat in her mouth with how wide that bad boy was hanging open.” She giggles, nuzzling me. “It’ll be okay. One way or another.”
“If you say so.”
Eli: He still needs time with Jorge.
Crying a lot. And really down.
I’m not great at this stuff, so it’s been hit or miss whenever we talk.
M akes sense. Phoenix doesn’t get over things easily—it must run in the family. I quickly write back, saying thanks for trying and leaving it be. Not that I wasn’t hoping for a better update because this is my brother we’re talking about. It’s strange that I even care when that part of me has been sealed shut for so long. Sliding my phone back in the pocket of my jumpsuit, I get back to work.
If I don’t want to keep leaning on my parents for money, I need to get my credentials so I can do this full-time. Working with my hands seems to be a good thing for me. It keeps me distracted and expels some energy that's constantly buzzing under my skin. I know cars and bikes pretty well due to my dad and Damien. Staying in this line of work makes sense, I suppose. Though, it doesn’t feel as satisfying as I’d hoped.
It’s not that hard to guess why.
Last night, I stayed up way too late to play my guitar. Plucking the strings and gliding my hand over the fretboard came naturally to me, as it always has, like I never stopped. I printed out the tab sheet for Isolated earlier, knowing most of it by heart, but it’d be good to have the refresher.
“The spark plugs are shot,” I tell Manuel, who grunts beside me, halfway into the hood of an old El Camino.
“Why are you telling me, Pendejo?”
I snort, wiping my hands on the rag in my back pocket, and say, “Because you’re supposed to be watching me, according to Tommy.”
He grumbles, lifts his head, and squints toward the Toyota I’m working on. “If you say they’re shot, they’re shot.”
“You’re not even going to check?” I goad him.
“No. I’m trying to get out of here on time.”
Chuckling, I shake my head and go over to the tiny waiting room built into the front of the shop facing the parking lot. I’ll have to give my diagnosis to the customer, print out an estimate, and then get to work. I step out into the heat, blistering rays of sun slamming into the top of my head and covering my eyes. Despite everything that’s happened as of late, I feel okay today.
I know what I have to do.
Sure, it won’t be easy, and I am dreading that part, but I think what will come out of it could be the start of something better. For all of us. If I am honest with myself, Jorge, my family—even Phoenix. Because deep down, I do want the permanent cloud of hate to float away. It’s been following me everywhere I go for so long that I’m ready to see the light again.
Snorting at my thoughts because I’m currently being melted alive by literal light, I push open the waiting room door.
“—bullshit! The transmission is shot! I came in for a timing belt, and now this?”
My eyes slam into the body, raising hell. Tommy stands behind the counter where our POS system and computer sit. My boss isn’t the kind of guy to blow up over an unruly customer, but the tension in his face, the hard set of his jaw, and his wide stance tell me he’s close. I’ve only ever seen Tommy pop off a few times since I’ve been working here.
The storm cloud I was just thinking about opens up over my head, a torrent of toxic rain slamming into me, reminding me that I’ll never be free of it. My limbs lock up as I hover in the entryway, too afraid to move a muscle. Morgan slams his hands on the counter, snarling curses at Tommy.
“None of my guys would ever—”
“—fucking illegal pieces of shit. Yes, they—”
“—get out of my shop!” Tommy roars, throwing his hand out to point right where I’m standing.
The few people waiting, including the nice lady with shot spark plugs, look to me for help. They want me to step in, but I can’t move—I can barely breathe. When he came to the shop before, I ran before I got a good look at him. Manuel and Logan filled me in on his car, but I tuned most of it out to avoid an episode. Never in a million years did I think he’d come back. The racist spewage isn’t new for him; he’s always been a fucking monster.
I start to back out of the waiting room, but the bell on the door rings loudly above me, prompting Morgan to spin. His blue eyes burn with menace—with disdain and contempt. I feel it like a strong grip around my throat, squeezing and suffocating.
“It was fucking him,” he growls, stomping over to me, and I stumble backward.
Tommy is screaming at him to leave, hot on Morgan’s heels.
“You little bitch,” Morgan grabs a wad of my jumpsuit, his hot breaths hitting my lips and cheeks. Tears well in my eyes as I go limp.
I can’t fight him. I can’t.
“It was you, wasn’t it? Couldn’t fucking let it go, could you?” He shakes me, and Tommy screams for Manuel.
I’m hyperventilating, so stiff it feels like I’ll shatter under the slightest pressure. “I knew something was fucking weird. Knew that I was taking a risk having a fucking fag working here,” he spits in my face, pushing me back into a parked car. His , I realize.
“Stop,” I rasp, wishing with all my might that I could summon the strength needed to pry him off me.
He laughs, cruel and demented. Dropping his tone lower, he says, “You and I both know that means more. ”
I whimper.
The loud cock of a shotgun echoes through my ears, and I jump out of my skin. “Get your hands off him,” Tommy’s deep voice booms.
Morgan releases me, and I trip, landing in Manuel’s awaiting hands, but I scream, damn near blinded by the fog overtaking my vision. I scramble away from them all, tears streaming down my nose, my bile rushing up my throat. I don’t know how, but I manage to get around the back of the shop before I vomit all over my shoes. Endless chills ransack my body while I tremble and cough. There’s more shouting in the distance and a siren approaching. Someone called the cops.
Pointless .
“You okay?” I hear, recognizing Manuel’s voice.
I shake my head. “I have to leave.”
“Do you know that Puto?”
Again, I shake my head.
“Some lady called the cops.”
I won’t be staying. Reaching into my pocket, I quickly dial Jorge’s number. He answers on the second ring. “Hey. I was just going to text you—”
“Come get me,” I rasp, walking away from Manuel’s confused look.
“What happened?”
Closing my eyes and swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, I hang my head and whisper, “ Please. ”
“Okay, babe. I’ll be right there.”
“Stay on the phone with me. I—Jorge. Fuck. ”
“I’m right here. Heading out now.”