Nepenthe (Bracing for Love #2) Page 4

  She gets it.

  She knows.

  This is why she said what she did after she came back into my bedroom that day. It’s how she knew.

  She gets it.

  Someone understands, like really understands.

  Or, I thought so until she continues, shattering the burst of hope I had. “Not me personally, but a…someone close to me. I was a bystander who watched it unfold,” she adds with sorrow. Her focus has shifted back out the window, her food long forgotten.

  “I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

  She glances at me, surprised and a bit confused. “For what?”

  “My siblings aren’t around to see how I am, and it’s something I’m grateful for. I’m sorry you had to watch someone go through it.”

  “Thanks.” The waiter drops off the bill and she looks relieved.

  I grab it before she can and slip my card inside, handing it right back to him. Part of me is anxious to go, while the other half wants to stay here with Olivia. We both probably need a break from one another, though. We don’t say anything on the way back home, lost in our thoughts as much as I’m lost about my life. As we’re walking up the stairs, Olivia speaks.

  “If you ever want to talk, I’m here. Or if you want someone around, you could text me and I’ll come over. I know you’d probably rather have one of your siblings or one of your friends, but just in case.”

  I don’t want my siblings involved, if possible, and my friends were my teammates, which I no longer have, though a few text me here and there.

  I’m alone.

  Alone, off course from my life, and desperate. For what exactly, I’m not sure.

  “Thanks. Same for you,” I offer in return.

  “Thanks.” Olivia smiles. “Have a good day, Corey.” I don’t think anyone has ever meant those words as much as she does right now. Words so simple that most people take them for granted and just tag on a, “You too,” in response. People say it to say it, as a social formality. Not Olivia. She says it because she truly wants me to have a good day.

  “You too,” I reply, meaning it as much as she does. Then I turn, unlock my door, and escape to the prison of my apartment. There’s still a good portion of the day to get through before work tonight. For a moment, I despise this place. It’s a home void of emotions, where I seem to lose a sense of good in the world. At the same time, it’s my comfort, my place away from people where I can be alone when I want it to be that way. I lie on the couch, stare at the ceiling, and rerun breakfast.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I replay it in my head, I keep coming back to the same question.

  Is Olivia right?

  Of course she is, dummy. We’ve been here before. Only it’s never been this bad. You can’t hide this forever.

  Ignoring my inner dialogue, I continue my thoughts. And if she is right, have I reached a point where I actually need professional help?

  No. Yes. Maybe?

  A flashback to earlier this week surges forward. That might have been my lowest of the low.

  Is help something that’s possible?

  My injury won’t change. All I want is to be able to play. I want my constant back, my way of handling life back, but that’s not ever going to happen again. So, why get help? Just so I won’t be miserable? For me to smile and laugh and feel good most of the time? Is it possible?

  It doesn’t seem likely. This isn’t my first go-round. This is a lifetime kind of problem. No one wants that, certainly not me. Before now, I’ve always been able to manage it and deny that it was an issue, whatever it is. I’m not about to deem myself depressed just yet. My heart constricts and threatens to explode with the word, so I can only imagine what a diagnosis would do.

  However, I’m no longer in control here. And since this dark beast I’m battling has enough power that I can’t manage it anymore, how much longer can I attempt to deny its existence before it unravels me completely?

  A couple hours pass between looking at the ceiling and finally making a trip to the grocery store. It becomes apparent that I have too much time on my hands. My mind is working nonstop, thinking about everything and nothing, and I can feel each brain cell running in circles, slamming into the walls of my skull, and dying upon impact as I slowly lose my sanity. Or, it could be the headache I’m getting. Either way, I’m definitely getting another job. Before I head into work, I notice a text from Jonathan from this morning, and one from Lucy just now.

  Jon: Hope you’re doing ok, bro. Things will get better. We’re here for you too.

  I don’t know if I should be impressed or concerned. Jon isn’t a big texter, and he’s like me; he doesn’t get emotional. So, either he’s really worried or he’s just reaching out to me.

  Me: Thanks.

  It’s wrong of me, I know, but I’m jealous of him and Patrick. We were a trio, a force to be reckoned with on that field, and now, it’s only them. I’m proud of them, wish them the best of luck, and hope they go far, but I wish I could have those things too. We used to talk football. Not anymore. I avoid talking about it as much as possible because I can’t stomach the thought of it. Like speaking of it would be like me pretending it’s still my game, when it’s not.

  Sighing, I open Lucy’s.

  Lucy: Just wanted to say I love you. :) <3 Do something fun this weekend, okay?

  Me: Love you, Luce. I will.

  Fun.

  What does fun even mean anymore?

  Work drags by with the exception of having to escort a couple of rowdy drunks out. It’s late when I get home and freezing cold outside. My eyes naturally glance at Olivia’s door before I reach my own. I wonder if she’s still awake.

  Something in me wants to find out. I don’t want to go home yet. Olivia said she would be there if I wanted someone around, and as of this second, I want someone around. Leaving my apartment behind, I cross the hallway and knock tentatively on her door. Hope she’s not sleeping.

  “Just a second!” I hear her yell.

  A feeling of relief passes through me. But two minutes later, she still hasn’t come to the door. I’m about to give up when she opens it.

  “Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t want to hit pause on my game. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I just got back from work, and I…” I what? What in the hell am I doing here?

  “Want to come in?” Olivia finishes for me, stepping aside so I can do so.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” She leads me into her living room where there’s a car on the TV and a controller to a game system on the coffee table. She was playing a racing video game? I haven’t done that since I was a kid with my brothers. “Want to play?” she asks as we sit down on the couch. “This is like my escape. I should warn you that I’m very competitive, though.”

  I take the controller she hands me. “Do you drive here like you do in real life?”

  Olivia laughs, shaking her head before smirking at me. “Yes, and I’m even better in the game.”

  Her response cracks me up. “Let’s play then.”

  We pick our cars, she selects a track, and the screen splits as the countdown begins. Olivia revs the engine of her car, making me chuckle. The race begins. She immediately starts cursing the other drivers until she forces her way past them with a laugh and a, “Haha! Suckers!” Or, “Nana nana boo boo, y’all aren’t ever going to catch up.”

  I haven’t heard someone say ‘nana nana boo boo’ in a long, long time. It causes me to laugh so much that I come in dead last. Olivia comes in first.

  “I nearly lost with all your laughing. You’re distracting.” She gives me a pointed look, like I better not dare cause her to lose.

  “You are too. Restart and I’ll focus.”

  She does and I try. Olivia is just too funny. Between the cussing and the gloating she alternates between depending on which place she’s in, I laugh way more than I win.

  “Darn it!” she huffs as she spins out after clipping a guard rail. Th
is is my first chance to pass her, maybe even win. I fly right by her. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she mutters, gaining speed behind me.

  I’m within seconds of winning when she bumps into me from behind, sending me spinning and crashing into the sidewalk. She wins.

  “You play dirty, Olivia.” I shake my head at her.

  “Sometimes you have to.”

  I SPEND MOST of the next day sleeping, since it was pretty late when I walked over from Olivia’s last night and I could actually sleep. Lucy’s text telling me to have fun this weekend runs through my mind again. The only person I really know here and would feel comfortable hanging out with is Olivia. Reaching for my phone, I text her.

  Me: Dinner? My place?

  Olivia: You’re a lazy texter, Corey. C’mon, I deserve better.

  Me: Do you want to have dinner with me?

  Olivia: Since you asked so nicely, yes. My place though. I’ll cook. & wear something you could exercise in. Don’t ask questions. Just do it.

  Um. What? Why? But I can’t ask questions. I’m concerned this will turn out as badly as her driving. I do like I’m told, though. When I walk over to her door in sweatpants and a t-shirt, I feel ridiculous. This can’t be normal, right? Olivia opens the door before I can change my mind and leave. She’s dressed in black capri yoga pants and a pink tank top, her yellow sports bra peeking from underneath.

  “Why am I wearing this?”

  “I said not to ask questions,” she answers as I come in. There’s two blue yoga mats where the coffee table was last night. It’s since been pushed out of the way.

  “I’m not doing yoga.”

  “Yes, you are if you want to eat. C’mon. You’ll like it, I promise.” She takes my hand in her smaller one and pulls me closer to the mats. She positions me at the end and moves to her own. I glance at her. This isn’t about to happen. There’s no way she’s about to convince me to do this. Noticing my look, she lifts her hand and rests it on my bicep. “It’ll make you feel good, clear your head, and you’ll enjoy it.” Yeah. Probably not. “C’mon, Corey. I was up until four this morning for you and I had to work today. You can do this for me.” Her tone convinces me not to argue.

  “Where do you work, and what do you want me to do?”

  She lifts her arms straight up in the air. “This, and relax your muscles. I’m a tutor. Take a deep breath.”

  I do.

  This is stupid.

  “Okay, put them down. Do this.” Olivia puts the heel of one of her feet on the inside of her other thigh and lifts her arms in the air. “You can put your foot on your ankle if your balance sucks. This is the tree pose.”

  “Remind me why I’m doing this again,” I mumble as I try to control my balance and do it like she is. My balance doesn’t suck. My body leans a little too much to one side and I reluctantly do the easier stance. Okay, maybe it sucks some.

  “Because I asked you to. Other leg.” We move on to a triangle pose and then something called warrior. When we do a downward dog, which looks as ridiculous as the name sounds, Olivia tries to hold in her laughter as she looks over at me.

  “If you’re going to laugh, I’m going to stop,” I threaten. It’s not too bad, but I don’t exactly see why I would do this on a regular basis yet.

  “Oh, chill out. You can laugh at me too if you want.”

  “You don’t look funny.” And she doesn’t. She looks in control and almost graceful. There’s a line of skin peeking between the top of her pants and her shirt. Now that is distracting, especially when there’s no logical reason for me to keep looking at her. Well, actually, yes there is. I’m making sure I’m doing this right.

  We do a few more, my favorite being the child’s pose, if I have to have a favorite. Go figure. My knee will let me do yoga, but not play football. Olivia faces me once we stand after rolling the mats up.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I guess not. It’s harder than you make it look, though.”

  She gives me a big smile. “Thanks. I do a routine every day. I could slow it down and do some easier ones for a while if you wanted to do it with me.”

  Me? A tough, used-to-play-football, bulky guy doing yoga? Possibly enjoying it?

  When I don’t answer fast enough, she pats my shoulder. “Think about it, okay? While I start cooking, you can move my coffee table back for me. Please, and thank you.” She heads for the kitchen without another word.

  I move the table and follow after her. “Need any help?”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Depends.”

  She laughs at my answer. “You can sit this one out.”

  Even though she just moved in, she’s at home here and moves around easily. I watch her while she talks about something. What she’s cooking, I think. Her bangs are pinned back again and as she turns and goes about getting ingredients, I can’t help but appreciate her looks. She really is beautiful. Sometimes, I’m so caught up in myself that I don’t notice other things. I probably shouldn’t be called a guy because I missed it the last few times I’ve been around her.

  “So, what made you want to have dinner with me?”

  I lift my eyes to hers as she turns to face me, still keeping a watch on the food. “My sister told me to have fun this weekend. I was trying to do that, but ended up doing yoga instead.”

  Olivia smiles. “What’s your sister’s name? Patrick never said. Do you always do what she tells you?”

  “Lucy, and no, I don’t. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “One older sister and a younger brother. I’m six years younger than my sister and two years older than my brother.”

  “We’re all about a year to a year and a half apart. Are y’all close?”

  Her shoulder lifts and falls in a shrug. “Sometimes we get along, and sometimes we don’t.”

  I nod like I understand.

  “What’s your last name?” She frowns as if she’s just realizing she doesn’t know it. Hers is Bayne, I know, thanks to having seen her ID.

  “Kennedy.”

  Her frown deepens, like her mind is working. She turns towards the stove to stir the spaghetti sauce. “Have you always gone to this school?” Her question sounds casual, but it’s not. She’s fishing for information.

  “No.” If Olivia somehow recognized my name, then she knows more about what happened to me than I’ve told her. We aren’t going to discuss it. She can tell me I’m depressed and I need help and I should stop lying, but my injury is off limits.

  “Where did you go before?” She knows she’s close to crossing the line because she won’t turn around and look at me, too focused on the food. This is the first time I’ve seen her do that.

  “Why do you want to know?” I ask evenly.

  Olivia sighs and finally faces me again. “It’s not like you’re just going to tell me, are you?” I shake my head. “Fine. I’ll flat-out ask. I don’t know how I didn’t catch it before since you have two brothers, one whose name is Patrick and I would bet the other is Jonathan. You played for Salem University, right? My brother goes there and he loves football. He always mentions something about the Kennedy brothers.”

  I don’t respond. I’m not talking about it. I refuse. This is something I am in control of and there’s no way I’m changing my mind. I haven’t talked about it since it happened and I don’t plan on starting now.

  “I remember him telling me the story when you were injured,” she tries, balancing carefully on the line she’s walking. “A knee injury, right? One too many and you were unable to play. C’mon, Corey. Talk to me,” she eggs on softly.

  “What do you want me to say, Olivia?!” I explode, tired of her pushing me. “Sounds to me like you know the full story already. I got hit in practice! Practice, not even in an actual game. Yeah, one too many hits to the knee, perfect wording. Thank God I had some money saved and a job because since I couldn’t play, I lost my scholarship and had to pay for my last semester. I got injured, lost the game I’ve been p
laying all my life, and apparently, lost what I had left of my fucking mind while I was at it! What more do you want to know?!”

  My yelling doesn’t faze her, which pisses me off, honestly. My brothers and I have always been able to intimidate people when we needed to, usually when concerning something with Lucy. Olivia doesn’t even seem to care that I raised my voice at her. She should be pissed. She doesn’t deserve to be yelled at, no girl does.

  But she isn’t. She’s calm.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push too far. I just wanted you to talk about it because I have a feeling you haven’t. You hardly ever talk about anything meaningful. I mean, seriously, who do you call when you have a bad day? Who do you call when you need to complain or rant or share something amazing that happened that day? Who do you talk to, Corey?”

  My answer is short and simple. “I don’t need to talk.”

  “Everyone does, including you.”

  “Are you a therapist now?”

  She smirks for some reason. “Not today, but someday I will be. It’s the job I’m earning a degree for.” Son of a bitch. That’s why she smirked.

  “Well, I don’t need to be your test subject.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave you alone.” She pauses before adding, “for now. Grab the plates from that cabinet.”

  I’m still pissed, but she’s moved on. How can she so easily move from one emotion to the next? I’m in a constant battle over mine, trying to rein them in and control them. It’s nearly impossible, but Olivia has no problem doing it herself.

  Sighing, I retrieve the plates. She fills them with noodles and sauce before grabbing utensils and we sit down at the bar. Olivia infuriates me. She pushes and prods and makes it seem normal for her to do so. She does it all with few objections from me. Why? Because I can’t find it in myself to tell her to go away like I did before? Because maybe, just maybe, I want her to push.

  As we eat, Olivia doesn’t say anything. At first, it doesn’t bother me, but the longer she’s quiet, the more it does. Probably because Lucy’s silence, her refusal to talk after my parents died, has always haunted me. Every time she gets upset now, she goes quiet. I can’t stand it. Is it possible that Olivia’s not talking because she’s upset I yelled at her and she’s going to stop trying? We can still have a conversation.