Page 29

Chapter 29

Nat

Olli leaves halfway through practice. He leaves, and he doesn’t text back or answer his phone. And that’s decidedly out of character.

As was his performance in practice—he was off. His feet were flat and his hands had lost their magic and he missed every shot. I know that feeling, when something else gets into your head and rearranges your wiring so even hockey doesn’t make sense anymore. That’s usually when I fight.

But Olli’s not like that.

Hockey is his dream, so much more than it ever was mine, and he’d never miss practice without a good reason. Maybe that’s why I track down Coach after I Zam the ice.

“Come to talk about the Ice Out, Taylor?” Coach asks as I enter, not lifting his eyes from the screen of his phone. “You want to go deliver some invitations for me?”

“Where’s Olli?” I ask, because I don’t give a flying fuck about the Ice Out right now. Not when the whole world feels strangely off balance without the little ghost to haunt me.

“Sick.” Coach turns back to his computer. “I had him leave early.”

My stomach churns, because sick isn’t the right word. It’s a word used to excuse something away when nobody wants the true explanation.

Sick? Bullshit .

Maybe that’s why I do the next thing, a bold, uncharacteristic bit of interference I wouldn’t have run with anyone except Sydney. “I want to check up on him. Do you know where he lives?”

It’s a toss up, whether Coach can—and will—provide me with the information. Legally, he probably shouldn’t. So I give him one more nudge. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Maybe Coach is concerned, or too distracted by the open tryouts, but he gives me the address, and then I’m in my car and on my way.

The tiny cottage sits at the end of a narrow, tree-lined lane, and everything about it is Olli . The aspens woven in with the pines along the road and towering up over the house. The dormant ivy creeping up the quiet stone walls, the steeply sloped roof. The silver truck in front. The snow cleared from the plants around the driveway and front walk, the clay pots arranged on the front porch, the plants peeking through the large bay window overlooking the snowy front yard.

I knock softly against the door. “Olli? It’s me. Nat.”

No answer. I shift sideways towards the big bay window, cup my hands around the glass, and peer into the dim room beyond. There are no lights inside, but the slanting morning sunlight seeps in enough to illuminate a small kitchen and dining area, a tiny living room, all one open floor plan. I can’t see much beyond that.

I return to the door and knock again, louder. “Olli?”

Nothing.

Another knock. “Aspen! It’s Mouse.”

Nothing.

Uncharacteristic worry churns my gut. He must be here, because his truck is here, and he wouldn’t miss practice to go hiking. If he’s sick and inside and not answering . . .

Something’s wrong.

My fingers curl around the doorknob, expecting resistance, but the handle turns smoothly. Like an invitation, or more likely, an oversight. Is it still an invasion of privacy if you’re legitimately concerned? If someone hasn’t answered their phone, isn’t coming to the door, the lights off . . .

Maybe it’s me he’s avoiding, I consider, and then the thought is gone and I push the door open and step inside.

Faint motes of dust spin gently in the escaped sunbeams streaking through the bay window onto the lightly scuffed wood floor. It smells like him, the air of the dim kitchen, the open living-dining room, like strawberries and coffee, sweet and bitter all at once.

“Olli?” I call, my voice hushed, as if I’ve entered a church. My gaze sweeps the little room: the patched couch facing the warm yellow wall; the weathered coffee table between it and the matching TV stand; behind it, the empty glass atop the round dining table; the discarded plate and fork on the kitchen counter beside the sink.

Everything about it is soft, warm, worn down in a comfortable way.

Everything about it is Olli—but Olli isn’t here.

“Olli?” I start towards the hallway at the back. My tennis shoes echo hollowly over the wooden floorboards, giving the place a cavernous, empty feel it shouldn’t have, not with how small it is. “Olli? It’s Nat.”

The narrow hallway contains only two doors—the bathroom stands open, empty, the tiny shower and tub clean and vacant, along with the sink and vanity. Which just leaves . . .

I stand in front of another closed door, reconsidering my invasion of privacy once again. There’s no way he hasn’t heard me coming in, calling for him, walking around.

Unless he’s asleep.

I wince. How did I not consider that?

Well, I’m here. And he’s got to be behind that door, either ignoring me or avoiding me or asleep—all of which are good reasons for me to tuck my tail between my legs and retreat like the dog I am.

Instead, I lift my knuckles to the door and knock. “Olli? Let me know you’re okay at least?”

“I’m fine.” His words drift through the door so soft and low I wonder if I imagined them.

They’re not him. Not at all. Not the bright, beautiful, sunshiny Aspen I know.

“No, you’re not.” I push the door open without thinking. That voice is just so broken, like shattered shards scratching against my soul, like someone begging for help without wanting anyone to know how desperately they’re reaching out.

The room beyond the door is dark, nearly pitch, the curtains drawn tightly against the bright morning sunshine outside. It’s neat, if a little minimalist—a desk against the wall beneath the window, closed closet doors to the right, bed wedged into the corner against the left.

A discarded pair of pants and T-shirt lie on the floor beside the bed. And in the bed, bundled beneath a bright paisley quilt, lies Olli James. Curled in on himself in a tiny ball, his eyes open and out of focus, staring into the abyss of the room like he’s lost the ability to see.

Olli James. Aspen. The ghost I never want to stop haunting me.

He doesn’t even look up at me. “Go away.”

“Oh, little ghost,” I breathe, and I’m not thinking anymore, not questioning. There is only him, lying there, ashen and limp and lifeless, like he’s barely clinging to life, to his own breath. Truly a ghost. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

His eyes stare at nothing. “Nothing happened.”

The words shatter against me, hard and cold, rough and ragged, maybe not intended to cut but certainly not softened to prevent such injury. I’m at his side in an instant. Kneeling beside the bed, trying to read the empty lines of his face. “Are you sick? Hurt?”

“No.”

My mind struggles to make sense of what I’m seeing. “But you weren’t at practice today.”

“No. I can’t skate.” The words fade to a murmur. “Not like this. Why do you think no teams want to keep me?”

My chest clenches like someone’s wrapped a giant fist around my heart and squeezed. “How about a walk, then?”

“No. ”

“But you love being out in nature.” I inch closer. He looks so unlike the Olli I know—the Olli that’s fire on the ice, that’s alive in the woods, that’s laughter at bars—it leaves me breathless. The covers bunch under his chin, but one of his hands extends off the side of the bed, poking through the warmth and protection of that blanket.

“Go away.”

Without thinking, I reach out to brush my fingers against his palm. He shudders under my touch, starts to withdraw—

“Oh, little ghost,” I whisper, and he stops short.

“What did you call me?”

“Little ghost,” I murmur, and when my eyes lift from his hand, pulled halfway back under the blankets, to his broken, empty face, he’s looking at me now. “Because you haunt me. Because I can’t tell you to go away. Because I don’t want to.”

He says nothing, but the covers lift in a deep breath, and his eyes stay fixed on mine.

“You want me to go?” I ask. “Tell me what you need first. I can’t leave you like this. Water? Food? When was the last time you ate?”

He just stares at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“C’mon, Olli. Talk to me.” I start to rise. “I’ll make you some breakfast. Eggs? Everybody has eggs, right? And toast—”

“I don’t need anything,” he says finally, his voice toneless, raspy, like it’s been unused for weeks. “I just need to sit in the dark.”

I drop back down beside him.

“If you need to sit in the dark,” I murmur, my fingers tracing the lines of his palm, long beautiful, elegant lines, “then let me sit with you.”

“Mouse,” he whispers, and his eyes fade out of focus again, slide away. “I can’t be strong today.”

I’ve been acting on instinct since I entered this room, like some other magnetic force pulls me, guides my actions and words. So I don’t think. I stand, walk to the bottom of the bed, and climb on top. He doesn’t move as I slink softly up. Doesn’t protest as I pull back the covers and slide in behind him .

“You don’t need to be strong.” I wrap my arm around his bare torso and pull him against me. “I’m here. You don’t have to be anything right now. Let me be strong for you.”

“I’ll be okay.” He softens against me, his words a murmur. “It won’t . . . it won’t last. I just . . . can’t fight the sadness today.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.” I pull him closer, so our bodies meld together. So his bare back presses to my chest and his curls whisper against my cheek. So his backside, covered only by boxers, nestles against my groin and our legs tangle and it’s at once the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced and the least sensual.

Maybe that’s why I whisper the words. “Never stop haunting me, Olli James.”

When his body trembles against mine, I realize he’s crying. So softly I can’t hear it, so softly it’s just the shake of his shoulders that lets me know anything’s changed. But he’s crying, he’s breaking, shattering, and there’s nothing I can do for him. Nothing I can do to hold back the dark.

I start humming, giving him a buffer of sound so he doesn’t have to choke back on the tears, so he can come apart entirely and maybe then we can put him back together. And when I arrive at the chorus, I sing, low and soft and sweet, a song just for him, for us.

His song.

Our song.

I didn’t want the world to see my true colors

The true darkness of my soul

But here I am, enveloped in Olli’s darkness, holding him like I’m holding him together, holding us together.

He comes apart in my arms as I sing. Crying, the sound ripping ragged from his throat, his body juddering against mine, and I keep singing, keep holding him, holding us, together in the dark.

I don’t know who falls asleep first.