Page 31

Chapter 31

Olli

There’s something incredibly terrifying and powerful about showing someone your inner darkness—your true, whole self. Looking them in the eye and saying, here I am, all of me, ragged edges and shattered shards and all.

And when they don’t turn away . . .

It’s like being seen for the first time.

Like you’ve given someone all the pieces of your scattered puzzle, maybe not entirely put together, maybe not all the pieces in the right places, but there, all of them, in all their broken, ugly, dark beauty.

Nat Taylor still hasn’t turned away. In fact, he followed me into the woods and back again, and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t doing it for a quick—and man was it quick—frot against a tree, because he looked pretty shell-shocked when I pulled out the lube.

And now that we’re tromping back into my yard, Nat’s cheeks reddened from so many hours out in the cold, I realize he’s going to have to leave now, right, because he has a whole other life to get back to.

I don’t know how to feel about that. I don’t know how to feel about not knowing how to feel about it.

I’m exhausted. Inside and out. Because those dark spells have a way of wearing me down at the soul level, and that kind of wear-down you feel everywhere, like the shadow of it's etched into my bones .

Not to mention I’m an introvert, which means I require alone time—with my thoughts, my notebook, the TV or a book. And yet . . . I don’t want him to go.

I don’t want to think about what that means.

“You hungry?” I ask as we near the back door. “There’s a place down the street—” I freeze, hand on the knob. “I mean, that is . . . you’re welcome to stay, but like, it’s not like, required or anything. I mean, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter, or I’m not gonna . . . um.”

Way to go Olli. Way to go from zero: let’s keep it professional—to sixty: you found me half-dead and stayed and hooked up with me and now I’m inviting you to dinner—in one second flat.

Way. To. Go.

His hand covers mine, effectively shutting me up. And his next words come out soft and smooth and decidedly right. “What do you want?”

“What do you?” I cock my head to study the smooth, serious lines of his face, the questioning pull of his brows.

“I want to stay for dinner,” he says, soft and slow. “But only if you really want me to.”

Why does that make my heart flip over in my chest, my stomach fizz like I just swallowed a bunch of pop and Mentos? I want him to stay. I want to have dinner with him, study the lines of his face, the curve of his smile, want to ask him things, like why the hell he’s still here.

I shove through the door and into the house. “Don’t you have to get home to Syd?”

“Yeah, eventually.” He trails me into the house. “We have a shit-ton of leftovers, though, so she'll be okay.”

I feel him taking it all in, my little house, my . . . home isn’t quite the right word, because I haven’t been here long enough for it to feel like that, but my place. The place I’ve weirdly started to think of as home.

“You really like plants, huh?” He drifts towards the big bay window at the front of the open room, the rows and rows of little pots lined up inside. “All cactus though? ”

“Succulents.” I kick my boots off onto the mat. “Not going for a southwestern vibe. Just don’t want to risk death by dehydration during away games.”

His brows furrow in confusion for a hot second before he gets it. “You don’t have anyone to water your plants?”

“Why would I?” I shrug out of my coat, toss it into the coat tree. “I just moved here. So, if you like Chinese, the place down the street is really good. But since you’re like, a native, you probably have a million recommendations for better spots.”

“Avery could water your plants.”

I turn away from the coat tree to find him examining Tabitha. “What?”

“He’d be ecstatic to be helping out the great Olli James.” He flashes me a grin. “Plus, having a job might keep him out of trouble for a few minutes.”

“You think?” I pad across the room to the kitchen to unearth some glasses.

“Yeah. Trust me. I know.”

Suddenly I get it. “He’s you, isn’t he? When you were a kid.”

For a moment, there’s only the low thrum of water splooshing into glasses. Then Nat chuckles. “I’ll never understand how you do that. But yeah. He is.”

Suddenly, he’s at my side, arm brushing mine as he swipes a glass from my fingers. His breath whispers against my cheek. “He definitely has star-eyes for you.”

I turn, keeping my butt against the counter so my body angles towards his. We almost touch, but not quite. Like the sweetest temptation, the narrowest gap every cell and nerve in my body wants to eliminate. “Aww, two boys like me.”

“Nah.” Nat laughs, and I swear it makes me all melty and mushy inside. “It’s more like hero worship for him.”

“Hero worship!” I laugh and slide past him to the couch. Flop down, smack a hand against the cushions to invite him to roost with me. “How in the hell would he have hero worship for me when he sees you all the time?”

Nat plops down beside me, leaving half a cushion between us. “Um . . . because I’m his girlfriend’s father? Which by default makes me uncool. Also, have you met me? I’m a mess.”

“I don’t know about mess . . .” I wriggle my eyebrows.

“Oh, c’mon. I’m a disaster.” He’s grinning, joking, but there’s truth to those words, or at least a truth he believes. I don’t know what to believe, honestly.

I also don’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed for the space between us. On the one hand, it gives us room to be friends, to open up without the distraction of touch.

On the other hand, I’m now gonna overthink to the extreme about his reasons for leaving that space, like is he regretting everything, has he changed his mind, oh my God does he hate me—

Stop it, Olls.

He sat on the couch where there was space because we are friends, first and foremost. And frankly, I don’t want to be one of those guys who just wants to cuddle and touch and never talk .

“How about we order some food?” I slide my phone out, because I am actually starving, and because I need something to do with my hands and my brain and just . . . Overthinking, Olls. Stop it. “Chinese? Or you gonna give me a rec?”

“Chinese is good.” Nat scooches closer and leans in to peer over the screen of my phone.

The soft press of his shoulder might make me forget how to breathe or read or . . . what am I doing? Chinese food. Right? Menu, yes, that’s it.

“What’s good?” His words whisper across my cheek and I pretend like I don’t notice, like it doesn’t make all the wiring in my brain tangle up, all my nerves tingle, every cell stand at rapt attention like good little soldiers awaiting orders .

“Um. Everything? I’ve eaten here like every night,” I admit, then wince, because how sad is that, to eat the same Chinese takeout every night. It’s evidence that my life is a series of poorly planned meals grabbed at the last minute because I’ve been too busy filling my days with things to keep the darkness at bay.

“Pick something you haven’t had.” Nat relaxes back against the couch. “We’ll try something new.”

He stays close, and his legs relax into a soft V. The edge of his knee just brushes mine.

I, once again, pretend not to notice.

Pretend to focus on my phone as I click through the menu. “Anything you don’t like?”

“Nope. Wow me.”

“Challenge accepted.” I pinch my lower lip between my teeth as I scroll the menu. And maybe it’s because my brain’s half occupied, but only half, that the next words slip through. “You don’t really think you’re a mess, do you? ’Cause you’re not.”

Nat laughs, the sound a soft roil of disbelief. “You kidding? I’m . . . I’m here. In the same place where I was born and grew up . . .”

“So are plenty of people.” I tap a menu item. “Plenty of people stay in their hometowns, work the same kind of jobs they’ve always worked. Most of them aren’t a mess.”

“But I’m . . .” He tilts his head back against the cushions to stare at the ceiling. “I’m backwards. You see that, right? It’s one thing to be where you’ve always been, dreaming of better days or making plans or . . . whatever. But when you had that and lost it, when you know the only way you have to go is backwards—”

Nat cuts off. Suddenly. Voice choked. And I almost put down my phone, almost turn to look at him, to study the lines of his face, but I know better. I know when you stare at the ceiling like that, eyes out of focus, voice choked, I know you don’t want to be looked at.

So I focus on the menu. On the task of selecting and ordering. “You know, one of the most frustrating things about having clinical depression is the shocking number of people who will tell you to just stop being sad. Just stop thinking about the stuff that’s bringing you down. Just be happy . . .”

I let the words trail off because I don’t really know where I was going. Didn’t have a plan, just needed to get some words out. I feel his gaze rather than see it, feel the way he’s tilted his head to look at me, to study my profile.

That gaze is a caress.

“I’m not trying to, like . . .” I hit send on the menu to place the order, and click my phone closed. “I guess what I’m saying is that what you feel, it’s valid. It’s legit. It cuts to the bone and it sucks, to feel like the world is a weight on your shoulders that you’ll never get out from underneath.”

I finally dare a glance up at him. He’s still got his head back against the couch, tilted towards me so our eyes meet.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s what it feels like.”

I don’t look away. “You had a dream, and you lost it, and that sucks . How would anything else ever feel the same?”

“I don’t even want it anymore. I just . . . I don’t know how to move on.” He squeezes his eyes closed, hard enough I wonder what he’s fighting—an emotion inside or one on the outside, an expression he doesn’t want me to see. “When you had your back surgery, and they didn’t know if you’d play again . . . How did you keep going?”

I tuck my phone into my pocket, and I notice how his hand lies on the cushion between our bodies. So I set mine down, right next to his. Close that distance between us.

The edge of my pinkie brushes the edge of his. So light it might have been an accidental touch. “I was fifteen. I wanted to prove them all wrong.”

He chuckles, and if he objects to our pinkies brushing, he doesn’t move away. “Stubbornness. Guess we have that in common.”

“There were days I doubted myself.” I shrug, clench the hand in my lap into a fist. “But yeah, I’m stubborn. I had a dream, and I wasn’t gonna let any doctors tell me I couldn’t have it.”

“I know the feeling. Or, I did.”

“You still do.” I dare a glance towards him, to his profile, his gaze directed towards the ceiling again. “Even the dreams we think are dead are hard to let go of.”

His eyes flick towards me. “But your dream isn’t dead.”

“Not yet. But . . .” My turn to stare at the ceiling. It’s that swirly popcorn stuff, and I never noticed before. “It’s more like . . .”

“More like what?”

The next words tumble off my tongue before I realize I’ve even thought them. “I know, deep down, I have what it takes. But I still wonder . . . if it’s right for me? If I really, truly want it when it’s always gonna be a fight, you know? Not just to get there, but to stay there. I don’t know if I have the energy to fight like that.”

“Because of the darkness.” It’s not a question. “Because you’re already fighting another battle.”

Nat’s words shock me into silence for maybe a full minute. They roil around in my head, rattle in my ribcage. They’re real and heavy and light all at once. Truth, my truth, but not spoken by me. Which means, somehow, he understood.

He saw me, and I don’t know that anybody’s ever seen me like that before.

“It’s so hard to fight for a dream,” I murmur, keeping my voice low in an attempt to steady it. “When you’re fighting yourself too.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth.” The pressure against my pinkie increases as his hand moves closer. “Fighting yourself and everybody who’s telling you you can’t do it. Or to just get over it.”

“Exactly. Sometimes, you even convince yourself they’re all right. Like, look how good life is—look at all the good things you have! ”

Nat’s finger slides over mine, curling around it. Touching, fully, our two fingers enmeshed together. “Get your head on straight and be grateful.”

“Look how many beautiful things occupy all the dusty corners you’ve forgotten to look in!” My dry chuckle bears no amusement. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes you can distract yourself for a little bit. Run from the darkness.”

“But you always come back to square one,” he murmurs, and I can only nod.

“And sometimes,” I whisper to the ceiling. “Sometimes there’s nothing to feel at all. Sometimes you’re just hollow and hopeless and no amount of gratitude mantras or wilderness hikes can fill you back up.”

“Is that what happened?” Nat’s head tilts towards me. “Yesterday?”

“Yep. And when I’m there . . . feels like I’m never gonna get out, you know? Like it’s forever, and when it’s forever, what’s the point? And even . . . even when I get out, I know it’s coming back. I’ll be there again, and I hate that. I think about it all the time. It clouds the good moments, knowing the bad ones are coming back . . .”

His pinkie curls around mine, like a hug. “Did it make a difference, having me there?”

“Yeah.” I huff out the faintest laugh. “Yeah, it did, actually. Dunno if it always will, but yesterday . . .”

I tilt my head up to meet his gaze, eye to eye, so he knows I’m serious when I deliver the next words. “It was everything.”

Those green eyes widen, the only sign of any emotion my words might have evoked. “Will you . . . call me next time?”

“No,” I tell him, honestly, because I won’t. When I get there, to that place, to that dark hole of hopeless hollowness . . . It’s almost like you don’t want to get out. Don’t want to be found, rescued, because there’s something so relieving about being there, at the bottom. “No, I won’t.”

“I’ll come anyway.”

My chest tightens almost to the point of pain, so forcing a breath into my lungs feels like fighting. “ You don’t—”

“I want to.” His hand sweeps around mine, twining our fingers together. He’s holding my goddamn hand, and he squeezes. “If you don’t call me, I’ll come anyway.”

I laugh again, a pained choke of sound that might be half a sob, but I’m not sure anymore because I don’t understand any of the emotion welling up inside my chest. “Why? Why would you do that?”

I regret the question as soon as it leaves my lips, but he doesn’t turn away or drop my hand.

“Because I want to. Because . . .” His eyes drop down to our entwined hands, and he squeezes again as he lifts our hands up between us. “Because this feels right.”

“What does? Me?”

“You. Us.”

I study the way his gaze trails over our hands, our fingers. The way his brows pull down, but his mouth relaxes. He really doesn’t understand it, but he’s not fighting it either.

“And you’re not . . . bothered by being into a guy?”

He chuckles, lowers our hands. “I mean, I never really thought about it much, I guess. I’ve kissed a few guys—sorry, Aspen, you’re not my first. But in general, my relationships just fizzle out before they start.”

“And then I came around and threw everything into chaos.” I grin, wide and free. “I’m flattered.”

“You’re something, that’s for sure.”

“Do you hate me for it?”

“Hate you?” His brows shoot skyward. “Never. Confused about how something like that happens at thirty-five, but I’m kind of over questioning it.”

“I dunno.” I roll my head side to side against the couch. “Maybe you’re demi or something?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve had plenty of—” He breaks off with a wince. “Well, I won’t give you the details, but I don’t think I’m demi.”

“Then it must just be my overwhelming sex appeal.” I grin again, and this time he grins back .

“That must be it.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

“Right now?” His brows twist up again.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Then do it.” I squeeze his fingers in mine, then let go so I can lift my fingers to his cheek. The rough press of dark stubble grazes their tips. “Kiss me. Please.”

He leans forward into my touch, so it’s my whole palm against his cheek, tracking the scratch of his day-old beard. So the distance between us closes, so I feel the heat of his chest nearly against mine, so his thigh presses my leg, and the bone of his knee angles into mine.

So those beautiful lips fill my vision, and I can nearly taste him again, feel the soft press—

The chime of the doorbell tears through all that lovely tension.

We jerk apart in surprise. Our gazes meet . . . and we both laugh.

“The danged food,” I groan, swiping a hand down my face as I stand. “I’ve never been cock-blocked by Chinese food before, dammit.”

The driver has left the food on the front step, so I lean out the door to swipe the plastic bag up as the teal Taurus backs down the driveway. I let the door fall closed again, but before I can turn around, a warm body presses against mine. Warm arms encircle my waist. And a set of soft lips folds into the hollow of my throat.

I groan.

Can’t help it.

Not when he feels like this—soft and warm and strong. Not when my body melts against him, like if he let go my knees might give out and I’d pool onto the front porch in a sloppy puddle.

“The food smells good,” he murmurs against my neck, his nose nudging the underside of my jaw, and I groan again.

“Why am I not thinking about food?”

“I don’t know. Why aren’t you? ”

I tilt my head back onto his shoulder. “You either have to let go, or take me to bed and ravage me.”

“That doesn’t seem like much of a choice.” His arms tighten around me, and his lips brush my jaw. “You have a very comfortable bed.”

“I do.” With every ounce of willpower I possess, I pull myself out of his embrace. “And I’m incredibly eager to have you back in it. I am also starving.”

He laughs. “Fair. Fuel up first.”

I groan, but not a sexy groan this time. One of those dismayed-cringe groans where I’m also rolling my eyes and kind of regretting my decision to pull away but also very starving.

I’d probably pass out if we tried to get it on right now. Besides, I’m tired , in that post-episode phase still, which means I’ll probably eat and then sleep like a rock.

Besides, as much as I want to let him engulf me, I know better. I’ve always been a he-falls-first kinda guy—maybe it’s something to do with being demi, or maybe just being soft twinky little Olli, but when you’re the one who falls first, you’re the one who gets hurt first too.

This is so right, so beautiful, and there’s no possible way it can end well. Right? Great big jumbo feelings like this are never a good thing—especially when you’re not sure how much they’re returned.

Besides, I have big dreams that don’t mesh well with big feelings.