by Arthurs, Nia
My hands are trembling. Am I so obsessed I’m seeing Ollie when he’s not there?
I top his steaming cup with the lid and swing back around to find the guy staring at me. He drags his gaze, slow and steady, from my butt to my eyes, as if he wants me to know that he’s been looking and that he approves of what he sees.
I barely hide the grimace.
Sure, he’s sporting some signs of wealth, but I’ve been in this game long enough to know that the really rich guys don’t flaunt. They’re subtler, classier.
At least most of them are.
A few jerks do slip through the cracks. Mostly new money. Some old money, gold-spooned idiots who think they own the world because they can throw cash at it.
I never count anyone out.
“Is there anything else I can get you this morning?” I ask, handing him his coffee.
“Only your number.”
I snort. “Original.”
“If it ain’t broke…”
“I’m afraid that line’s been broken for a long time, but no one’s been nice enough to point it out to you.”
“You really know how to hit a man where it hurts, sweetheart.” He clutches his chest.
Despite his cheesy pickup lines and ogling, I find myself oddly amused. I’d never sleep with this guy, but I’m willing to find out if he’s worth a couple rounds of flirting and maybe a date or two.
It’s been so long since I’ve dated anyone.
Which is probably why I’ve been seeing Ollie in my dreams.
I grab a cupcake and slide it over. “Here.”
“Is this an apology?”
“A bribe.” I arch an eyebrow. “Don’t tell anyone you got hurt in my shop.”
He chuckles and, for the first time, the hazy gleam in his eyes shifts to genuine interest. “I like you.”
“You’ve got strange taste.”
“I’ve got exquisite taste.” His eyes dip to my lips. “I wonder if they’ll be as sweet as they look?”
“Excuse me?”
He picks up his cupcake and his coffee and then slides a twenty into the tip jar. “If you’re planning to bribe me, I’ll need more than one of these. I’m a greedy man.”
I start to dive for another cupcake—he gave me a twenty, after all, I can more than spare it—but he reaches out and stops me.
“Don’t. I’ll come back another day to collect.” With a wink and a smirk, he’s gone.
I should be flattered.
And a little worried that he’s planning on returning expecting free food.
But I’m not.
That smile of his… all I can think about is Ollie.
As the bell chimes and the door slams behind him, I wilt against the counter and bury my face in my hands.
Something is wrong with me.
Why can’t I get Ollie out of my head?
6 Ollie
I’m heading to the bank to make a deposit when my phone rings. Annoyed, I fish it out of my pocket and hold the door open for a woman who, after catching one look at me, clutches her purse and scrambles out like I opened the door intending to rob her.
In front of a bank.
With guards.
People are strange.
Especially the ones who still pay with cash in this age of credit cards and apps. Hell, one of the first things I did for the gym was commission an app so clients could follow their health progress and pay online if they’d rather not give me their credit card information.
Stress on the online part.
Jenine’s off for the day. I want to get this chore out of the way so I can focus on more pressing matters.
The phone rings again. Jars me from my thoughts.
I pick up. Answer gruffly. “Yeah?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Grouch. Can you hand the phone over to my brother?”
I recognize Teale’s voice and stop in my tracks. “Bro.”
“Hey, Ollie.”
“What’s up, man? It’s been a while.”
“I’m in town for a visit. Any chance I could buy my older brother a drink?”
“I—”
“Wait. You don’t drink, right? How about I treat you to some coffee instead?”
“Yeah. I’m free later this afternoon.”
“I was thinking more like tomorrow.” He chuckles. “I’m afraid I’ve over-stayed my welcome at the coffee shop I like.”
“No problem. Tomorrow works too.”
“Great. Later, bro.”
The line clicks.
I pull the phone away and stare at it, still reeling from shock. This isn’t the first time Teale’s done that—disappear for months and then suddenly show up like we’ve been talking every day—but it rattles me every time.
And makes me a little sad.
We weren’t that close growing up, but I still feel that burdening older-sibling responsibility to keep him in check.
Ironic, since I’m not that great of an example.
Teale’s wanderlust is Mom’s largest source of worry. And yeah, I’d prefer if he wasn’t such a smart-mouth but, if I look at it objectively, he’s not doing too badly for himself.
That app I introduced to clients? Teale made that.
He’s a software and computer genius.
Someone so gifted coming from our ordinary family was an honor. I’d never begrudge him his success. I just wish he wouldn’t let it all go to his head.
Last I heard, Teale was working in India. From the pictures on his social media accounts, he was living it up. Had a different girl on his arm and a different drink in his hand every night.
I just want him to be careful. I know how slippery a slope the fast life can be and alcoholism runs in our family…
“Excuse me, sir.” Someone taps my shoulder. “The next teller is free.”
“Thanks.” I nod at the stranger standing in line behind me and move sheepishly forward to complete my transaction.
After, I leave the bank and head to the gym.
On the way, I pass Brew Drop.
It’s the second time I’ve done it this week. And every time, I get that same twist in my chest.
Like maybe I should slow down.
Maybe I should go in.
Maybe I should talk to Chandra.
About what? Hell if I know.
But I never give in to any of those impulses.
In fact, just cruising past her shop is a huge risk. If she knew my pattern of driving by, if she knew why I’ve been doing it, she’d probably call me a stalker.
From the corner of my eye, I peer at the storefront, imagining her strolling around, long hair bouncing against her back, eyes cold and guarded despite her professional smile, clothes tight and short—inviting obnoxious guys to shoot their shot.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel when I think of anyone flirting with Chandra.
Then I suck in a breath and remind myself that she’s not mine and I have no right to feel this way.
Still, the possibility of her getting hit on is very real and probably constant.
By the time I park in front of the gym, I’m in the mood to beat something.
I slam the car door closed.
The vehicle rocks. Settles on its wheels. Frowns.
I ignore it and stalk inside.
Sheila, the part time worker who steps in for Jenine once a month, jumps around the front desk when I storm past. “Ollie, you got a—”
“Whatever it is, can it wait thirty minutes?”
“Uh…”
“I need to test the punching bags.”
“Test the punching bags?” she murmurs.
I take three steps but freeze when a thought slams into me.
Could it be… that?
Muscles stiffen.
Blood pumps through tightened veins.
I turn.
Stalk back.
Sheila cowers, inching nervously toward the desk. “Ollie?”
“What did I get?”
She swallows.
Brown eyes dip to the floor.
“It’s not... a letter… by chance?”
She bobs her head yes.
I stagger back.
Feels like someone wearing a spiked glove just pounded me in the chest.
The fight leaves my body.
I lift my hand.
She glances at my calloused palm for a second. When it dawns on her, Sheila rushes around the counter and shuffles through the files on the desk.
“Found it!” She raises a small brown envelope triumphantly. Sets it in my palm. Smiles.
The grin dims when she catches my expression.
“Thanks,” I say hoarsely.
“Are you okay, Ollie?”
Okay? Not even close.
But I nod.
Turn away.
Walk back to my office.
The envelope is heavier than a two-ton boulder.
My grip tightens.
Fingers hold on for dear life.
My legs slump against concrete. My breath thickens, slows. I want to get this over with as much as I want to hitch the envelope behind a curtain and pretend it doesn’t exist.
The door creaks as it closes behind me.
The latch clicks.
My tennis shoes sink into the old, grey carpet.
One hand tears the brown skin of the package.
The other braces the wall.
A sharp corner protrudes from the half-undone wrapping. It’s white. A postcard. The more I go, the more colors are revealed. Swirling red, orange, and pink.
A sunset.
Rocky mountains.
I turn it over.
Watch the feminine scrawl on the back.
Thought of you.
Composure eludes me.
Pain sears my chest, tearing apart my ribs like a monster gnawing on human bones. It wraps its claws around my head, digging dangerous talons into my skull, my brain.
Dizziness spreads into my chest and torso.
I feel like I’m going to pass out.
My feet scramble across the room.
I fall into the couch, still holding the postcard.
Thought of you.
I can hear her voice in my head. Soft. Sweet.
I need a drink.
My hands shake.
My heart is about to explode.
I jump to my feet. Scramble around my desk. Open the bottom drawer.
Empty.
Damn it.
Jenine must have thrown it away. Or maybe it was Griffin.
Either way, what I need isn’t here.
I lumber to my feet, lurching dangerously. Left. Right. Somehow, I find my balance and throw the door open.
Sheila glances up when she sees me.
Brown eyes widen.
Concern rings from her voice, “Ollie!”
I ignore her.
Stumble forward.
Sheila blinks twice. “You’re so pale.”
“He is,” another voice says. A customer.
I’ve got an audience.
Sweat beads on my neck.
I try to pull myself together. Try to look like I’m not falling apart from the seams.
“Morning.” I nod at him. Glance at Sheila. “I’ll be out.”
“O-okay.”
I move past them. Out the door. Into the sunshine.
Traffic is moving briskly on the highway.
There’s not a hint of a breeze.
I stalk past my car—because I won’t be driving to where I’m going.
I won’t be driving back either.
I’m not the idiot I used to be.
I stick my arm out. A cab stops in front of me. I hop in, counting down the seconds until he gets me where I need to go.
“You okay, man?” he asks when I pay him.
How bad do I look that even this stranger is bothered about me?
“Fine,” I grumble.
Hop out.
Head inside my hospital.
The bar is empty.
Only losers and addicts fall into these round stools at this time of day.
I gesture to the bartender. Slap my credit card on the counter. I don’t care what he sets in front of me in exchange, as long as it’s strong and makes me forget. Makes the hurt go away.
He gives me a knowing look and slides over a shot.
It burns my throat as it goes down. Settles in my stomach. Turns my veins to flames. Then it dissipates, leaving languid contentment.
A flood of peace washes through me.
It works like medicine—from my head to my toes. Deep into my bones.
I hunch my arms on the counter without looking up and gesture for another. And another.
I don’t stop.
Not until the pain fades completely.
7 Ollie
“Idiot.”
“He can hear you.”
“So? I want him to hear me.” The voice gets louder. “Hey, Idiot. Wake up and stop drooling on my couch.”
That voice.
It sounds like Teale.
I force my eyelids apart but squeeze them shut when the light blares painfully.
“I think he’s waking up.”
That voice sounds like Griffin.
I open my eyes.
Confirm it.
Close them again.
My throat’s on fire.
My head aches.
I reach up and grasp my forehead. Massage my temples. Something throbs against my fingertips. A pulse. Mine.
My entire body is throbbing. Legs. Arms. Toes. What did that bartender give me?
Hard vodka?
I don’t remember.
I never asked.
A sudden blast of cold water smashes my face.
I leap up like a man possessed.
Blink furiously.
Water soaks my hair. Falls down my forehead. Into my eyes. Plugs my nose. Pastes my shirt against my chest.
My heart beats wildly.
In my hazy vision, I see Griffin glaring at Teale. “What the hell, man?”
“I’m washing the drool out of my couch.”
With a shaky hand, I rub my face down.
My vision clears.
Annoyance coats my voice with an angry tinge. “Teale.”
“Nice of you to join us, Big Brother.” He checks his fancy watch. A Rolex, I think. I don’t pay attention to brands, but Teale’s always talking about it. “I thought you were dead you were sleeping so long.”
Panicked, I feel around my pocket. Grab my cell phone. Check for myself.
6:30 p.m.
A sinking, hopeless despair rattles my chest.
I lost more than half the day.
It’s been a while since I fell off the wagon that badly.
My eyes shift to Griffin.
He’s looking back at me, disappointed.
I groan.
Run a hand through my hair.
“How did I get here?”
“The bartender dialed your most recent call, which so happened to be me.” Teale drops the bucket. Eyes, blue like mine, crackle with annoyance. “Do you know how hard it was to haul your drunk butt up these stairs?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Do better.”
“Teale, man. He gets it,” Griffin says.
I lower my eyes. Griff jumping to my defense makes me more pathetic.
“I should go home.”
“Don’t bother.” Teale throws me a towel. “Stay the night. You’re still buzzed.”
“I’m fine.”
Teale doesn’t care. “I put a change of clothes in the guest room.”
“I said I’m going home.” I charge to my feet.
All the blood rushes to my toes.
I crash back into the sofa and moan.
“Idiot.” Teale scoffs. Stalks out.
The front door slams shut.
Silence peals louder than church bells.
I lean back. “She...”
“I know.” Griff st
retches his fingers. “You get like this every time you hear from her.” His eyes slide to the door. “Teale understands that too.”
“He’s pissed.”
“He’s worried. He looks up to his big brother more than you realize.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.” I groan. “Griff, do me a favor. The next time this happens, tie me up. Maybe if I’m bound and gagged, I won’t drink.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t—”
A phone rings.
Griffin glances at the screen. “It’s Cobie.”
“Answer.”
He looks sheepish. “It won’t take long.”
“Yeah.”
Griffin walks to the side.
Now that my vision’s back to normal, I observe Teale’s apartment.
Plush carpet. Fancy sofas. Glass tables. Skylights. Sliding glass door.
Place stinks of unnecessary opulence.
Pretty sure that’s a Jacuzzi in the back.
The entire apartment looks like one of those ‘after’ pictures you see on the housing renovations network.
It’s clear which brother is financially superior.
I definitely shouldn’t be worrying about Teale. For all his crazy social media antics, he’s not losing chunks of time because he’s getting piss drunk during working hours.
I should know better.
I should do better.
Man, I hate myself sometimes.
Griffin walks back to me. “Cobie says hi and to feel better soon.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m heading out now.” He hooks a thumb toward the door. “If you’re really going to leave, I’ll give you a ride.”
I shake my head. “I’ll stay. Try to talk to Teale.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.”
Griffin pauses at the door. “If things get that bad again, call me. I’ll rearrange my schedule and we can wreck some punching bags together.” He smiles and leaves.
In the silence that follows, I head to the guest room and change into the dry clothes on the bed. When I turn around, I see a bottle of hangover medicine on the dresser.
A memory flashes in my head. A five-year-old Teale doing the same for our dad.
My heart breaks.
I really am an idiot.
Wearily, I plod to the couch to dry the fabric with a towel. Then I settle on the ground and watch a football game, trying and failing to drown my thoughts with the noise blasting from the television screen.
It gets late.
Teale still isn’t home.
