Nepenthe (Bracing for Love #2)

by Lindsay Paige

  “You aren’t going to talk to me now?” My question is soft and gentle. It comes out almost apologetic, which wasn’t my intention.

  “Every time I do, you get pissed. I’m sick of it, actually. All I’m trying to do is help you, to make you want to be helped.” She pokes at the pasta. “Maybe it’s time I learn I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

  I let her words stew in my mind for a bit before deciding to change topics completely. “You know, I don’t think my sister would classify this as fun.” Even though I’m only across the hall in an apartment laid out exactly like mine, I’m ready to go home. “Maybe we can take the racing game over to my side of the hall and play before I have to go to work?”

  “Only if you don’t kick me out because you lose,” she smiles.

  I really wish I had the same capability she does with controlling her emotions and moving on from one to the other. The exhaustion starts to settle in my bones, but I try to ignore it and focus on Olivia’s ridiculous competitiveness.

  WHILE I’M AT work, absolutely ready to go home, I get a text.

  Olivia: My heat stopped working. Repairman is taking FOREVER. Can I hang at your place? Brrrrrrrr. I’m freezing.

  Me: Sure, but you’ll have to be a genius to find my hiding spot for the spare key.

  Olivia: Ha! Found it! I must be a genius. ;) Remember that.

  I laugh and work goes by a little faster. Before I can get home though, she texts again.

  Olivia: Won’t be fixed until tomorrow…so…can I crash here again? :)

  Me: You’re needy, you know. But yeah. You can have my bed.

  Olivia: Oooh. I’m moving up in the world. Last time it was the couch. But, just kidding. You can have your bed. I’m already invading your space. Couch is good.

  Me: Take the bed. I’m trying to be nice here. You aren’t helping.

  Olivia: Okay, okay. Fine. Thank you.

  I’m distracted by a fight and end up forgetting all about my houseguest until I walk into my room and see her lying in my bed on her stomach, asleep. Why does she even need her heat to work when she’s kicked off the covers and she’s only wearing a long-sleeved shirt, her panties hugging her ass. I stop short when I see her, swallowing hard at the sight of her.

  For a few seconds longer, I let my eyes linger, traveling to memorize how she looks before quietly walking over and covering her back up. She should have pajama pants on. I push the images out of my head. Or, I attempt to do so while trying not to make any noise as I change and get ready to sleep on the couch.

  Right when I’m about to leave my room, Olivia’s voice clearly pleads, “Aaron, please don’t.” The pure desperation and heartache in her voice stops me. I turn to look at her, but she’s still asleep, though she rolls over, her face upset. A couple moments pass and nothing else happens.

  All I can wonder as I fix a makeshift bed before trying to fall asleep is who Aaron might be, if he’s a real person, and why she’s dreaming about him, begging him to “please don’t.”

  TEN SECONDS AFTER I wake up and stretch, I shuffle my feet as I head towards the bathroom. I push the door open, odd that it’s closed, and my eyes land on the perfectly good reason why it was.

  Olivia.

  Shit.

  She’s in here because she stayed over last night.

  Damn.

  She just got out of the shower.

  A towel is wrapped around her, her hands holding tightly to keep it from falling. I watch as a drop of water falls from the tips of her hair, lands on her shoulder, and glides down towards her breasts, merging with other droplets on its way.

  “Corey!” Olivia exclaims, slightly irritated, like she may have said it once already.

  I snap out of my daze and blink. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.” My eyes travel over her again, and I catch sight of her clean clothes on the rug, a sheer pair of panties right on top.

  “It’s okay.” She waves her hand in front of my face, her towel falling a bit with her loosened grip. “You can leave now.”

  Her tone makes me chuckle. “Are you sure? I could help dry you off.”

  Olivia’s eyes widen and her lips part. She wasn’t expecting that. Hell, neither was I. “Corey Kennedy, get out of your bathroom!” She steps forward and starts pushing me, making me laugh as she slams the door. “I really hope that wasn’t one of your best pickup lines, because it sucked!” she hollers from the other side.

  “Well, it’s not like I could say I could help you get dressed. I wanted to keep you naked.” I’m in deep shit now.

  “You sure know how to talk dirty to me. It’s so working,” she deadpans.

  I laugh, leaning against the wall while I wait my turn. “This is not dirty talk, Olivia.”

  “Thank God, because if it is, you won’t ever get laid no matter how hot you are.”

  “I’m hot? I wouldn’t call you hot, though you are. I’d call you beautiful because it fits better.”

  The door opens, revealing a fully dressed Olivia. Her clothes and towel are in her hands. “Well then, beautiful,” she smirks. “The bathroom is all yours.” She walks away without giving me a chance to say anything back.

  When I return to the living room, she’s lying on the couch, my blankets up to her chin, watching TV.

  “They should have it fixed by noon. They aren’t even here yet,” she complains.

  “I’ll fix breakfast then.”

  “Sure? I—”

  “I can do it.” I wave her off and go to the kitchen. Minutes later, I return. “Sit up. Here’s breakfast.”

  She laughs when she sees the two bowls of cereal. Once she takes hers, I sit down next to her. “Good thing I like this kind,” she giggles. “Thanks for everything,” she adds, more seriously.

  “Welcome.”

  Despite our joking earlier, I’m kind of ready for her to leave. Not because I don’t want her here or because she’s overstayed her welcome, but because I want the apartment to myself. Sometimes, I want to be alone and not to have to be around anyone else. That’s all there is to it. With Olivia here, I feel torn, pulled in two different directions.

  I like having her around, but I don’t want her here.

  She’s beautiful. I want to kiss her, but I don’t want to touch her either. I don’t want her to touch me, but I like that she’ll take my hand sometimes.

  Her laugh is beautiful. I want to laugh with her, have fun, but I want to yell at her because she pisses me off with her pushing.

  In the same breath that I would want to take her out on a date, I don’t want to leave my house and put forth the effort.

  This is exhausting. Half of my cereal is still in the bowl when I set it down on the table, no longer hungry. It’s my lucky day, because Olivia’s phone rings. The man is here to fix her heat. She gives me a big smile.

  “I gotta go. Thanks for breakfast and for letting me sleep over, Corey.”

  She’s thanking me again? While I’ve been sitting here wishing she was gone already? I nod because my voice doesn’t want to work. It would take too much energy, especially when I don’t feel like she should be so damn grateful.

  Olivia leans over and kisses my cheek so tenderly, like I might dissolve with her touch. Then she grabs her bag, drops her bowl off in the kitchen, and leaves without another word. That’s when I know so deeply in my very soul that Olivia will destroy me one way or another. I also know she’ll be able to put me back together, and if she can’t, then I would be fucked anyway.

  An hour later, I catch myself glancing to the kitchen cabinets where my alcohol is stored. I’m feeling on edge, and I know alcohol would help soothe me. Sighing, I stand and walk into the kitchen, stopping when I’ve reached the appropriate cabinet. When I open the door and see the bottles, my stomach churns. The memory of my little episode is too vivid. Alcohol has never solved my problems, only numbed them for a little while. It’s time to get rid of the habit once and for all. I don’t need the temptation for the tempo
rary distraction it provides.

  Grabbing a few bottles, I drop them into the trashcan. It doesn’t make me feel better, but I don’t feel worse ether. There is a bit of relief, because now I don’t have to worry about a repeat experience. I go ahead and remove the bag from the container and walk outside to the dumpster, tossing it in. There, it’s done and gone.

  When I return to my apartment, my energy leaves me. What am I supposed to do now?

  FOR TWO DAYS, I don’t step outside into the sunlight. The only texts I answer are from my siblings because I’m sick and tired of them worrying about me. They won’t have to do that anymore.

  My world has stopped turning, and no matter how hard I push it, no matter how much I try, I can’t get it to turn again. My entire body is imprinted in my mattress because I can’t get up. When Olivia pushes, shit happens. I push and…

  Nothing.

  Same shit, different day.

  That fits perfectly.

  I’m so utterly exhausted from doing absolutely nothing but being lost in the hell of my mind, like it was so perfectly constructed that I can’t escape. How is this feeling even possible? It’s driving me crazy.

  And if I get the urge to break down in tears one more time, I may scream.

  If I could even find the energy for it.

  Olivia has only texted me twice, both times yesterday. In the last one, she promised she wouldn’t push if I would just reply. I didn’t, and haven’t heard from her since. Has she given up on me already? Might as well. She said herself that she can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

  If I don’t want her to give up, then I need to be thinking about this help thing.

  I’ve been staring at my ceiling for hours while my bed molds to my body. Hours of doing nothing but trailing my gaze over the grooves and cracks above me. This is unbearable. Day after day of carrying a heavy and invisible load on my shoulders weighs me down more and more. I want it to stop. I can’t take it anymore, but I don’t know what I can do to change it. My release, my escape, my paradise, my sunshine in the vast darkness I call my life, I found those things in football before. But now, when all I have is myself, I can’t handle it.

  Things are looking darker and murky and it’s swallowing me whole. How do I control it? Olivia says it’s possible.

  Olivia.

  Everything clicks into place.

  I want help.

  I need help.

  That’s what everyone has been telling me, but especially her, and she gets it more than anyone else I know. The urge to say those words aloud overwhelms me. I need to tell her. Olivia can help.

  Before I change my mind, I walk out of my apartment and over to hers. The moment I lift my closed fist to knock, what I’m about to do hits me like a tidal wave.

  No.

  I can’t.

  I can’t admit something like that.

  But it’s true.

  She already knows it.

  All I would be doing by saying it is stopping my denial. I would quit lying to myself. I would have to follow through. She wouldn’t let me get away with it if I didn’t. My hand falls and I close my eyes, feeling like I might throw up at any second.

  It’s Olivia. I’ve talked to her more than anyone else. Ever. That says a lot, especially when I haven’t really talked to her much. I could tell her.

  Right?

  My head shakes as I change my mind. My feet are rooted in place. I need to make a decision. Leaning forward, I rest my head against the doorframe and close my eyes.

  Now or never.

  Where is my strength when I need it? Talk doesn’t mean much when I can’t follow through. How am I to say I’m this strong guy when I can’t do something as seemingly simple as tell the truth and admit I need help to the one person I could actually say those words to?

  Maybe I’m nothing but a coward.

  No.

  I need help. I want it. I need to say it.

  My eyes open and I lift my hand, keeping my head in place as I watch it hover an inch from the door. Two knocks. That’s all I need to do. My fist clenches tighter and I want to bang my head against the wall. I’m in bad shape when I can’t even knock on a fucking door.

  “Corey?”

  My hand falls as I stand upright to see Olivia watching me carefully, her arms full of groceries.

  “Everything okay?”

  Lie or tell the truth?

  Squeezing my eyes closed and taking a deep breath, I shake my head. When I hear her moving towards me, I open my eyes again.

  “Take some of these bags, so I can get my key,” she says gently, like she knows I’m close to breaking. I take the bags from her, stepping to the side, so she can let us inside. She leads me into the kitchen and we set the bags on the table. Olivia glances at me, doing that seeing-into-your-soul shit I hate, and then says, “If you take the stuff out of the bags, I’ll put it away.”

  So that’s what I do. I focus on the sounds around me to keep from panicking. The bags rustle as I remove things and set them aside. Olivia’s soft footsteps move quickly around the room. The cabinets creak as she opens and closes them, and there’s the quiet thuds of the refrigerator door closing. I don’t know what to do with myself once we’re done.

  I can’t leave now.

  She knows something’s up.

  I don’t want to leave.

  Olivia stores the empty bags under the sink before coming over to take my hand. She pulls me with her into the living room, and we sit down on the couch. This is it. This is the moment when I acknowledge my weakness and inability to take care of myself. This problem, it’s here for the long run. It’s a lifetime kind of issue, and there are going to be times when I’ll need help again. It’s only going to be harder in the future if I don’t get some now.

  I rest my elbows on my knees, hold my hands together and rest my chin on my thumbs. My mouth is dry and my lips feel as if they’re stitched shut. My hands turn into fists, still together, and I lay my forehead on my knuckles, closing my eyes.

  Olivia puts a hand on my back as she leans her head against my shoulder. For once, she’s not pushing me. She’s not pushing and prodding and poking in hopes of making me face this. She’s waiting silently. It’s throwing me off, honestly.

  Or maybe I’m procrastinating.

  The need to see her face, to catch a glimpse of what she’s thinking, makes me open my eyes and turn my head. Her eyes move my way and she gives me a small reassuring smile. I swallow hard. My left leg starts bouncing up and down in short, quick successions. I need to touch her, so I lay my right arm on her leg, palm up.

  She doesn’t waste a second taking my hand, intertwining our fingers, and giving me her best firm grip. Those brown eyes of hers never leave mine. My heart is racing so fast, I can feel it banging against my chest.

  My whisper is so soft, it’s nearly silent. Just barely audible, yet I feel like I’ve yelled. “I need help.”

  Olivia squeezes my hand once. “I know, and I’m glad you know it too. It’s okay to need help.” Her voice nearly kills me from being so understanding.

  “So you keep saying.” I lean back into the couch, feeling so tired and ready for bed. I don’t let go of her hand, though. For right now, she’s grounding me, keeping me floating above the surface, and I don’t want to let go yet. I want to stay afloat for a bit longer before I sink again. It’s coming, I can feel it as good as I can feel Olivia’s hand in mine. She leans back with me and rests her head on my shoulder as if she’s somehow reading my thoughts.

  “Thanks for confiding in me, Corey,” she says. “I know it was hard for you to do.”

  She has no idea. Or maybe she does. She watched me unfold right in front of her, and God only knows how long she was standing there watching me struggle at her door.

  My voice drops again as my leg resumes the bouncing. “What now?”

  “You make an appointment with your doctor and get a referral to see a psychiatrist. Sometimes, they’ll send you to a therap
ist as well, but I could be your therapist-in-training if you want.”

  I love that she offers. “Thanks, Olivia.”

  “Any time.” She pauses before adding, “Rough day?” She’s probably wondering what made today different, what made me say something now and not later or before.

  “Rough year.” It’s been a little over a year since my injury, since I lost the game. And look at where I am now. I could be playing in the NFL, but no. I’m trying to stay sane. The weight sinks in my chest, reassuring me that it’s still here. “I’m going to go.” I hastily make the decision to kiss her temple before I sit up, but she doesn’t let go of my hand.

  When I glance at her, something’s different. She looks as if she doesn’t trust me, but why?

  “Stay awhile longer.”

  For her, I want to, but I’m ready to be back in my apartment more. “Olivia,” I start, about to explain to her that the answer’s no.

  “Please,” she pleads. Does she realize her grip tightens around my hand?

  “I’m only going across the hall, Olivia. I’m tired.” I wish I could stay, but I’m not sure I have the strength.

  “Then let me come with you. I just…”

  “What?” I question, wondering why she is being so persistent about this.

  She doesn’t answer, instead repeating what she wants. “Let me come with you, please?”

  I get the feeling this isn’t about me anymore. Something could have happened and she might be having a bad day too. I wouldn’t know, because I haven’t talked to her. Maybe she doesn’t want to be alone tonight. Maybe she’s needing me to be strong for her.

  If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s being strong for someone else, even if I have to pretend for myself.

  “Okay. I’ll leave the door unlocked, but I’m going ahead to bed. Come over once you’re ready.”

  I’M LYING IN bed, listening, waiting to hear Olivia come in. Maybe I should go check on her. It’s been twenty minutes. If she really did have a bad day and she needs me, then I’m doing a terrible job of being there for her. Just as I’m about to toss the covers to the side, I hear my door close and then footsteps.