Nepenthe (Bracing for Love #2)

by Lindsay Paige

  The coffee table has been moved and the mats are in place once again. Olivia has taken off her hoodie and tossed it on the couch. Warmer weather can’t come fast enough. She has a great body. Too often, it’s hidden beneath a hoodie. The girl wears them way too much, even in January.

  Olivia keeps her promise, never speaking, but she laughs. Oh, does she laugh. More than the first time we did this. I don’t even glare at her. Only shake my head and maybe give her a smirk depending on how much she’s laughing. I like hearing her laugh. She should do it more often, but being around me doesn’t really give her lots of opportunities. I’m only rainbows and sunshine about ten percent of the time.

  She mixes it up some, doing poses we didn’t do before, and they are a bit harder. That’s why she’s laughing so damn much. I’m even sweating a little by the time we’re done. While I put the table back, she goes to the kitchen and returns with two bottles of water before starting the video game.

  “You can talk now,” I tell her, hoping she won’t make me regret it. “I may not do it often, but I can’t stand for others to not talk for long.”

  “Don’t get pissed later, then. And how come?”

  I shrug. “My sister doesn’t talk when she’s upset. Not getting into the story behind it, but that’s why.” My siblings and I don’t talk about our parents’ murder often, and I’m not going to share that with her. “It’s always bothered me, though.”

  Olivia revs her engine as the countdown begins. “You’re one of those annoying overprotective brother types, aren’t you?”

  “What? No.” I manage to get a lead right from the start. “It’s called loyalty, taking care of each other, and being a family. My sister doesn’t find it annoying either. None of us do.” Except when it interferes with my lying to them about how I’m doing. Then, it’s slightly annoying.

  “Damn it, Corey!” Olivia exclaims as I cross the finish line two seconds before she does. “You totally cheated. You got a head start.”

  “My car didn’t take off any sooner than yours. Don’t be a sore loser.”

  She glares at me before restarting. “Did you make the appointment?” Her tone is so casual that the importance of her question almost flies over my head.

  “Yeah. That’s why I stopped by earlier.”

  “Dang it!” she mutters as she wrecks and I pass her. “I’m off my game tonight. Well, what happened?”

  “What do you think? I came back ‘pissy’.”

  She laughs. “I should have known that was why. Yes!” Olivia passes me, bumps into me, and spins in circles as she crosses the finish line first.

  “I got a referral. Go Friday.” I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “Did you have a good day? Good studying session?” The moment I say it, I wish I hadn’t. Not because she was studying with some guy, but because that guy was a football player. My guts twist as if someone just stabbed me in the stomach and turned the knife.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  Three words and I’m jealous of her. I want a good day too. But I can’t flip a switch and make it happen. It’s not that easy, or I’d flip it in a heartbeat.

  “What time is your appointment Friday? Do you want me to go with you?”

  “Nine in the morning, and no.”

  “Okay, just thought I’d offer. Hey, what are you going to school for?”

  What does that have to do with anything? “Political science.”

  She laughs. “Really?” I nod. “Wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  Before I can think about what I’m saying, I ask, “What would you have guessed?”

  “Something where you could still be around football.”

  I tense. No. If my muscles freeze, my stomach turns, and my head wants to explode just from the word, how am I supposed to be around it again? I can’t play. Why be around the game and settle for second best? I don’t want that.

  Olivia bumps into my car, making me spin out of control, and keeps on going. Even through our talking, she’s determined to win. She leans her head on my shoulder while I debate if I will comment on that or not.

  “Relax, Corey. You’re too uptight all the time. I’m starting to kick your ass. See?” Olivia’s car crosses the finish line by a good margin before mine does.

  “Two out of four doesn’t equal kicking my ass. It means we’re even.”

  “Then let’s make it three out of five. It’ll put me in the lead.”

  For the last race, I let her win. I don’t even try because I want her to beat me. The grin on her face that shows off her victory and throws it back in my face is worth it.

  “There. I officially kicked your ass and now I’m hungry.” She turns off the game and TV, puts the controllers up, and I stand, about to go home. “Are you hungry? I’m in the mood for fries. Want to go with me to get some?”

  Go with her or escape to my apartment? The day has been long enough and I just want to lie down. The weariness floods every bone in my body, anchoring me down even more when I realize I have to go to work tomorrow.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks for offering, though.”

  She looks a little disappointed, but I ignore it. “Okay.” Olivia walks me to the door. “See you later then.”

  “Maybe I’ll do yoga with you tomorrow,” I say as I walk across the hall and open my door before turning to look at her. She’s smiling.

  “Sounds good. And Corey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good job on making the appointment, and thanks for talking to me.”

  I nod before disappearing inside my apartment. It feels ridiculous she would say such a thing about something that seems normal and easy for most people, but at the same time, it feels good that she’s giving me a virtual pat on the back. After a quick shower, I climb into bed and let sleep take over while it’s willing.

  IF I THOUGHT I was on edge the past few days, I’ve been shoved off it today. This is what it must feel like to slowly lose your mind. Bits and pieces vanishing until there’s nothing left but an empty skull. I survived another night of yoga and video games with Olivia. I survived work, and I’ve just sat down across from a psychiatrist. Olivia somehow knew today was going to be one of those days where it’s hard to even sit up in bed.

  She barged into my room and when I made no effort to get up, she started to tug me out of bed. There’s some strength in her, that’s for sure. It pissed me off, but here I am anyway. Deep down, I know this is where I need to be, where I want to be, but today is not the fucking day to do it.

  The psychiatrist, Dr. Stewart, starts asking questions I’m in no mood to answer. What’s been going on? How have I been feeling? When did it start? How long has it been this bad? Why do I think it’s this bad? What’s my mental health history? I give him the shortest answers possible, just enough information to get to the next step.

  “Do you have a support system, Corey?”

  “Sure. I have my siblings and a girl across the hall from me, I guess.”

  “Tell me about your siblings. What do they know of your struggles?”

  What the fuck does this have to do with anything?! “Two younger brothers and a younger sister. They don’t know much. No one does, and I’d like to keep it that way. The girl, Olivia, she knows, but that’s because she’s got some weird see-your-soul shit going on. Can you help me or not?”

  “Irritability is obviously a symptom,” he comments under his breath, almost smiling while he types into his little laptop.

  Son of a bitch, he’s about to piss me off. “I only came here because I’m sick of this. There’s not a lot I can do or fix or change, but I can do something about this.” My voice conveys my desperation and then my uncertainty. “Right? I can be helped, can’t I?” It’s not until the words faintly leave my mouth that I realize I was hopeful thanks to Olivia and scared shitless that she may be wrong.

  Dr. Stewart studies me in the same analyzing way that Olivia does. “Yes, you can,” he finally answers. “But in no way is it going to be easy or happen overni
ght. Depression is different for everyone. Some people go years without hitting their lows, and for others, they battle it every few months, or daily. You need to find someone who understands and you need to talk to them because you’re going to need them. You’re going to have to find strength when you don’t feel like it, and you’re going to have to fight like hell for the good days, but you can do it.

  “Sounds like you’ve been doing a decent job so far to be dealing with it as long as you have. I definitely want you to start seeing a therapist.” I part my mouth to object, but he interrupts me. “You have issues, Corey. Big ones, and don’t try to deny them. You’re the one who can’t even tell your doctor that a football injury triggered your setback.”

  My eyes widen.

  “I attended Salem University once upon a time, even played football myself, and I like to watch it now that I don’t. I recognized you the moment you walked in and I read the name on the file. Corey, it’s not uncommon for athletes to feel the exact same way you do right now after having their dream taken from them without any warning. Because you already had depression issues before certainly didn’t help when it happened either.

  “My point is you aren’t alone in this, but you have to talk to someone. Anyone. If you want to talk to a stranger, drive around the city and find a waitress to spill your sorrows to. Whatever you need to do to open up and get this stuff out is what I want you to do.” He pauses, keeps his gaze locked on mine, and adds, “If you want to get back in control of your life, that’s part of what you have to do. You have to have a support system. You have to learn how to talk about these things.”

  Nothing comes to mind for me to say, so I nod.

  “Are you still in school?”

  “Not at the moment. I went to grad school because there wasn’t any other option, and I got dropped this semester for missing too many days.”

  He nods. “Okay, we’ll work on that later. Next thing, not all medications are for everyone. This will be a trial and error process until we find one that works best for you. Read the possible side effects and if you have any, stop taking them and make an appointment to come see me. Medications do not fix your problems. Understand that. The purpose of medications is to help you fix your problems. Popping pills won’t do anything if you aren’t trying to help yourself too.”

  “Okay.” I can do that.

  Dr. Stewart discusses a couple different options before prescribing me something. He gives me a referral to a therapist, but I toss it in the backseat of my car once I get in. I’m not so sure about all that. While I’m waiting for my prescription to get filled, I get something to eat from a fast-food restaurant.

  I shouldn’t have, though.

  “Excuse me?” I turn to see a guy around my age, wearing the same football hoodie as Ben. Shit. Not another one. “You used to play for Salem University, right? You’re Corey Kennedy. Sucks to hear about your injury. I wondered what happened to you. Did you transfer here?”

  Sucks to hear? How about sucks to have it happen to me? How about it sucks for you to bring it up? I nod my head, hoping that’ll end the conversation.

  “We had a player who had to quit too. He had a really bad concussion. Still dealing with it.”

  Ugh, please stop talking. I didn’t quit. They wouldn’t clear me to play again and I was forced to stop. There’s a difference; I would have played through it if I could. I wouldn’t have cared about the long-term damage. Hell, it’s long-term damage right now! The results are still the same.

  Thankfully, it’s my turn to order. When I go to leave, the guy stops me.

  “Hey, good luck with what you chose to do now. I can’t imagine not being able to play, or what I would do if I couldn’t, so good luck with everything else.”

  “Thanks. Better make sure you have a backup plan just in case. Things are worse when you don’t have one.”

  The guy nods, and that’s the end of our conversation. Look at me, giving advice to the dude who can still play. Like he needs it. I check my phone while I eat. Olivia has texted me way too many times, so I should probably answer her.

  Olivia: Well, how did it go?

  Olivia: Corey…aren’t you done by now?

  Olivia: Better not be ignoring me. Just tell me if it was good or bad. That’s all I really want to know.

  Me: Went okay.

  Olivia: I said “good or bad.” “Okay” doesn’t tell me which.

  Me: Good? I guess. I don’t know. Today sucks.

  I pause, wondering if I should ask her what I’ve been thinking about since she said it. Might as well. Not like today can get any worse.

  Me: You said you would have guessed that I would do something where I could be around football…like what? Why would I do that?

  Seems like it takes her forever to respond. If I was like her, I’d start sending text after text until she answers, but I’m not. Besides, I can’t decide if I want an answer or not. I shouldn’t have asked. Do I really want to know? Does it matter? My leg is having a panic attack, judging by all the bouncing up and down it’s doing. I still want nothing to do with it, not sure how I could even have a football in my apartment, much less be around people who can play. Plus, Olivia might get all happy because she will think I’m talking or opening up or moving on with life.

  That’s not what I’m doing. Only figuring out what she meant and what she thinks. She’s probably trying to use her see-into-your-soul-shit method on my text. Hopefully, it’s not working, since she can’t see me.

  God, is she going to respond or what? My phone vibrates.

  Olivia: idk. You love the game, right? Wouldn’t you want to still experience what you can? You could be a coach or something in sports medicine, or ref, or agent, anything in the field. Options are limitless. Coach would be good because you’re pissy and moody all the time anyway haha! Or ref because then people would have to listen to you and the calls you make and you wouldn’t care if they didn’t like it.

  Me: You think you’re funny with the coach line, don’t you?

  No need to tell her it made me smile.

  Olivia: That was hilarious and you know it.

  Me: I didn’t laugh.

  Olivia: No? Did you at least smile?

  Me: Maybe.

  Olivia: :D Good enough for me! So…I’ve been thinking.

  Oh, God. What insane shit is she going to talk me into now? Pilates? Is that what it’s called? I almost don’t even want to ask, but I do.

  Me: About what?

  Olivia: We should go out and have fun…instead of being in my apartment all the time.

  Me: Go out? Are you asking me on a date?

  Olivia: No. I’m old fashioned. If you want to go out on a date with me, then you’re going to have to ask. I meant as friends. And yes, go out. Like outside into the fresh air. Into society where you can roam free instead of being trapped in an apartment. What do you think?

  Trapped in my apartment? See, there’s that weird crap she does. I like being trapped and I hate it. The weird part comes in because somehow she knows this already. And I guess if at some point in the future, I want to go on a date with Olivia, I’m going to have to ask her. It shouldn’t worry me or freak me out, but it does a little bit. Only because it makes things a little harder for me. Does she deserve that? Absolutely. Will it give me a panic attack if I ask? Most definitely. Would I want to ask her anyway?

  Maybe.

  If I knew for sure she wouldn’t turn me down. She’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but in her own way, she understands me more than anyone and there’s not a chance in hell I would risk losing that.

  Olivia: Well??

  Me: Sunday?

  Olivia: Works for me. :)

  Let’s just hope I have more energy to hang out with her then. Maybe the medication will be a miracle worker and work fast. He said I would be able to tell a difference anywhere from three to four days to two weeks, depending on how my body responds to it. I’m hoping for a fast response.

  THERE ARE FIFTY
little cracks in my ceiling over the couch in the living room. Who knows how many more there are in the rest of the room. I’m crying, but I don’t think it’s over a crack-filled ceiling. Tears have been steadily falling down my face for like a million hours. Or maybe only a few. I’m not sure. I’m supposed to go somewhere with Olivia today, but I can’t take my eyes off the ceiling. We’ve texted some and I’ve sent one-to-two-word responses. She’s funny sometimes, but my lips don’t move in a smile.

  Why am I crying?

  I’m not sad.

  I’m not a crier. I only cried once after my parents died and haven’t done so since.

  Yet, here I am.

  My face scrunches up every few minutes like I’m in pain or something as more tears fall, but I’m not. This makes no sense. There’s a knock on my door and I take a deep breath.

  “Come in,” I call out, sitting up and wiping away the relentless tears. No wonder I can’t play anymore. I’m a wuss. Crying for no reason.

  “Corey?”

  I lift my head to see Olivia. Her eyes widen when she sees my face, most likely blotchy and teary and weak. Concern takes over as she sits next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist and analyzing me.

  “What’s wrong? What happened? I knew something wasn’t right. Your texts were weird.”

  My shoulders lift and fall in one big shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing has happened?”

  “There’s fifty cracks in my ceiling.” I point with one finger up to them.

  “And you’re crying about that?”

  “No. Just saying.”

  She wipes away the tears on my cheeks, thinking. “How long have you been like this?”

  “All day. Why can’t I stop? I don’t cry.”

  “I bet you don’t,” she agrees solemnly. “It might be the medication. You were just lying here and started crying?” I nod. “Where’s your appointment card? They usually have a person on stand-by for things like this. I’ll call and see what they say.”