The Mixtape

by Cherry, Brittainy

  “Can we talk about something else?” he asked.

  “Sure. What would you like to talk about?”

  “Anything. Anything except me. Tell me about you. Or Reese. I want to know more about you.” I bit my lip, not completely sure what to say, but luckily Oliver gave me a question to follow up the conversation. “What made you want to be a chef?”

  “My parents. Kind of. They weren’t around a lot during the week, because they worked at the church in my small town, and a lot of their time was spent there, super early in the morning and super late into the evenings for Bible studies. I came from a very religious town, where it was Jesus twenty-four seven. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it would’ve been nice if my parents came home a bit more. So, while they were gone, I was responsible for making the meals for my younger sister and me. That’s when I learned that I kind of loved cooking.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven.”

  “Your parents left you alone at the age of seven to take care of your sister?”

  “Let’s just say their morals were a bit out of order.”

  “Do you still keep in touch with them?”

  “Gosh, no. I haven’t spoken to them in five years.”

  “Since Reese was born?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they not approve of you having her at such a young age?” He cleared his throat. “If I’m asking too many personal questions, you can tell me to stop.”

  “No. It’s fine. My parents didn’t really approve of anything I did. I never understood why they were so hard on me over my sister, but it is what it is.”

  “They were very religious?”

  “Extremely,” I laughed, thinking about the number of crosses that lived within my parents’ house. Then I glanced around my apartment, which had just as many crosses.

  “Did that make you less religious?”

  “No, surprisingly. I rebelled against almost all of my parents’ beliefs, as a way to show my teenage angst. But not when it came to God. My faith always stayed intact. What about you? Do you believe in God?”

  “I want to,” he confessed, “but it doesn’t come easy for me to believe in a thing that seems so far away from me.”

  I understood that. But for me, when God felt far away, that normally meant I was straying myself.

  We talked for hours more, about anything and everything, about nothing, about life. Within those hours, Oliver’s hard shell began to soften. He even chuckled once when I told a poor joke. When it was time for us both to fall asleep, he thanked me for the call, to which I said, “Call me again tomorrow.”

  And he did.

  16

  OLIVER

  Emery allowed me to call her each night. When I didn’t call, when I felt a bit too disconnected from reality, she’d dial my number to check in on me. From our late-night conversations, I was learning more and more about her. But when she showed up the next morning, I froze up. It was as if I didn’t know how to talk to her in person. As if I was able to be more vulnerable with her on our calls than face to face.

  I hated it. I hated how awkward I’d appear sometimes, not knowing how to communicate with her when she walked into a room. Mainly because she took my breath away. Everything about Emery was remarkable. From the way she cooked, to the way she dressed. To the way she loved her daughter, and the way she spoke with such a softness to her tones. Being around her made me uncomfortable, because a part of me didn’t want her to leave. She felt like a safe place, and I’d never had that in a woman. I’d never had someone who’d stay up late on the phone with me just to make sure I was all right, outside of my family.

  Emery did it with so much care too. She never seemed tired by our conversations, and I swore I could almost feel her light through the phone when she spoke about her life.

  Whenever we hung up, I instantly missed her voice.

  Then, when she showed up for work, I’d freeze up in front of her. She never seemed to care, though. She just remained her bubbly, kind self and made me some of the best meals I’d ever tasted in my life. I was thankful for that. For her ability to make my awkwardness less . . . awkward.

  “You’re staring at her,” Kelly remarked as we sat at the dining room table eating our lunches. The more often I could get Kelly to sit down and eat her meal with me, the better. She was looking a bit better lately. The bags under her eyes were slowly fading away, and she laughed a lot more too. That was also due to Emery. Emery had that personality. The moment she and Kelly had connected, they’d become great friends. I was happy about that too. Kelly needed someone to lean on, and I knew I wasn’t that person for her.

  She was smiling more each day, which was a good thing. Emery had that effect on people. She made the saddest souls want to feel better.

  “Staring at who?” I grumbled, looking back down at my salad. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kelly beaming ear to ear.

  “You know who!” she whispered, leaning in toward me. “Oh my gosh. Do you like Emery?”

  “Like Emery?” I pushed out a sarcastic laugh. “I don’t even know her.” That was a lie; I was learning more each day. She liked Scrabble; she hated Monopoly. She loved all genres of music, except for heavy metal. She’d had a goldfish named Moo that her mother flushed down the toilet when she was ten, and ever since then, she’d avoided seafood. She hated Reese’s camp friends. Her favorite color was yellow, and her favorite season was autumn. And when she smiled with her lips, a faint dimple would appear on her left cheek.

  She didn’t tell me that; I just happened to notice.

  “Then why are you blushing?” Kelly asked.

  “I’m not blushing. Men don’t blush.”

  “The lies!”

  “It’s true. Besides, even if I did like Emery—which I don’t—it would be too soon. I just got out of a long-term relationship.”

  Kelly huffed. “Are you seriously calling what you and Cam had a relationship? I’ve had better relationships with stray cats on the road.”

  True.

  “So, be honest. Do you like Emery?” she asked. Her lack of true whispering skills was making me nervous that Emery could overhear the conversation. “I won’t tell. It’s our little secret.”

  “There’s no secret, because there’s no truth to your question.”

  “Okay. Well, I guess you won’t mind if I invited Emery to eat lunch with us,” she said. She was acting just like an annoying little sister. Before I could oppose the idea, Kelly was calling Emery’s name. “Did you eat yet, Emery?” she asked.

  Emery peeked her head into the dining room, and a knot formed in my stomach. Then she smiled, and another knot joined the first one.

  “No, I haven’t yet.”

  “Great! Come join us.” Kelly smirked as she looked my way with a guilty grin.

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” Emery said.

  “No. You wouldn’t be. Come sit right here, between Oliver and me.” Kelly patted the seat right beside me, and within a few seconds, Emery was entering the room and sitting down. Right beside me. With her salad. And her smile. Her smile that was smiling toward me.

  Oh fuck.

  Maybe men did blush.

  I turned my stare back down to my plate and started stuffing my face.

  Kelly glanced down at her watch. “Oh, man! I forgot I have to shoot off some emails. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  I sat up straighter. “Shouldn’t you finish your lunch first?”

  “No, no. I’ll get back to it in a few. You two go ahead and eat and enjoy each other’s company. I’ll be back.” She began to walk away, and Emery’s back was to her as I shot Kelly a death stare. Talk to her! she mouthed before slipping away.

  Silence filled the space, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I kept overthinking every topic that I could bring up to her, so I went back to stuffing my face as Emery ate like a normal human.

  I looked up toward the kitchen and saw Kelly peeking a
round the door toward us. She once again mouthed, Talk! So I swallowed the too-big chunk of chicken and began choking on it like a damn fool.

  “Oh my gosh!” Emery gasped. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just”—I coughed, feeling the piece of meat sitting tight in my throat—“I’m”—the coughing grew worse and worse—“fine.” I choked the last word out before the coughing became overpowering. Well, fuck. I was choking.

  “Oh my gosh, here!” Emery said, standing to her feet. She walked behind me and pulled me up from my chair and began patting me on the back before she wrapped her arms around me and started giving me the Heimlich maneuver. Her small body flung my massive body around the room like she was an Olympic weightlifter.

  “Okay, okay, hold on,” she said. Then she began singing, yes, singing, “Stayin’ Alive,” by the Bee Gees, as she pumped her palms into my gut. She did it repeatedly as I searched for a breath of air, and on her final pump, the lodged piece of poultry came flying out of me and landed across the dining room table.

  All of my pride went flying, too, with the piece of meat.

  “Oh my gosh, Oliver, are you okay?” Emery asked, rubbing my back in circular motions, and oddly enough, I didn’t want that movement to come to a halt.

  “I’m fine. Yes. Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Gosh, you scared me. Here, let me go get you some fresh water.” Emery hurried into the kitchen, and Kelly was now standing in the dining room with her jaw dropped open in shock at the events that had taken place all within five short minutes.

  “Well, that escalated quickly,” she said, a small smile on her face.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “Kind of. Yes. All I wanted you to do was talk to her, and, well . . . that didn’t happen at all. You seriously froze up there.” She walked over to me and patted me on the back. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, good.” A wicked smile fell over her. “Remember that time when I tried to get you to talk to Emery and you choked—both literally and figuratively?” she joked.

  “Kelly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  Needless to say, Kelly’s matchmaking skills didn’t go as she had planned, and I escaped to my studio to avoid any more embarrassment. I was still licking my wounds even after Emery left that afternoon, overthinking how idiotic I must’ve appeared as Emery thrust me around like a potato.

  The only thing that disrupted my thoughts was Tyler coming over in a complete flurry of emotions.

  “Did you see this?” Tyler barked, marching into my living room. He held his phone out toward me as he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Un-fucking-believable,” he grumbled. “She’s a freaking snake! I’ve always known she was a snake, but this is bullshit.”

  His nose flared as I took the phone from his hand and read the headline.

  Cam Jones Tells All about What It’s Been Like Living with Oliver Smith

  Oh boy.

  “You read that? Don’t read that,” Tyler said, snatching the phone from my grip. “It’s trash. She’s trash. Why would she even do that? What would make her go out to do that kind of interview?”

  “I broke up with her a few days ago.”

  He looked at me, and his eyes flashed with glee. “You broke up with her? There is a God! You broke up with her!” he repeated, jumping up and down with bliss. Then, his joy seemed to dissipate as another reality set into his head. “Oh no . . . oh no, oh no, oh no . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “What is it? Dude. Cam is crazy. And now she’s out there getting exposure on your breakup. Who knows what she’s going to say?”

  Before I could reply, my phone had started ringing. Kelly’s name popped up across the screen, and I answered. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Oh my goodness, she’s insane!” she exclaimed—speaking of Cam, I assumed.

  “Yeah, I saw the article.”

  “The article? No. She’s on Channel Five right now doing a sit-down interview.”

  Within seconds, Tyler had switched the television on, and there she was, holding a tissue in her hand, speaking to the interviewer through her sniffles. Screw her singing career: Cam should’ve gone into acting.

  “So, you’re saying living with him was like living with darkness?” the interviewer asked her.

  “Yes. It wasn’t always like that. I knew Oliver suffered from depression, but I never thought he’d go to the level of belittling me in the way he had. He was cruel with the name-calling, saying I was worthless, putting me down on the regular.”

  “That’s awful,” the interviewer said, reaching out and placing a hand of comfort on her knee.

  “Yes, it’s . . .” Cam paused her words and turned to look away, seemingly emotional. “I’m sorry, it’s just so hard to talk about. I did everything I could for him. We were all mourning the loss of Alex. I wished I had someone to lean on during all of this, but Oliver was so cruel.”

  “Did he ever hit you?”

  “What kind of fucked-up question is that?” Tyler shouted, gesturing out of frustration at the television.

  Cam looked up from her tissue, and the pained expression in her eyes signaled exactly what she wanted it to be seen as—as if I were abusive. As if I were a reclusive monster who’d made her life a living hell.

  She didn’t answer the question with her words, but oddly enough, her silence gave all the viewers exactly what she wanted them to receive. They’d think I was a monster. An abusive one at that.

  Tyler shut off the television and kept cussing beneath his breath. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, marching back and forth. “This is complete bullshit.”

  I didn’t say a word, because what exactly could be said? My mind was spinning fast, coming up with all of the opinions that were being formed about me. I felt the heaviness of it all. I felt the disgust of others thinking that anything that Cam said held an ounce of truth. They thought I was abusive. They thought I was cruel. They thought I was the monster, when truthfully, I had just rid myself of the beast.

  I don’t want to be here.

  “She’s the fucking devil!” Tyler hissed. “How could she say any of that? I’m gonna get on the phone with PR and see how we spin this bullshit. Dammit. It’s going to go viral. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I gotta get to work. You good, Oliver?”

  No.

  But of course, I lied. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay. I’m going to head off and do damage control. Keep your phone close and stay off-line, okay? Don’t read any of that shit.”

  After Tyler left, I tried to turn to music to quiet my thoughts, but it didn’t work. I was spiraling deep into my mind, so I turned to my next fix: alcohol. At that time in my life, I was trying to drink away reality for a short period of time. I’d started drinking by myself to find a numbness, because my thoughts were growing wild. But instead of being a smart drunk, I was an idiot.

  I went online and googled articles about Alex & Oliver. I read people’s comments on Cam’s interviews. I looked up old YouTube videos of our concerts. I watched Alex do some of the best guitar solos in the history of forever, and I fucking hurt.

  The alcohol that night didn’t bury my emotions; it released them like a river of sorrow. I felt the pain of Alex’s loss tenfold, and then I found comments on Twitter blaming me for his death. Blaming me for being an abusive asshole. Blaming me for being me.

  It was bullshit. They didn’t know me. How dare they throw their judgments from behind their keyboards as if they were saints. How dare they diminish the most important relationship in my life down to rumors and lies. How dare they hurt me without having a damn clue about how damaging words could be.

  If humans knew how damaging words could be to someone’s mental health and stability, then maybe they would’ve chosen them differently.

  Then again, maybe they liked the outcome. Maybe some sick fucks enjoyed hurting others in a way to make themselves feel better
about their own shitty lives.

  Emery tried to call me a few times, but I didn’t answer. I wasn’t in the right mindset to talk to her. She would’ve given me comfort, and I didn’t think that was something I deserved that evening. It wasn’t until around ten that night that my doorbell rang. I stumbled to answer it, and when I peeked out to see who it was, I was surprised to see Emery standing there.

  Shit.

  What was she doing here?

  She couldn’t see me like that. I was drunk and in no state of mind to be dealing with her. She didn’t deserve my heavy mind that night.

  “Oliver? I hear you moving around. Can you open up, please?” she asked.

  I sighed as I took a step away from the door. I brushed my hands over my black T-shirt and raked my hand over my face, as if that was going to make me appear less intoxicated.

  I opened the door, and there she was. Little Miss Sunshine, holding a bottle of wine. The moment she saw me, her smile turned upside down.

  “Hi,” she breathed out.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “When you didn’t answer my calls, I wanted to check in on you. I’ve seen the news about . . .”

  Her words wandered off, but I knew what she was talking about. By this time, the whole world knew what she was talking about.

  “I thought I’d bring wine, but it seems that you already found something to take the edge off.”

  I wasn’t proud of it. The last time I’d had a drink was when I woke up in a Disney princess bed. Luckily I wasn’t that far gone yet. If Emery hadn’t come over when she had, there was a chance I would’ve ended up at that same level of drunkenness.

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  I grimaced. “I’m not the best company right now.”

  “It’s okay. We don’t even have to talk, not really. I just want you to not be alone tonight.”

  “What about Reese?”

  “My neighbor is watching her for the night. So . . . can I?” she asked again. I stepped to the side of the door, and she walked in. “Maybe instead of wine, we should shoot for water, eh?”

  “I’m not really feeling up for water,” I said, wanting whiskey.