With a parched mouth and sore throat from crying, I leave the room in search of cold liquids and Hershey Kisses. Bryson stormed out shortly after I bit his head off for comforting me, leaving me alone in the apartment, and I haven’t heard him come back yet.
Natural instinct took over when I woke and realized I enjoyed his touch a little too much. He didn’t deserve the wrath of my guilt even though I gave it freely. I was angry that I wasn’t upset at his hands being on me.
Liam showing up threw me for a loop, and the anxiety and emotion that racked my body at seeing him hit like a blow. None of this was Bryson’s fault. He’s unaware of my history, even though he’s tried to pull the information from me numerous times.
And instead of grilling me this time, he offered his arms and calm, patient voice, only to be paid back with anger and disrespect. I hate that he’s not here and I can’t apologize for overreacting, but I also don’t know how to do that without giving a voice to my demons. Opening the gates of hell isn’t something I want to do—ever.
I grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge and down more than half before pulling it from my mouth. Soft pants escape my lips as my body attempts to adjust to the influx of frigid liquids. Reaching to the top of the cabinet, I pull down the almost empty bag of Kisses and resolve to finishing off the remaining handful. After tossing the empty bag in the trash, I head back to my room.
Fighting the allure of my comfortable bed, I sit at my desk and let the emotions of the day wash over me. Internal heaviness pulls my shoulders down and indecision concerning my slippery feelings for Bryson exhausts me.
Unsure hands pull open desk drawers, looking for something, anything, to keep me busy. Wishing I still had friends to talk to is futile. They couldn’t handle my emotional outbursts and self-loathing after Duncan left. Sure, they stuck around for a while, but over time, they allowed their own lives to take over, and I can’t fault them for that. I’d like to think I would’ve been different, but I’m not sure that’s the case.
Tucked back in the corner of my top desk drawer, my fingers graze the full orange bottle of antidepressants my mother insisted I get months ago. I live in my pain now, just as I did then.
Slamming the drawer closed, I push away from the desk. My eyes dart around the room, only to land on the bed—my go-to when my emotions run high. Giving in, I lie down, plug my earbuds in, and select the same playlist that tortures me daily. I twirl the ring on my left hand, allowing the music to wash over me, pulling on the same desperation the video chats with Duncan do. I’m only three songs in before my phone rings, interrupting my emotional distress.
Sitting up in bed, I tug the headphones from my ears and answer, grasping at any outside distraction I can get.
“Olivia?” My mother’s voice is a soothing balm to my broken soul.
“Hey, Mom.” I attempt to sound upbeat, not wanting to concern her with my current mindset.
“I haven’t spoken to you in a few days. Just calling to check in,” she says, reservation in her tone as she tries to determine my mood.
Guilt washes over me the same way it did before I left Bryson alone in the living room. I hurt everyone I come in contact with.
“I’m doing well,” I tell her in a cheerful voice, hoping the anguish isn’t evident.
“That’s great to hear, Ollie.”
“I had brunch with Bryson earlier,” I offer, unprompted.
“Really?” A lightness I haven’t heard in a long time fills her voice.
I shift on the bed with conflicted unease at pretending to be happy as a tear rolls down my cheek.
“Did he cook for you? A man who can cook is a valuable thing to have around.”
“We actually went to the little diner near campus.”
Silence falls down the line.
“He brought you back food? That was sweet of him.”
“I went with him to the diner, Mom.”
She tries to clear her throat, but the sob escapes anyway.
“Why are you crying?” I bite the back of my hand, attempting to keep my own emotions in check.
I want to cry and beg my mother to come hold me, to lie and tell me everything will be okay, but we’re past that now. She hates how much I’m hurting but feels it’s time to let Duncan go and move on.
“I’m just happy you got out for a little bit. How was it?” she sniffs, and her tone lightens as the first wave of sobbing passes.
“Uneventful,” I lie.
If I relay the details of that woman coming up to the table, I’ll give a voice to the jealousy I’m struggling with, and I refuse to give my mother that carrot of hope. She’s already trying to push Bryson and me together, she doesn’t need any more fuel.
“I had crepes and he had pancakes,” I say, keeping the conversation simple.
He held my hand when I was upset and defended me in front of a woman he screwed less than ten feet from my head just days ago.
I close my eyes, remembering the disgust in his gaze when she dismissed me at the table. I’m thankful he’s never turned that searing glance my way. Even when he’s been angry with me, he’s never looked at me with revulsion.
I realize I’ve turned my thoughts inward when my mother’s voice breaks into my reflection.
“I’m sorry, what?”
She sighs, just like she always does when I lose track.
“I asked when are you guys planning on going out again?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “I don’t think we will.”
He hates me and probably thinks I’m a psycho.
“Maybe we can go out soon then?” Hope fills her voice.
I’m torn between letting her think there’s a chance and telling her I hated leaving and don’t plan to do it again anytime soon.
“We’ll see,” I lie, opting for the former to ease her concern.
I drop my phone to the bed, the slam of the front door surprising me. Knowing he’s back sets me on edge, and the bravado I tried to build up to apologize escapes me. I pick my phone back up and bring it to my ear.
“I have to go, Mom. Bryson just got home.” I may not have the courage to apologize to him right now, but I’ve met the limits of conversation with my mother. If we stay on the phone any longer, the discussion is going to head toward topics I refuse to participate in.
“Oh, do you guys have plans?”
Does groveling and begging for forgiveness count?
“Maybe watch a little TV. Talk to you soon, Mom. Love you.”
20
Bryson
“Shit,” I mutter as I stumble and hit my shin on the entryway table. Maybe running until almost muscle failure wasn’t the brightest idea.
I take a calming breath, resisting the need to kick or punch something. Living with Olivia and dealing with her mood swings has been great for my physical health. I haven’t worked out this much during the off season since freshman year in high school when I had something to prove to the varsity team I somehow managed to get on. Emotionally? That’s another story. My mental health is spiraling, but I just can’t let her go. Knowing she’s bringing me down doesn’t stop my need to attempt to lift her up. The hints of happiness and occasional laugh that escapes when she lets go for a minute keeps me trying. The blackest of clouds follow her daily, but the tiny rays of sunshine that break through leave me thirsting for more.
I tap on her door before heading to my room. I don’t want to end the day on such a sour note, and if going to her and begging her to talk it out with me is what it takes, it’s a tiny sacrifice I’m willing to make. I know she’s on the other side of the door, but my attempt to get her to answer doesn’t work.
Hanging my head in resignation, I grab clean clothes from my room and hit the shower. Hot water would soothe my tight, overworked muscles best, but my already heated skin insists on water temps bordering frigid.
I moan and hiss in unison when the first arctic splash hits my chest, fighting the urge to increase the hot output
. Exhausted fingers flex against the tile wall as I lean in and let the water flow down my back, only turning up the heat when my teeth begin to chatter.
Toweling off, I dress fully, not needing another half-naked run-in with Olivia in the hallway. I give her door another try on my way into the kitchen for something to eat, but it once again goes unanswered. Hiding out and avoiding each other may have worked when I first got here, but I refuse to let it continue that way. I’ll give her tonight, but I’ll force her to talk to me tomorrow, even if I have to tie her down to get through the conversation.
She offered the sandwich ingredients earlier, so I take her up on it now, opting to use a paper towel rather than a plate so I don’t have to come back and wash it later.
Setting my sandwich on the bedside table, I plug my earbuds in and load my favorite playlist. I crack my neck, reach into my backpack, and pull out the assignments I’ve been dreading for days. I know baseball is my backup plan and school is my number one priority, but I wish I had the talent, or money, for it to be the other way around. School is vital for my future, but I hate it with a passion. I alternate bites of sandwich with paragraphs of text I don’t absorb until the music is interrupted by a text alert.
Liam’s name flashes on the screen and I roll my eyes, knowing he’s going to have some damn excuse about my economic notes for tomorrow.
I open the text and a video clip appears. Narrowing my eyes to get a better look at the tiny screen, I debate whether to open it. The last thing I need with my already wavering attention span is porn.
Curious, I tap the video and watch, confused.
The camera pans around a baseball diamond, landing on the haggard face of a man who looks about my age as he watches a performance on the field. The bill of a baseball cap doesn’t hide his weak attempt at a smile, but his eyes brighten marginally when a wisp of golden hair flies across his face. A soft, familiar laugh makes its way to my ears, forcing me to look over my shoulder at the wall I share with Olivia. It takes a second before I realize the sound, her sound, is coming from the video and not somewhere in the apartment.
I focus back on the video just in time to see Olivia’s face on the other side of the man, love and concern marking her brow and dulling her eyes.
The camera turns back to the dance routine and ends abruptly. My face screws up, wondering why Liam would send me some shit like this. I don’t need to be reminded that she’s taken. She does that herself every damn time her phone goes off. I was made well aware of her relationship status when I heard her fingering her damn self at his command.
Bryson: WTF, dude? I get it, she has a damn boyfriend. Fuck off with that shit.
Watching the tiny text dots appear and disappear for a long moment, I wonder if he’s going to pop off with some asshole bullshit about poaching another guy’s woman, or worse, encourage me to fuck her since her boyfriend is so damn far away—not that I haven’t considered the notion myself.
I don’t get words from him the second time either. Another video clip pops up. It takes forever to load, and I almost refuse to open it when I notice it’s close to twenty minutes long. Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment. The second it’s fully downloaded, I tap the triangle for it to play, praying to everything that is holy he’s not sending me some sex tape they made—hearing that shit through the wall was bad enough. I consider the possibility since she refuses to leave the apartment. Extreme embarrassment like that would make me question staying in the same town.
I still when the video begins and the soft intro music to My Wish by Rascal Flatts plays in the background. It seems the video is being recorded on a laptop with the top only partially open.
The lid lifts and a man with sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes faces the camera.
“I’m ready,” he says to someone off screen.
His voice. I recognize it from listening at Olivia’s closed door. It’s the same timbre that comes from Duncan, only weaker, raspier. This is a shell of the man I’d seen just moments ago.
I watch with rapt attention as he reaches for something off screen before popping medicine in his mouth and taking a swig of water from a bottle.
Sad eyes face the camera once again, and I’m immediately drawn to his pain. His illness and long battle are apparent in the deep-set lines of his forehead and hollowness of his cheeks. My heart begins to hammer in my chest.
“Five minutes?” he asks, looking away from the computer for a moment.
“Maximum,” a male voice off camera confirms.
“Many will think this is a fucked up way to do this, but a lot of you have been there for me through all of this, and since secobarbital works so quickly, this is the best way I could think of to reach out to everyone and say goodbye. I’m terminal. I have been for a while. While fighting AML day in and day out for years, I’ve prayed I wouldn’t have to exercise the rights provided by the Death with Dignity Act, but here I am.”
Messages begin to flash at the bottom of the video, having been written while the video was still live. Dread and nausea wash over me when I realize this is the fucking video Liam was telling me about. He referred to the guy as Kelly, which I grasp must be Duncan’s last name.
Several messages flash until one name stands out like a beacon.
Olivia Dawson: Please, God, no, Duncan. What did you take? Where are you?
The shrill ring of Duncan’s phone echoes around the room he’s sitting in, but he reaches down to silence it. It has to be her calling, freaking out at what she’s watching.
“Mom, Dad, I know you supported me with this decision, but I didn’t have it in me to watch the pain in your eyes as I took my last breath. I’m doing this here with the help of a medical professional, so you don’t have to suffer any longer. I chose this way to remove your struggle of begging me to fight longer. I’m so tired of fighting, so tired of the pain and inability to help myself. It’s not getting better for me, and there’s nothing that can be done. It’s time.”
Several names I recognize from the team roster flash at the bottom with words of encouragement and goodbyes. Hearts and tear-stained emojis float across the screen.
Olivia Dawson: Don’t leave me, Duncan. I need you.
My throat clogs and my hands begin to tremble, shaking the screen, but I force myself to keep watching.
“Sweet cheeks, my beautiful, precious angel. I’m going to miss you the most. You are my soulmate, my fairy-tale ending. You are my ultimate fantasy and wildest dreams, but I need you to realize I’m not yours. My final chapter, my ever-after, is over, but yours will continue. It has to continue. You have to accept that I’m merely a placeholder for the man who will come in and sweep you off your feet. He’ll love you the deepest and help you forget the pain you’re feeling right now.”
Olivia Dawson: Never! I choose you, Duncan. Please, I choose you!
My heart breaks, and his voice cracks as her message joins the others.
“This is going to hurt for a while, but you have to let me go to find him. I need you to find him, Ollie. Please, baby. Tell me you’re going to love again. Please. Swear to me you’ll open your heart and live your life to the fullest.”
Olivia Dawson: Duncan…
“I’m at peace with my decision, sweet cheeks. I need to know you’re going to be okay. Swear you’ll eventually be happy. That you’ll move on.”
His eyes cast down, watching the same comments roll so fast, it’s almost too quick to read them fully.
Olivia Dawson: I swear, Duncan.
His eyes meet the camera once more. “That’s my girl. I want you to keep going to school. Make new friends. Laugh when you feel like crying. Never give up on your dreams, Ollie. Have babies and love with every molecule in your body. I’m in your heart, beautiful. Take me everywhere you go.”
His head nods forward and he barely catches it.
“I love you. Chat soon, sweet cheeks.”
Olivia Dawson: Never goodbye.
The video continues to roll as a man in a whi
te medical coat helps Duncan lean back, situating his weak head on a pillow. It isn’t until Duncan begins to hum along with the video that I realize the same song has been playing on repeat in the background this whole time. The same song Olivia turned off in the truck—a freak out over morbid memories from a horrible time in her life.
Rogue tears spring from my eyes and land on the screen of my phone. Messages continue to stream on the bottom of the video even as the humming ceases and labored breathing takes its place.
Not one more message from Olivia comes across the feed. I can’t even begin to imagine what she went through watching that live.
A ragged final breath echoes in my head and I regret not turning off the video sooner.
I watch with soaked eyes as the doctor steps back up to Duncan. Placing fingers on his neck, he checks his watch, and announces, “Time of death, twelve fifty-two p.m.”
21
Olivia
I clasp my chest when I open the door to the bathroom and find Bryson leaning against the wall, waiting for me to exit. The apartment had been quiet for a while, giving me the opportunity to dart across the hall for a shower without running into him. I’d hoped it would stay that way, that maybe he had fallen asleep.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I didn’t know you were waiting. I wouldn’t have taken so long.”
“I don’t need the bathroom, Olivia.” His tone is flat, as if trying to cover some unnamed emotion and struggling to do so.
I do my best to step around him, but his body lines up flush against mine, almost pinning me against the wall.
His eyes search mine, for answers or an explanation, I can’t tell which.
“I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that. You didn’t deserve it. I’m just…” my voice trails off. I’ve said too much already.
“You’re confused about how you feel about me.” I nod, unable to lie. “You want to act on it, but you don’t.”
I drop my head when his eyes shift lower, focusing on my mouth.
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