AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She laughs again. “You must still be drunk, because we didn’t have a single one,” she jokes as we walk into the pancake restaurant.
A waiter seats us and takes our drink orders. There’s a lull of silence as we scan the menu, and I look around at the other tables. The place is bustling with waiters walking back and forth from the kitchen, a low hum from the chattering everyone seems to be doing, and pots and pans clanking around as the chefs cook.
Olivia stays quiet until the waiter returns for our orders. Once he walks away, my gaze turns to Olivia. She is glancing out the window next to our booth. I wouldn’t have pegged her for a nervous person, but right now, she might be. She’s resting her chin in the palm of her hand, tapping her fingers against her lower lip. She shouldn’t be anxious, but just in case she is, I decide to start our conversation.
“Were you able to fall asleep?”
Those brown eyes turn towards me as she places her hand in her lap with the other one. “Yeah, after about thirty minutes or so. You?”
“It took a little longer for me.” Two hours longer. At least I got some decent sleep.
She nods like she understands. “Are you looking forward to your free time?”
My chuckle is fake. “Sure.”
She narrows her eyes at me and I see a spark of fury in them. Olivia’s voice remains calm and casual. “Do you always lie?”
I can’t be that easy to read. She has called me out every single time, though. Her question makes me uncomfortable, too. Lying has gotten easier as I’ve gotten worse and has almost become a necessity. I shift in my seat. “Most of the time.” The honest words weren’t my intention, but some wires must be crossed in my brain because they pour out. “The truth isn’t pretty, but lying about some details can make things look better, sound better. If I can get away with it, and it helps, then why not?”
“Helps who? Because I would bet it’s not helping you.”
My fists clench in my lap. The waiter appears and I have to hold my tongue, completely pissed off. Just because she sees right through me doesn’t mean she gets a say on my morals or lack thereof. The food arrives right as I’m ready to go back home.
“Did I piss you off?” she questions once the waiter is gone and I still haven’t spoken, only eating silently.
Ignoring her question, I say, “I can take care of myself.”
Her voice and eyes soften. “Not all the time, and that’s okay. You need to realize you need support and someone to lean on every now and then. You could trust me. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Corey.” She pauses, almost thoughtfully. “Or pretend to be strong, I should say.”
Pretending? I’m strong. I have the muscles to prove the physical side, though I’ve gained weight since I stopped all my healthy habits after my injury. I have three younger siblings who are respectful, smart, and wonderful people who are well on their way to fantastic lives, in part because I was strong. Because I am strong. Being weak in the confines of my own home, my own life, and my own mind doesn’t mean I’m not strong.
Right?
Or am I feeding myself bullshit now?
Before I can comment, she shakes her head. “The ‘that’s okay’ part went right over your head, didn’t it?”
No, I caught that and ignored it because I don’t want it to be okay. Being the strong older brother is who I am, have always been. I can’t lose that part of myself too. Admitting it’ll be okay is admitting I have a problem.
“You don’t know anything, Olivia. Even if you do, it doesn’t matter. I lost everything and it’s not going to be okay.”
Her brows pull together and she frowns. “What did you lose? Because based on what Patrick said, you have two brothers and a sister who try to be there for you, so you didn’t lose your family. You didn’t lose the ones you love, so what did you lose?” There’s a bit of a bite to her question.
I swallow hard. Those crappy moments where I feel like I could cry? I’m having one of those. After a deep breath, I mutter, “Football.”
Olivia stares at me. It’s a bit creepy having her so openly watch me eat, but I know what’s really bothering me is not knowing what she’s thinking.
Finally, she speaks. “Football?” I nod. “I need a better explanation. There has to be more to this than that.”
“More to what?” I carefully ask, my muscles tensing like she’s abo
ut to hit me and I need to be prepared.
There’s that embarrassed/ashamed expression again. The little flit of her eyes away from me as she goes to quietly answer. “I think you might be depressed.”
My fork falls from my fingers with a clink to my plate and I lean back in the booth. My chest is ten times heavier than it was seconds ago, my ears are ringing, and I’m barely breathing in enough air. That word has been thrown around in my head before during rough patches, but none of those were like how I’ve been for the past few months. Hell, the past year.
I’m worse.
