Nepenthe (Bracing for Love #2) (30 page)

“Why do you have a pillow over your head, Corey?”

“Thought it might help me fall back to sleep.” My voice is muffled from underneath the pillow, but she hears me. I hate that I feel this way, especially after last night. Even more so, I hate the words that come out of my mouth next. “Can you go home? I don't want to deal with life today.”

She's quiet for a moment. “That bad?”

“Mhm.”

“I know sometimes during times like this, you don't want me around,” and I hate there's a part of me that doesn't, “but do I have to go? I can lie here with you and be quiet.”

Rolling over to face her, I ask, “Do you really want to spend a Saturday like that?”

“For you, yes. If it's that bad, don't make me leave, Corey.” There's a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Okay.”

She gets up to use the restroom and dresses when she returns before crawling back into bed with me. I wrap my arms around her waist, burying my face in the crook of her neck as she lays an arm over me. And we lie there in silence. My forehead is pressed against her neck. Breathing in her scent calms and soothes me, making the world a little more bearable.

Her stomach grumbles after an hour or so, but she doesn't leave.

“Go eat, Olivia.”

“Do you want something?”

“No.” I'm not hungry at all. Probably won't be until dinner time.

She sighs. Begrudgingly, she heads to the kitchen without me. About fifteen minutes later, she returns and we resume our positions. I should have known Olivia couldn't keep her end of the bargain and be quiet. I give her props that it takes her almost three hours, though. “What are you thinking about?” That's her question.

“Nothing,” I reply. “No talking.”

“Nothing? Like nothing at all? How is that possible?” She ignores me, being entirely too curious.

“Olivia.” Her name is a mixture of a sigh and a groan. All of my quickly building irritation falls away. I feel like shit, but it doesn't mean I have to treat her that way. I can answer her. “I'm not thinking, okay? About anything at all. My mind is clear, empty, and focused entirely on how you feel. That's how it's possible.”

“How do I feel?” she whispers.

“Like everything I've ever needed in this world wrapped up in one beautiful body.”

“Sounds like I feel amazing.”

I laugh. I can't help it. “You do.”

“What's your favorite color?”

While talking isn't on my high priority to-do list, I can play along with simple questions like that. “Red. Yours?”

“Yellow because it's bright and happy.” Figures. Her response makes me smile, though.

“What's your favorite day of the week?” I toss out one of my own.

Olivia grins. “Saturday. What's yours?”

“Monday.”

“Monday? Everyone hates Mondays and that's your favorite day of the week?” she skeptically asks.

“Yeah. Monday puts an end to the previous week and starts a new one. There's hope in every Monday that the upcoming week will be better than the last.”

She nods in understanding, but then her eyes widen. “When is your birthday? I can't believe I don't know. Mine is—”

“August 18,” I finish for her. “I've seen your ID, remember? Mine is March 20.”

“Corey! That's next week! If I hadn't asked, I would have missed your birthday. Were you planning on telling me this?”

I chuckle. “Of course.”

“When?” she demands.

“A day or two before. I usually go down to see my siblings and have dinner, but not sure what we'll end up doing this year with everyone's schedule and it being during the week.”

Her lips part. “A day or two before?! I can't shop for a birthday present with so little time.”

“Just buy some ribbon and make a few bows around your body. There's my present.”

She rolls her eyes. “I'll think about it. Favorite season?”

Without thinking, I reply, “Football season.” Oh. “Um, I mean, fall. I'm not really a fan of the beach, even though we don't live around one, so summer won't make the cut. Spring is nice, so it would be second. You wear hoodies all winter, so that's out too.”

Her smile is small. “Told ya you're a hoodie-hater. Will you go to one of Patrick's games next season? This will be his last year, right? I'll go with you.”

I've felt bad because I didn't watch Jon play any during his last season. Could I go to my old field and watch my baby brother play the game I used to play with him? I do miss being able to talk football with them. “You'll go with me?” She nods in reassurance. “Yeah, I want to go. What's your favorite season?”

“Winter.” She winks. “I love hoodies.”

Her statement brings to mind an old memory and I leave her in bed, walking briskly to my closet.

“What are you doing?”

I grab a box down from the top shelf, my heart hammering and beating my chest as I drop the white cardboard container at the foot of my bed.

“What's in the box?” she questions, sitting up and criss-crossing her legs.

Swallowing hard, I reply, “My football stuff. I didn't throw it all away.”

Olivia seems surprised and confused. I wipe my hands on my pajama pants, take a deep breath, and open it. I don't have to rummage far to find why I got this down to start with. My football hoodie. I take it out and sit down next to Olivia, rubbing my thumbs over the fabric where I'm holding it. There's so many memories wrapped up in this one piece of clothing. Pregame fun, the parties, time with my brothers, it's all here. Olivia rests her head on my shoulder, a silent motion of support. It's enough to get me talking.

“I still don't want to wear it, but since you love hoodies, you can.”

At this, she lifts her head and I turn to look at her. “Really? You want me to wear your football hoodie?”

“Yeah, if you want to.”

She grins as if she just kicked my ass in the racing game. Olivia takes the hoodie from me and slips it on. It's way too big, the sleeves too long, but she says, “Fits perfect.”

She does look good in it, that's for sure. I smile and lean back against the headboard. The hard part is over.

Or not. “What else is in here?” Olivia asks as she peers into the box.

“Pictures mostly. Lucy is a sports photographer with the school, and she always took pictures of us before she moved to hockey. There's even some from when we were younger, I think. She didn't take all of those, though.”

Olivia glances back at me. “Can I look?”

With only a minimal amount of reluctance, I nod. She grabs a few of the envelopes, moves between my legs, and leans back against my chest. Before she opens the first one, she gently squeezes my injured knee. Then she pulls out the first set. Most of these are those Lucy took during games, but there are some from parties or dinners beforehand.

“Did Lucy take all of these?”

“Yeah.”

“She's good,” Olivia comments as she pauses on a picture of Patrick, Jon, and me celebrating after Jon scored a touchdown. It's hard to see myself in my uniform, playing alongside my brothers, in the pictures my sister took. I stopped playing, Lucy moved to hockey, and now Jon will graduate and won't play anymore. We've fallen apart and got distant without the sport to hold us together. “Corey?”

“What?”

“I asked if this one was taken during a bad time for you.” She looks over her shoulder at me. In her hands are two pictures, both from two separate parties. The picture she's talking about is in her right hand, based on how she's holding it up more. Both are similar. I'm standing in the middle with a brother on each side, and Jamal next to Patrick. Funny how we always seemed to be standing like that.

The picture in question was indeed taken during a rough patch. It was one of my hardest during my junior year. I had been depression-free for two months and then it smacked into me so hard, it knocked me down for a month. “Yeah, how did you know?” I finally answer.

She holds up the pictures, side by side. “Can't you see the difference?”

I study myself in each of them, trying to discover how she could tell when I was depressed. Then I see it. There's a difference in my eyes. I drank more, so that doesn't help the glazed, hooded look, but the misery is clearly shining brightly from them. “My eyes?”

“And your smile. It's not as full in this one. That's what gave it away for me. I love your genuine smiles, and that is definitely not one.”

There's no need for me to reply. Instead, I kiss her temple, loving that she can tell the difference. Olivia continues to thumb through them. The next envelope is more of my college games before she finds some from high school.

“How many girlfriends did you have in high school? You were cute in the high school, boy-ish, cocky football player kind of way.”

“I wasn't ever cocky,” I defend. “I did have my fair share, though. I'm not cute anymore, Olivia?”

“No. You've grown into a man and men aren't called cute.”

Her answer makes me laugh. “Fair enough. The girls always loved the football uniform the most,” I comment, the humorous tone replaced by a more somber one. I won't ever wear another one.

Either Olivia doesn't pick up on it, or she ignores it. She nods and says, “I can see the appeal, definitely.” Her eyes linger on a particular photo before moving past it. “But it's not like it's the only time you're attractive. Like those faded jeans you wear? Those are my favorite because,” a small sigh escapes her, “you look really good in them. This,” she holds up the pictures, “doesn't define you. Maybe it did then, but not now. Believe it or not, you're better because of it too.”

I softly kiss her shoulder. “Thanks.” My voice is coarse and raw with way too many emotions stampeding inside of me.

Next, she thumbs through pictures from when we were kids. I lean my head against the headboard, not wanting to look anymore. I could handle the others, but I know what she'll stumble upon with these. And that, I'm not sure I can deal with today. Knowing the moment has to be coming, I slip my hands underneath my hoodie and her shirt to lay my hands on her bare hips, closing my eyes.

“Oh, Corey,” Olivia whispers. “Such a beautiful family.” I squeeze her hips, so she'll know I heard her, but I don't open my eyes or move to look. She shifts against me. “Open your eyes.” I don't. “Corey, c'mon.” Her voice is so gentle, it hurts. A sharp, intense pain shooting right into my heart. “These are your parents. You should want to remember them, talk about them, and keep their memories alive.”

“I do want that,” I interrupt. “I just don't know if I can and it not kill me,” I add quietly.

“You've been holding it in for over ten years, and that's hurt you more. Just look. That's all I want.”

When I do open my eyes, I keep them on her. “You were supposed to stay quiet.”

One corner of her mouth lifts. “You gave me a free pass when you brought the box out of the closet.”

My throat tightens from unshed tears before I begin to slide my eyes over to the photo. Olivia returns to resting her back against my chest as I look over her shoulder. There we are. All six of us, smiling, never happier. Mom is holding a little Lucy on her hip and Dad is standing next to her. Patrick, Jon, and I are in front of them in our football uniforms because we just finished a game.

Dad's grin is probably the biggest out of all of us. We played an excellent game and he was proud of us. My brothers and I have Dad's dark brown eyes, while having Mom's black hair. Lucy's and Mom's blue eyes spring to life in the photo. There's so much of Mom in Lucy, one more reason why we're so protective of her.

“That's one of the last pictures of all of us together,” I finally say, my voice thick. “We were always that happy. Always.” Until they died and I fell apart. My two biggest supporters in the world were gone. There's nothing I could do to bring them back. No way to cope enough to make it stop hurting. How could life be normal with them not here? No Mom baking us cookies and having us keep an eye on Lucy. No Dad to tell us how we could be better with our game and teach us how to be a good big brother.

No parents to watch us grow up, graduate, and go to college. No one to walk Lucy down the aisle and attend our weddings. No one for our future kids to call Grandma and Grandpa. No one for us to watch over when they grow old together. We're going to miss all of that. They will miss it too. How are we ever going to be as happy as we were in that picture when two people aren't here anymore?

“I miss them so much.” My voice is rough, which surprises me because I feel like I'm ten again, standing next to my siblings at my parents' funeral. It was singlehandedly the worst day of my life.

“I know,” Olivia whispers, handing me the picture before turning so she can hug me. “Tell me about them. One thing about each of them.”

Two facts. I can do that. I think long and hard first. “Mom loved to sing. She sounded like an angel. None of us inherited that from her, though. Dad liked to help us with our homework. He used to say that we needed a good education and he would always add, 'Because none of you are moving into the basement as an adult.' Mom always laughed, but I never really understood what he meant until I got older. I'd do anything for the chance to be able to move into the basement.”

I set the picture face down next to us on the bed because I can't look at it any longer. It's too hard. Olivia tightens her arms around me.

“They would be proud of you, Corey.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, I do. You're there for your siblings like they wanted. You graduated from college. You're working and you're a good man. They would be proud,” she reassures before adding, “We can lie here and be quiet again if you want.”

No sweeter words have ever been spoken. “Thank you, Olivia.”